30 Second Nosegrind

I’ve decided to start a new blog about my shameful love of saccharine pop and TV

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Tonight I found out that my grandmother and grandfather on my father’s side both passed away, in 2008 and 2012 respectively. No one ever contacted my brother and I to let us know.

I wrote this last week as some memories of my father, who is dead to me but presumably very much alive to the world, popped into my head.

I wasn’t sure if it was meant for general consumption, but the night after I wrote it I had a dream where I picked at a pimple on my chin to reveal a thread. When I pulled at that thread, I eventually pulled a large, black, living spider out of the wound. It kind of flailed around in the air, and I put it aside so as to show someone later. Then I started to squeeze the wound for eggs.

This is so I don’t find the eggs.

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I don’t see my father anymore.

Well, I mean, I do see him. I see him in the mirror every morning. I see his nose, his stubble, his receding hair line; his dead stare.

I see him as I walk naked through the house in the morning, as he would. I see his slim frame, broken often by a worldvision-ad-esque belly depending on how recently I have eaten or exercised. A large head on a fat insect’s body.

I see him in the way I tirelessly mock everything, even those things I love, because a weakness is an opportunity and to not exploit that weakness for humour would be an opportunity missed. My weakness is the same as his; I can’t ever miss that opportunity.

I see him walking into parks, or buying bad coffee at shopping centres, shouting at the shop assistant for putting too much or too little of something in his meal. I can’t bring myself to get mad at anyone in hospitality or customer service because to do that would be to become him; I just grit my teeth, eat my meal and never return.

I see him in my ability to switch from modern man to unreconstructed lech in a breath. Our only difference is my ability to keep it in a bottle, to only talk to it on my own. “Imagine fucking her, you can see every inch of her through those tights,” he says, a little voice sitting on the top of my spine, shouting to the ends of my body to be heard.

I google him, hoping to find that he has died, but not really. I never find him - he is hidden somewhere, on some company’s employee list; he has to be. But no one will ever want to find him enough to put that link in my search results.

I see him hiding.

I see him wearing the Rolex left to my brother and I by our great-grandfather, but pilfered for “safe keeping”.

I see him smoking underneath the kitchen exhaust fan.

I see him stopping the car to pop my adolescent pimples with a passion that is frankly scary.

I see him picking his nose at the lights and flicking it out the window.

I see him sharing an apple with the dog.

I see him burning cigarette holes in the sky.

I see him.

I see him.

I see him.

I don’t see my father anymore.

A little nude sketch experiment. I like them both, actually.

beatonna:

yesss this New Yorker cover by Simon Greiner is so good 

Glad this one got up from the Eustace Tilley competition this year. There were some really odd choices in the top 12 (and a number of people who have already drawn for the New Yorker over the years), but this one deserved to win. 

This was my entry:

sunili:

Dick Smith is a bit of a tool but he made this ad for his food products for Straya Day and it’s awful and racist and you can google it if you want but I sure as hell will not be linking to it.

I contacted the director of the ad via Twitter and engaged in a bit of discussion about how problematic it was. He responded, firstly by calling me “Sunil”, EPIC AWKWARD TURTLE, but then saying that the ad wasn’t racist because there was no malicious intent to be racist.

This was my response to him.

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Sunili fighting the good fight, as always.

Literally. Erryday.

Merry Christmas all!

http://thisisaustraliatoday.wordpress.com/2012/12/24/merry-christmas-monday-24-december-2012/ 

clambistro:

halfbakedidea:

sblaufuss:

giddygirlie:

giddygirlie:

(via A chart to settle all your friends’ arguments over how short that actor is.)

Also, I would add that I am skeptical about Johnny Depp being 5’9”. I have seen some of the costumes that he has worn in movies and they are pretty small. I would guess he’s probably closer to 5’6” or maybe shorter. 

I saw Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman once at the Grand Canyon with their kids and they’re all super short, like me! (I’m 4’10”)

I’ve wondered a lot about this sort of thing once I noticed that most actors are short (under 6ft). Why is that? Is it better proportion than taller people? Are shorter actors and actresses easier to film? Are they just easier to carry?

I think its because on camera, they look better. Most of them have slightly larger heads relative to the size of their body, which looks good on camera. The same goes for women; I recall reading that Vanna White got the part of letter-turner on Wheel Of Fortune partly because Merv Griffin thought her head was too big for her body. There are exceptions of course but the camera tends to favor the small in stature and large of head.

Jesus Christ, I’m taller than all of them. 

Yeah, Johnny Depp is not 5’ 10”. He’s more like 5’ 6” from what I’ve heard.

Javier Bardem being 5’ 7” freaks me out.

They probably need to state their sources, as actors seem to lie about their height as much as male porn stars about dick size and female porn stars age.

(via cornwankies)

iheartmyart:

Omer Hoffmann, Young workers burnout, 2011

I love this.

I love you tummy wife.

I can only draw left-handed at the moment (and not game to ink over)… but this isn’t horrible considering I’m not at all ambidextrous.