Urban Scarecrow

Let me begin by stating that not all scarecrows are friendly or pleasant to look at. They are not simple minded folk who will whisk your poor ruby slippered ass on some magical psychedelic LSD trip. Scarecrows can be mysterious, elusive, and downright creepy. Now my experience with the urban species is limited; after all I am a simple country boy. But yesterday I ran across an amazing specimen. Scarecrow Man was a collection of plastic drugstore bags and scraps of clothing, giving him a rustic 'blowing in the wind' motif. The collection yielded a lumpy sun-bleached weaving of urban grime, nests, and earthen musk. One foot shoeless, the other housing a casually draped tube sock, he listed towards the right. Scarecrow Man was working, his patchwork quilt shoulder bag hung heavily. His face was green, the cucumbers absent from the clay facial mask he so naturally wore. Two sticks were knotted in his hair, precariously emerging above his nape like insect antennae. And most frightening of all he walked with a limp; who is this man and what is his story?

Joy of Infographics

Via: Online Schools

Pucker Power

A wonderful mini-documentary about individuals that have transformed being laid-off into positive life changes (35:57).

Sadly so true

Boredom beyond Sequins

The Winter Olympics are nothing more than a two week serendipitous media blitz bookend by pompous melodramatic ceremonies. The ceremonies, multi-million dollar escapades punctuate the Games while distilling a host culture to a glorified simplistic haiku; an easily palatable capsule developed for ease of global consumption. Give me another pyrotechnic exclamation chased with a cinematic shot of North and South Korean walking hand-in-hand with a splash of pop culture musical melange. The substance of the winter games is figure skating. The athletes constantly injected by a stream of media bravado that just like their sequin encrusted leotards (hot pants) blinds them to their own Olympic egocentrism. The Olympics are the only platform where ice skating matters; even if just in a feigned capacity. They are a place for young gay boys to sit around a living room and openly giggle. A place for even the most metro to exude a fluffed up essence of testosterone; a truly detestable event that women force men to watch just so they can get even. These 'hallmarks' of daring and dance are propped up by a tepidly constructed foundation of athlete montages (where every athlete is deserving and resilient) and Bob Costas fireside chats. We deserve better, a more holistic view of the adrenaline that is the Olympics. High definition replays of Anja Paerson's crash and Skeleton dashboard cams. I want to live the Games, to feel the power, the sensation; like when you bite into a York Peppermint Patty. Instead I idly wait, wondering if Cris Collinsworth is going to make out with Shaun White during the next gold medal interview.

Adobe Photoshop Cook

Adobe Photoshop Cook from Lait Noir on Vimeo.

Political Graphics

Commute

Life's 30 second deviation.

face forward

I sit,

mind staring away

mouse strokes rhythmically click

...towards 5pm.

Melancholic humdrum of cars,

endless shuffle of soulful music

fluorescent jumps of corporate brilliance.

My mind wanders,

I find myself thinking of

you.

I love your smile,

your intoxicatingly charismatic optimism

...your authentic hug.

smiles; all smiles.

Guttersnipes beseech Demeter

Upon returning from my jaunt to the grocery store I stumbled upon a seemingly pallid activity. Crisscrossing through parking lots and back alleys to walk the shortest distance home I frequently witness rather innocuous events; the dumpster diving street urchin or rebellious minor getting a quick fix. This time appeared to be no different...but the apparently pallid rapidly blossomed into a surreal experience. Rounding the corner of a large blue dumpster I discover two vagrants huddled around an object. Jumping to unjustified conclusions I fully expect them to be up to no good. But as I continue walking, my vantage point dynamically shifting in relation to the squatting men, I realize they are hunched around a rather plain ficus. An errantly discarded plant has now become the focal point of these men's afternoon. As if practicing some ancient pagan ritual, the two begin to shift, chant, and rotate about this botanical behemoth. My feet continue to move me further from this sacrament while my eyes remain transfixed, mouth aghast. Ode to the guttersnipe!