quality time with my pops.

At the beginning of each week, I like to set my sights on one (or a few) latter week plans to stay motivated enough to not go insane at work. By the time this Monday rolled around, I focused in on my plans for Wednesday...Early Voting Day with my Dad.

Still registered at my parents' address, I told my Pops I would pick him up after work and take him to the closest polling location so that we could vote together. "Obama! Let's go make some f-in' history, Dad," I shouted, pumping my fist as I entered my parents' home. As we backed out of the driveway, I recalled Father, Son outings from my childhood and beyond.

Early morning fishing trips, with pitstops for stinkbait and nightcrawlers at K-Mart.

Last minute runs to the grocery store for Mother's Day roses.

Frequent excursions to Home Depot for handy-man supplies and dowel-rod ninja weapons.

Arby's...often.

Trips to the baseball park (anywhere with a backstop, really) to play catch and fantasize about game winning homeruns. (*I sucked at baseball and never played little league, so this must have been miserable for my Dad)

The time we ate honey-barbecued chicken wings, peppered with earth-grit in White Sands, New Mexico.

The time we took a crowded, nauseating bus all the way from Carrollton down to the State Fair.

The time we both got let down by Cowboys' Wide Receiver Alvin Harper, who failed to show up at an autograph signing session at Sears. (*F you Harper! )

The time we sat within spitting distance of Mark Cuban and Eva Longoria at a Mavericks game.

My Dad is a man of few words. His comfortable silence is the reason why I was able to nostalgically recount all of these events in my brain without wrecking the car. By the time we got to the polling location, I realized that this was another one of those Father, Son outings. Granted, a more historically significant, patriotic duty-type outing, but another relationship-building, hallmarkish excursion nonetheless.

As two lines formed, one for paper ballots, the other for electronic, he and I parted ways. Fearing technology, he opted for paper, while I voted with the ballot-bot 9000.

With our "I Voted!" stickers displayed proudly on our chests, we avoided eyed contact and briefly patted each others' backs as we exited the public library polling center. As awkward as the description of our actions sounds, I found comfort, relief, and joy in our post-voting embrace.

I knew that we had done something that I will never forget.

I knew that we had done something for the sake of change.

I knew that we had done something together.

Thanks, Pop.

i'm sorry. i'm really, really sorry, but i'm obligated.

This really kills me, because I hate this show. I'm almost willing to say that this show is a worse display of humanity than anything from the Tyra Banks catalog, but I actually respect Dr. Drew for dealing with this d-bag named "Chasen." Keep in mind that his name is neither Chase, nor Jason, neither Chasin', nor Chasing, but "CHASEN." It sounds like his parents hastened choosing a name for poor Chasen.

Regardless of d-baggery, thanks to my homie, Matt, Dunn Bros. Coffee in Addison, and the friendly production crew, my art appears in the background during the "blind date" scene. And the "free-spirited art student" is my friend and fellow artist, Cara, who makes a nice defensive maneuver against d-bagocity by letting Chasen know that Vegetarianism consists of more than just salads. She's a champ.

As I've said before, watching this assbag on camera might make you want to vomit and defenestrate your computer, so stay away from windows and make sure that you have trashcan nearby. (!Shameless Self-Promotion alert!) If you can stand to stay on the MTV site for the duration of the video, do me a solid and post a comment on there, talking about how kick ass the art was.

Keep an eye out for:
The Album cover for Raleigh's The House on Seedling Lane - (Mixed Media, in Box Frame)
"Infinitree" (Mixed Media, Behind Chasebag)
"Careful, Encounter" I, II, III, IV (Mixed Media, Birds, Hands, and Texture)

Here goes nothin':

• MTV
• Music Videos
• MTV Shows
• Celebrity News

the great red vs. purple color dispute.

Per the commentary on the last post, I must defend the honor of my color wheel.

While purple scores a passing grade (C+) when comparing the RGB % match, the A+ band to "red" comparison grade speaks volumes.

TMNT ASAP!

