I had just finished all my reading bullshit for class. and i was nice and sleeping. and i hear BAMB. and then i heard people laughing so i thought maybe it was just drunk people. but then BAMB again. and it started smelling really gross. so i looked out my window in my room which faces the back of the building and there was this huge blazing fire. so i go to the front window and theres another huge blazing fire. and i started freaking out. i thought our building was on fire. i woke up my roommate and we dont know what to do. until people knocked on our door and said we had to go to the next building over where the head of the program guy lives. so we grab ‘important things’ which once i had reason back was just ridiculous things. and go over and sit in this little room with everyone in the program. and everrrryone is freaking out. oh and wearing pants. yeah. i wasnt.

then the guy thats the head comes in & is like “well. it happens. get used to it”
it was hella scary. apparently some anarchist protesting capitalism by setting off car bombs in expensive cars. except one was an suv? i didnt know that was considered all that important. then again seems only douches drive suvs, so i can understand.

now its 4:31. and i am sitting in my bed drinking wine. cuz i for sure can not go back to bed. it was hella scary. and smelly

-jfrank

Here is what i know: art school.
because for the past two years i have lived through it.
so ridiculous. awfully ridiculous. full of ridiculous art kids.
i guess i would have to be placed in that same category…  but lets not talk about that.
art school has made me feel less artistic  and more of an asshole.
they teach us to appreciate high art.  I’ve had many an art history class which focuses on the difference between art as understood by people in the know as opposed to the masses.
down with the masses. all they want is kitsch. They appreciate an accurately drawn face when it has no meaning behind it. but dont understand the likes of flavin and stella. they see andy warhol as just a pop icon.
[see what i mean about being an asshole?] art is so much more interesting when conceptual.
i dont want to be an elitist. and somehow i am being pushed in that direction. NO.
thanks to art school for that.

about the people - art kids are expected to be hipsters. but i think theres a definate line between the two. at least in my experience.
although..
being an artist seems like the new hip thing to do. everyone thinks they are an artists — but its different than outsider art. hipsters just talk alot about being artists and don’t act upon it. kids in art school do nothing but act upon it. to extremes. annoyingly so. like theres nothing else in the world.
go away.
_________________________________________________________________________

a bit of my personal experience:
i was in video art. i made videos that i thought were really exciting. like this:

but i was told that it was too happy and therefore rendered meaningless.

this received the comment “you need to be more narcissistic”.great.

art school = mass ridiculousness.
one girl told me my videos didnt look like what she imagined art to look like. this was probably the best compliment i received, even though she didnt mean it that way.
I dont want to be a carbon copy of every other artist.
so finally after about 10ish videos i got fed up. and made a video of how annoyed i was with the video art program. which you can see here, if you like:

and everyone loved that one.
how ironic.
how art school.

im in graphic design now. which i was always more interested in anyway. and which is all about the masses. no elitism here. just spreading info through great visuals. [ http://highpeoplemagic.com/jennyfrank ]

-jFrank

[or birthday, for those unbeeveducated among us]
to Kieran, co-founder of hpm.
i think that a good way to celebrate is for everyone who may read this to buy something from the hpm store.
good idea, no?

The One and Only Toad Cruise

Once upon a time there was a toad named Toad Cruise. He had medium-short, side/wind swept brown hair and wore aviator sunglasses. Toad was an actor but most importantly an approachable bro. He grew up in the country. Our country.

When he was just a youngster, with his tail still attached and everything, an evil farmer named Crik gigged his parents and fried them for breakfast in a cast iron skillet. Crik fried Toad’s parents in garlic butter until they were crisp and savoury. From that point on, Toad Cruises life would never be the same again.

Toad left Our Country and moved to the Big City where he pursued the Universal Dream of Success and Fame. When he moved to the Big City, he had goals of becoming a stud a la Midnight Cowboy, but much like Jon Voight, Toad’s naivete got the better of him and he was soon penniless and living in a sewer grate.

Toad got horribly ill with gout and flu, and as poor and penniless as his was, he decided that the only viable option was to cut his losses and off himself. He was about to hop in front of a car when he saw it…the puppet bike. If you have never seen a puppet bike before, feh on you. Toad Cruise gazed at the puppet bike with astonishment and his little froggy heart filled with joy. Up to the puppet bike he jumped, right onto the stage where the puppets were performing! Toad Cruise joined into the puppet performance with such animated gusto that a large crowd amassed in front of the puppet bike. From that point on, Toad’s success skyrocketed. He became known for his excellent dramatic performances and his hilariously on-point comic timing.

