It’s best if you use either Google Chrome or Firefox 4.

This nifty bit of scripting won the 2011 Yahoo HackU contest at University of Washington.

Go to kathack for more info.

- ezra

vector illustration, 8-color, MOAR shirt.

got sort of a REmade-steampunk feel to it; although the vast majority of China’s Remade characters have far more sordid accoutrements.  let’s just say Tanner Sack put some elbow grease into it and gave her gears a spit shine.

-ezra

FIN

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here is “Well I never… Mister Abraham Lincoln!” ^^

done in illustrator; finished in photoshop.
for the penny experiment.

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the printed version, with richer and darker colors on Photo Rag archival paper…

a few quick facts about this project and the number 81:

Title:

“Well I never… Mister Abraham Lincoln!”  translated to the modern vernacular as “Pimpin Lincoln.”

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Inspiration:

Honest Abe is my inspiration for this piece — a man of mythic proportions with an identity that is a blend of truth and legend.  A President for which history holds numerous anecdotes, all of which reveal a human with an ethos as earthy as that of John Chapman.  Other than that, this piece was directly inspired by the following:  1) an article in the LA Times about the return of penny-pinching due to the recession,  2) Patrick Nagel’s art, and  3) the 1981 Rolling Stone cover featuring Yoko Ono and John Lennon.  This piece was brought to you by the number eighty-one.

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Allusions and whatnot:

I was born in ’81.

I love basketball, sports has a way of bridging emotional chasms, and the boston celtics won it all in 81. (diehard golden state warriors fan.)

Lincoln’s ascendants were from Massachusetts, thus the Boston jersey works quite well.

In 81, big hair was in vogue.

Patrick Nagel loved white skinned woman and high contrast lipstick.

There is a picture out there of lincoln with some semi-bowie-esque hair.

Boomboxes.  Self-explanatory.

Abe had some steely greys and a fantastic sense of humor.

Big letters on shirts were big back then and so was NEON… and as fashion is recycled, they are big now as well.  The shirt says:

ABE
LIN
COLN

With the recession, penny pinching is back.  Love of Abe is back.

The background is black/charcoal much like Lincoln’s suits and top hat.

The 81 penny represents positive idealogy.

There are quite a few other facts that are a little bit more morbid concerning the number 81.  The last descendant of Lincoln passed away at 81 years of age, the USS Abraham Lincoln was decommissioned in 1981, and there is the sad, morbid thing with his stepmother and his son.

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Method:

Illustrator to Photoshop.  Printed to Photo Rag archival paper.  Glued on penny.  (5″ x 8″)

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i was listening to this SPOON song called Paper Tigers which lead me to think about another song with the same title, this time by Beck.  so paper tigers were bounding hither and tither in my noggin on their soft, cushy, ol’ tiger feet.  curiouser and curiouser, i wiki’d paper tigers.  the droll quote by Kruschev about tigers and nuclear teeth prompted me to think about Shaw’s musings about tigers and their abiding love of food.

…and so i wrote this pithy little ditty. enjoy.

two paper tigers i see

and they see me too

dressed in a herringbone suit

chenille dress neatly pressed

affected aristocracy

of blue-blooded celebrity

how very rude of them to stare . . .

my frightened hairs cry out -

“BEWARE”

and in this moment i am made aware -

i see two sincere tigers

and they see me too

and instead of Mao i think of Shaw

and how these tigers will devour me raw.

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a tiger in a cage is a tiger in a cage.   respect.

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- ezra

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hibbidy bibbidy thelonious monk,
rhymes for your b-day — i know your down with the crunk.
i’ll leave the lovey dovey for your lady luv,
she be biting your neck like catherine deneuve.

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for serious though, i love you brother…
is it fer-certain you came from another mother?
a most auspicious birthday for you my good friend,
lookin’ forward to seein’ you when the year comes to an end.

much love,

- the ez
on the 22nd of february in Cali and the 23rd of HK.