Tonight, I had the pleasure of stumbling upon a TV airing of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the movie (thus the reason for the preceding post). I decided to try my hand at drawing these cultured mutant bastards again and this is what happened. Every time I sit down to sketch an icon of my childhood, I end up putting these characters through an aging and fattening process.

I present you with Raphael, The Middle Aged Mutant Ninja Turtle.

He likes PBR.

Let's be honest, how long did he expect to keep up his high-flying, sai stabbing lifestyle with a pizza diet. You don't want to see what I've done to Michelangelo.

i think i just figured out my halloween costume.

matt dun lost his hand turkey!

my homie, matt dun lost his pet!

while working on a piece for my friend, my homie, matt dropped by the garage and this is what happened:

check out Hand Turkey Hank!

i dun lost a WALRUS!!!

heeeylp, y'all, i dun lost
Larry, the Nine Mustached, Overly Concerned Walrus.

Git the details HERE.

the 575 army.

we've got a boatload of new haikus on the haiku hotspot.

thanks to L-Train and Bhurin for your recent additions.

if you've got what it takes to join the 575 army, email me at tolentinoed.artwork@gmail.com.

i liiiike my biiiike.

In the words of the late, great ghoti hook,

"there's just one thing that i love more than anything....i liiiiike my biiiiike! "

Having taken a half-day off from work this past Friday, I wanted to make the most of my extra 4 hours of freedom. Since the Wonder Years marathon had ended and I have sworn off random body piercings, I looked to my garage in pursuit of inspiration. Bypassing unfinished canvasses and sawdust covered wood scraps, I found titillation on two wheels.

Propped upside-down on its seat, in the same naive way that my friends and I would stow our bikes outside of grocery stores, my Haro DV8 beckoned playfully. Cob-webbed spokes, non-functioning brakes and all, she is my freestyle temptress. As an unnamed stairwell, an unfortunate onlooker in the distance, and I can personally testify, my seductive Haro can be a harlot at times. Despite the often painful consequences of taking her out on the town, I decided to air up the tires and go.

Pedal, pump, pedal, pump, avoid the speedbump, pedal, pump, pedal, pump, bunny hop mini jump, pedal, pump, pedal pump, harumph, harumph, pedal, pump, pedal, pump, that man has a toupee a la donald trump, pedal, pump...

Every time I have been on this bike since restoring it(still no brakes, just new wheels), I have the same 2 epiphanies. (1) The only adults who should ride bmx/freestyle bikes are sponsored by vans/mountain dew. (2) I get to observe so much more, in a more intimate way when I'm pedaling away, not confined behind the wheel of a car. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a filthy hippie who thinks that "all cars are like, the man, man," but there is a certain charm to using pavement without using fuel.

Unable to sit down because of a potentially disastrous short distance between my knees and the handlebars, I pedaled and pumped my way through an array of otherwise ho-hum scenery.

The golf course near our apartment, by way of bicycle on bridge, was a veritable shire, complete with club-wielding wealthy hobbits.

The suburban nature trail that I presumed to be vast and not filled with homeless people was brief and filled with homeless people.

The dog shit that I typically don't think about while driving was alive, well, and pungent on sidewalks and lawns.

My increasing heart rate was a crescendoing meter for imagination invigoration.

I sped up and slowed down, sped up and slowed down, coasting when the coast was clear of ninjas and pirates poised to attack from tree-tops and sewers.

Unripened acorns were pretend land mines, igniting under the pressure of my freshly aired tires. Pedal, pop, pop, pedal, pop, pop. With each revolution, my wheels made for a fresh batch of pre-cracked squirrel snacks.


On a bearable, even breezy Friday afternoon away from work, I can't say that I was "a kid again." I was (and am) a grown-ass person, inspired, invigorated, and uplifted from operating a vehicle of youth.

I'm not back-pedaling, I'm back, pedaling and pumping for the creative endeavor.

Thanks, bike, I liiiike you.

brush 'em real good!

