untitledeye: cum on feel the noize.

Quiet Riot

Hey brotha. Yeah you, with the silver truck. You’ve got style.┬ You┬ are a true renegade. You drive your shitty truck. So what if you mutherfucking spray-painted it with 23 cans of Rustoleum┬ you got on sale at Hardware Hank. And you will pimp whomever you goddamn well want to pimp, even if it is a tired old metal band from the 80s whose claim to fame is spinning double entendres that only a 13 year-old boy could love. It’s like a big fuck you to the man.

Since we’re on the subject, I’ve got to ask — did the thought ever cross your mind to simply buy a pre-made bumper sticker for $4 online? Sure, it would’ve been $5.95 in shipping and handling, but it would’ve been so much easier. I imagine you on a Sunday afternoon, browsing the mailbox letters at Home Depot. “Nope, serifs would be all wrong. Cursive letters — too wussy. Ahhh, here we go. Prison block letters. Nothing says ‘dirtbag’ like the fontless font. Fucking A.”

You scurried to the cash register and paid in nickels and dimes. Then you retreated to your mother’s driveway. She was at┬ Crazy Days, which┬ meant you’d┬ have all afternoon to measure┬ your rear┬ window and carefully place each letter — not too perfect, though, for that would communicate effort and a flair for interior spaces. That would certainly┬ warrant a bitch slap from Kevin Dubrow.┬ ┬

This here is┬ hillbilly as hell and I LOVE it. Load the guns, find me some sweat pants┬ and pour me me some Night Train. I feel a party coming on. All this makes┬ me makes me wonder… if this guy were to win the lottery, would he tear those letters out of his truck and affix them to his Escalade? Methinks he would instead get it airbrushed onto the tailgate, along with a picture of Tawny Kitaen straddling a Camaro. Fuck YEAH.

untitledeye: flower power.

Flower Power 1

┬ At what point did fake flowers┬ quit imitating real flowers? Now, they’ve taken on a whole new purpose, allowing the crafty to place flowers where no real flowers could or would ever go.┬

Flower Power 2

As I snapped these photos, I saw the husband tinkering around in the garage. I would’ve loved to hear the conversation leading up to this home improvement project. “I have this idea… of staple-gunning fake flowers over the front of our house and┬ on our garden bench. Then we’ll get these vases and make these huge outdoor floral arrangements, so we can have outdoor blooms when it’s only 30 degrees outside!”

Flower Power 3

Poor guy. If we zoom in here, I’m sure we’ll see his deflated ballsack dangling from one of those swags. An untrained eye might mistake it for┬ a wilting pansy.

Two words: fucking awesome.

This here is why I do business with a car repair shop owned and operated by two Greek brothers (who look exactly alike, and are both named Nick. True story.).

Two Words: You Lose!

Take me to the creative team behind this masterworks, which is posted in the brothers’ waiting area. Share with me the vision. Are the flames emanating from a secret bunson burner somewhere — or did they spontaneously ignite after the oxygen came in contact with the awesomeness of the GTO? Did the car break the sound barrier upon takeoff, creating a sonic boom and a road of flames in its wake? I want to know.

There’s something about this piece that warms my cockles. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d sneak into untitledbrother’s room while he was at football practice. I’d hopscotch around his Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, dirty tube socks and fossilized Totino’s Party Pizza remnants. A crusty bottle of Oxy would be tipped over on his desk, alongside a copy of “National Geographic,” opened to a photograph of an African woman with pointy boobies and neck rings. I’d walk past his album collection — which included John Lennon, Bob Seger, The Charlie Daniels Band, The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Sometimes I’d listen to his records, making sure to steer clear of “The Wall” and “The White Album” (the artwork gave me nightmares, like any good rock album should).

On the paneled walls of his room were all these pictures of muscle cars — Chargers, Super Bees, Mustangs, Furys — all suspended with yellowing Scotch tape. The photos would be accompanied by headlines like “Out to Launch” and “Pony Up.” I can’t make this shit up, people.

It wasn’t long before he graduated from the pictures to having a motor hanging from the ceiling in our garage and a carburetor on his bedside table. I was careful to get the hell out before he returned, lest he pin me to the floor and fart on my head. My reconnaissance gave me a narrow glimpse into what was cool and important in this world, be it right, wrong or indifferent.

So when I see a poster like this at my mechanic’s, I can’t help but think that when I drop my keys off, he and his brother are scurrying to the back room to eat Doritos and glue together model hot rods until their mother says it’s time for dinner. Tell me — knowing this, how could I take my business anywhere else?