(sadly, this is not true; as many people know first generation Asian-Americans belonging to the Silicon Valley diaspora typically force their children into the following four acceptable fields: Medicine, Law, Engineering, Business — art was simply out of the question).

Aside from his influence on literary fronts, Hemingway also poured his creative energies into cocktail creation. Being an irrationally masculine manly man, Hemingway was an abusive drunk; his penchant for firearms and knives helped expand the violent capacity of his intoxicated state. A man famous for bombastic quotes, he dropped a couple of lines in regards to the linear relationship between being a man and being a drunkard.

“A man does not exist until he is drunk.”

“Got tight last night on absinthe and did knife tricks. Great success shooting the knife into the piano. The woodworms are so bad and eat hell out of all furniture that you can always claim the woodworms did it.”

Yup, this was one bad dude.

Okay, perhaps not the most flattering portrayal of a literary icon… still, ol’ man Hem could kill a lion with those chesticles. And, as a noted connoisseur of spirits and the like, Hemingway did leave to us several creations (as well as the popularization of a little drink called the Mojito) — this little ditty is a recipe from the a celebrities’ cocktail book titled ‘So Red the Nose, or Breath in the Afternoon‘ by Sterling North and Carl Kroch.

In typical Hemingway fashion -

“Pour one jigger absinthe into a Champagne glass. Add iced Champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.”

Interesting anecdote that is totally … awesome (I was born in the eighties and reserve the right to frequent usage of archaic slang).

The story goes that sometime in the 1920s, Hemingway bet his colleagues ten dollars that he could write a complete story in just six words.

They paid up.

His story: “For sale: Baby shoes, Never worn.”

For a contest in Wired magazine inspired by Hemingway’s story, 33 authors submitted similar 6-word efforts. Here are a few good ones, see the complete list at Wired Magazine.

“Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.” – Joss Whedon

“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.” – Margaret Atwood

“From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings.” – Gregory Maguire

“Epitaph: Foolish humans, never escaped Earth.” – Vernor Vinge

“I’m dead. I’ve missed you. Kiss … ?” – Neil Gaiman

“The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.” – Orson Scott Card

“Bush told the truth. Hell froze.” – William Gibson

“Leia: “Baby’s yours.” Luke: “Bad news…” – Steven Meretzky

“Forgive me!” “What for?” “Never mind.” – John Updike

|FIN

el primero in what is to be a veritable plethorific collection of spine-tingling, booty-shake-inducing, truly astounding bloggery (that is correct, i make up words).

now that i have tired you with superlatives, i find myself in an uncomfortable, untenable position, i confess that am afflicted with a horrible case of creative constipation…

so… what follows will be an excerpt of some short story i wrote many years ago, in my oh so callow youth. it’s like watching paint dry. enjoy.

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Slowly, she worked her way around the five-by-nine meter enclosure, picking up one leaf at a time. She still did not understand why she was to pick only one at a time; but she knew that in tending to the garden his way, he would be happy. She placed the last leaf atop the small pile of its like she had made in the southeast corner of the garden. Brushing the sand off her feet, she went into the house, and returned with an empty rice bag. After gathering the leaves into the sack, she placed it next to the sandal rack, opposite from the rake. She then proceeded to inspect the tops of each stone, starting with the closest. A light sheen of frost coated the moss, and her fingertips grew a sullen red as she fastidiously picked away. Her hands were numb by the time she reached the little stone in the farthest corner. It’s okay little one. You are my favorite. I won’t forget you. She knelt down to tend to the last stone, softly cracking the thin sheet of ice and tenderly brushing the pieces off. She then inspected the moss to see if any weeds had set their roots. None. Step four, rake parallel lines across the whole sea of sand, and then rake around the formations of stones to create the ripples. She went across the garden and picked up the rake.

By the time she finished, her shivering had become nearly uncontrollable. The muscles of her jaws pulsed in silent reproach and her nose ran incessantly interrupted only by intermittent decorous sniffling. She reached down, brushed the soles of her feet before entering the house – gently sliding the door close behind her.

-excerpt from “White Envelope in the Lower Right Drawer”