S.D.

congratulations to my homies, Somebody's Darling on winning the 2008 Shiner Rising star competition.

y'all straight kick ass.

indian food haikus

i've been meeting up with an old friend for lunch lately. last night we decided on indian food for today...and then the haiku train came steaming through my brain....which reminds me, i need to watch The Darjeeling Limited again.

take a spicy whiff on the haiku hotspot.

crazy picture guy.

much respect to my homie, scotty mankoff (aka crazy picture guy), who has a badass show at kettle art gallery through this saturday. curated with the same renegade spirit that fuels CPG's work, this one week only show at is an all you can gaze eyeball buffet.


if you're out and about in big d, you've probably seen this bearded wonder snapping the night away with his dslr. whether he'll admit to it or not, scotty is a tenacious photo-journalist, documenting the dallas art and music scene day in and beard out.

i'm sure i'm not alone when i say that the omnipresence of his external flash provides the local arts community with some kind of beacon, spreading credibility and nurturing purpose.*

here's to 1 year's worth of photo-lunacy. here's to scotty.

if you haven't already, check out his show at Kettle Art Gallery. chances are, if you're not on the walls there, you can probably find yourself at www.crazypictureguy.com.

*this message goes out to a slew of other big d(ocumentarians), gracing and motivating us with their shutters:

(to name a few)

blackmarketfunnelcakes (live from israel)
fred
hal samples
cara smith
the urban fabric
sarah jane semrad
erica felicella
emily stoker
jason janik

retrospection: "Dear Fluffy"

In the 3rd grade, our teacher made us write doggy style. checkitout.

i swear to god, we actually do this.

and here's the proof.

check out this incriminating photo-evidence from billy shakes night at #328.

the 5th billy shakes night, tonight!

once upon a time, we were ashamed of these humble gatherings. now, it's just out of fashion not to attend billy shakes night at our apartment. last month, there was treason, mutiny, and togas in Julius Caesar. Our 3-2 is quickly ascending to the top of the theater world as one of the "best venues to see quality Shakespearean productions" (quoted directly from Elegantly Lush and Glamorous and Burberry-Ed Hardy Life Magazine).

thus far we have put on (i, personally, will admit to blaspheme in lieu of 'put on')

• King Henry IV
• Macbeth
  
• King Henry VIII
• Julius Caesar

and what, you ask will we players play tonight?

Much Ado About Nothing, of course.

and believe me, the title of this play, in particular, is highly appropriate in describing what exactly goes on here. all this preparation, all the blocking, all the costuming, all the makeup, all the wigs, all the play abbreviation, all the studying, all the stress, all the drama, all ado so that we can read Shakespeare aloud, spill cocktails, and piss ourselves? Aye.

if you haven't come out to one of these yet, and you're up for it tonight, please let me know and i'll give you directions...fair warning though, i make no guarantees about what exactly may happen at billy shakes night. there are surprises around every corner. just ask Lisa's shoe!

our fearless, and oft pants-less director, markus nicholas III is a real diva about the punctuality of these things, so if you're coming, be there by 9:30 at the latest.

and now, for a taste:

i'm a seedy person. what can i say?

in case you didn't get a chance to take a peek, here are some pieces from my journal at this year's Art Conspiracy fundraiser, SEED. moleskine journals from 15 local artists were auctioned off in june to raise seed money for Art Conspiracy, a non-profit arts initiative whose mission is "...to bring together a group of dallas area artists and musicians to raise money for a chosen benefit."

much like this pair of underwear that i'm wearing, for one month, this journal was on my person at all times. containing random thoughts, random sketches, preconceived thoughts, preconceived sketches, fiber paper, maps, watercolor, post-its, various adhesives, and even the occasional polaroid, this journal is my process in a nutshell..or...in a mole's skin? many thanks to erica felicella (cellaarts) for asking me to participate, to all art con organizers, to all attendees, artists, bidders, and especially to the lovely cari weinberg of lovie for throwin' down for my journal.

checkit:

5,7,5 mofo.

haikus are back, son!
if you don't like 'em, tough shit!
this is a haiku.

check out the haicoolest haikus about the economy and the texas state fair right now!

switchin' it up, avoiding tasers.

A few weeks back, I decided to change up my after-work routine in a variety of ways.
I like my life like I like my cereal, and my women. Not stale…but Black.

