With all the hate floating around today with the Chick-fil-a-holes and their supporters trying to hold American culture hostage in the 1950's, I thought I'd throw my disgruntled hat into the ring with a taste of my next entry into the annals of print. This is a snippet of what you'll have the pleasure of dropping a dollar to read in it's full glory, within the week, in the August issue of Divulge Magazine.
Enjoy! Or don't.
You know that little creature that lives in the back of your mind that stops stupid and self-destructive thoughts from becoming audible speech? Yeah well, I don’t have that. Perhaps I was dropped too many times as an infant or those daily six-packs of Diet Mt. Dew in high school took their toll in an unpredictable way. Whatever it was, the end result is a regular diet of foot with a side order of quiet when I enter a room populated by those I’ve confronted. This doesn’t bother me though because, title of this rant aside, my real friends know painful truth is infinitely more valuable and productive than letting friendship reign over better judgment.
This truth, this realization, has become evident more so over the last year or so as the seemingly endless onslaught of custom shows flows by revealing their artist rosters. Problem number one is that they’re quite often identical to one another or at the very least share a predictable handful. If you tell me the gallery hosting the show I bet I can tell you the list of artists involved. I also bet I can tell you, before work in progress pictures start hitting blogs and Twitter, exactly which artists won’t sell a single thing. Therein lies the problem. There are consistently artists (and in this particular piece I use that descriptor very, very loosely) that fall back on their unpopular style and apply their undesirable aesthetic to a platform that doesn’t suit it. The fact that apparently every vinyl toy for some reason also needs to have a custom show of its own is another issue all together...
...To be continued!