Beginning with my regular workout habits, I opted out of 24 hour fitness and in to the closet that our apartment marketing team cutely calls a “fully loaded workout center.” When there is a line for the cardio equipment, that usually means that there is one person grunting on or near the questionably assembled treadmill. It’s pretty cramped, but it’s different, and that’s the point.

Poignantly pungent B.O. (book odor, in this case) struck me as I found an alternative reading/studying joint—the public library. Built in the mid-seventies, Fretz Park Library on Beltline and Hillcrest is a nice, yet sadly decaying reminder that the people still desire free knowledge in their communities. Despite the (arguably contrived) epic symbolism of the public library, this place has two shortcomings: One, the actual brevity of the chair legs (I felt like a child, sitting at a wee desk, using a church-pew pencil to scribble call numbers on scratch paper), and two, the early closing time. If I weren’t at work from 8-5 Monday thru Friday, 9PM would be a perfectly reasonable time for me to cease productivity and get drunk, but I’m just starting to peak around that time.

Thus, the reason why I am where I am at this very moment.

Thus the reason why I text messaged my friend, “Insanely weird request. Do you have a password for UTD wireless?”
(Thanks, Dirty).

Knowing I wasn’t going to get my fill at the public library, I used what little laptop battery I had left to look up UTD’s library hours. Much to my delight, the Richardson facility closes at 2AM, Monday-Thursday. I like to think of this as a funny joke the administration plays on 'of age' drinkers, causing them to choose between the bar (not the exam, but the watering hole) and the library (not the bar). They both close at the same time, so choose wisely.

After a short, windows down car ride, and a timidly shameful entry through electronic sensors, here I am, sitting in an echo-enhanced study space at the basement level of the McDermott library. Unbeknown (at least I hope) to the students and campus security guards that pass me by, I don’t actually have any business being here. Although I’ve taken a few moments to reflect on and relate to my late night library experiences at UT, I don’t feel as pathetically nostalgic as I thought I would.

Perhaps the idea of reconnecting with “Undergrad Andrew” is a romantic and tempting notion, but a lame one, no doubt. As these two “Student Patrol” volunteers unknowingly pass me by, never second guessing my student status, I know that I can temporarily maintain the façade. But what good does that do me? When I leave here tonight, I’ll rest my head at a reasonable hour, wake up, and drive my pumpkin back to work the next day. After several return journeys to Austin since graduating, after several vain attempts to recapture what I thought I could regain, I’m realizing, more and more that I can’t capture that experience again. I can only move forward. And who would want to go anywhere else?


In the eyes of the Student Patrollers, every person on this campus, barring the occasional hobo, neatly belongs in a category: student, professor, administrator, parent. Where in the f does a 2 years graduated, young, barely professional guy like myself belong? If they only had the presence of mind to peek over my shoulder, or read the word “LIBRARY” written on my hand, they might get the hint that I don’t fit in one of these categories. Just like I didn’t, they don’t have the foresight to recognize this mark as a sign of the 40 Hour work week.

On my hand, the word “LIBRARY” reminds me not only that I need to go to the library to return some books. More importantly, it reminds me that after an 8 hour draining session, I sometimes need an ink-on-flesh impetus to keep pushing…creatively, intellectually, and emotionally.

I shouldn’t need daily reminders to do what I enjoy doing.

I shouldn’t need a dayplanner to pencil in a 30 minute intellectual stimulation session.

But I’m no longer in an environment founded on and devoted to the practice of thinking.

I’m convinced though, that this only seems depressing.

Knowing that I am in control of my current situation, my own fate as a thinker and an artist, the thought (and process) of actualizing these impetuses is more invigorating than a bathtub of Red Bull and a mound of coke. By pursuing these passions and incurring their risks, outside the safe grounds of an educational institution, I have become more protective over and adamant about them. Knowing (and acknowledging) that I have reached life after college, I refuse to say that I have no other option to, but I rejoice in the reality that I can move forward.

Sure, I’m not enrolled, and I don’t fit in an assumed category here, but I’ll be damned if that stops the pursuit of progress.

And what would the creative endeavor be without the threat of a trigger-happy, taser wielding Security Officer?

Much love.