This is Crik. Toad's parents are among those dead frogs in the back of Crik's truck

A few years past and Toad, once kindly and approachable, became jaded. He would throw tantrums and dabble in cults and have extensive, Mariah Carey-like lists of demands. On a cross-country promo tour for his latest blockbuster hit, he verbally insulted his personal assistant so badly that she had a nervous breakdown and downed a bottle of pepto bismal and snorted 5 lines of talcum powder. In her chemical-induced rage, she threw poor Toad out of the RV window. Toad landed in the soft country grass and bounced away, completely shocked and discombobulated.

He hopped for what seemed like days but was actually hours. Usually, he would have a small snack of every half hour and would be misted with purified Tahitian geyser water every 15 minutes. Unmisted and slightly hungry, Toad Cruise bounced right into a Big Ole Beave.

This was no ordinary Beave, but the leader of a prestigious tribe of USDA certified Organic Angus Beaves. The Beave stomped her foot, almost squishing Toad. Blindly panicking and hopping frenetically, Toad tripped over a dandelion, landed flat on his little froggy butt, and passed out. When he came to, he was surrounded by a three large Beaves gazing curiously at him.

“What should we do with him?” said Sterf, the gingery Beave.

“Eat him, of course!” replied Qwerm, the large and twitchy eyed Beave.

“No, he is just a mere lost frog. We will help him return from whence he came. And besides, he lacks meatiness,” spoke the biggest and wisest Beave, the Beave Leader, Bovariana.

Thus was Toad’s fate decided. When he awoke the next morning, he was curled into the Bovariana’s nape.

Bovariana and Toad Cruise cuddling and giggling among the sweet grass.

Quivering slightly, Toad opened his mouth to begin barraging Bovariana with questions. But before he could start, Bovariana spoke reassuringly,

“Small frog, lost and scared you appeared amongst our flock of beaves. Your fate was sealed last night when I and the other elder beaves held council. We will help you return to your home.”

Toad was overjoyed! He and the beaves began a steady march towards the nearest city. On the way, however, the scent of the fresh Country air, filled with buzzing bees, pollinating flowers, raw manure, and the heaving scent of the beaves, revived and reinvigorated Toad’s senses better than all the Kombucha and Kabbalah he had been doing back in the Big City. As the bevy of Beave and Toad got nearer and nearer, the less inclined was Toad to return to his fame and fortune.

Upon the eve of his triumphant return to the city, Bovariana and Toad were sharing a mushroom for dinner when a red hatchback Saab zoomed past them. The Saab halted and backed up ferociously. Bovariana and Toad furtively gazed upon a young, quite disheveled and exhausted looking woman hopped out of the car and sprinted towards them.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Toad, “that’s my old personal assistant!”

Bovariana, who had heard stories of the girls madness, lumbered up to defend Toad.

“Toadie! Oh Toadie Baby! Am I relieved to see you! Ya see, I was just driving out to look for ya! I been lookin for ya ever since our little run in in the RV! Ya see, they, back there in the Big City, think I did you in! They think I was going to take your money and replace you with this frog I got at the pet store! Let’s get you back to the Manse de Cruise, I bet you haven’t been misted in days! Then you can tell those damn detectives that I didn’t kill ya!” did the girl breathily exclaim.

“I’ll take it from here, Bovariana,” said Toad, sauntering over to the girl. “You threw me out of a car, you dumb bitch! I’m not going anywhere with you! Definitely not back to the city. I’m staying here, in nature, where I belong. You see, I’m a just a simple-minded Cruise. I’m not meant for city life, it makes my skin break out into horrible warts. Cruises are meant to be here, in the beautiful meadows and friendly swamps, living with beaves. From this day forth, I pledge myself to this beautiful and benevolent Beave, Bovariana.”

The crazy assistant tried to lunge at the Toad, but Bovariana, so touched by Toad’s words and enraged that someone would try to harm such a sweet creature, took a bite out of the personal assistant. And then another one. And then another one. Then the other beaves came and ate the rest of the girl while Toad Cruise suckled upon Bovariana’s teet.

does anyone like pulp?
this is a call to all of those who believe pulp is a valid object in this world,
either as a food product
a section of a drink
or a stand alone identity.
i would like to hear a good argument for pulp.
one that doesn’t mention how its exactly like sandy water
or salt water
or like drinking from a fish tank.

pulp. noun. the soft, juicy, edible part of a fruit.
barf. verb. induced by pulp.

octopus. noun. raw, boiled and pickled, sautéed, deep-fried or for more mature specimens, simmered or boiled for several hours. delicious.

-jfrank

Name your strip club:

I needed some inspiration for a strip club name and lo and behold the topic had already come up several times.  I found this delightfully retarded conversation among the posts:

manyhaha said:

Blue Ball Bill”s House Of Hoes

tarafara said:

blue balls, do you think alot of guys will go there……..lol

DaveMcBrayer said:

No, I wouldnt because that means there is no private room.

tarafara said:

maybe they do have a private room, but you’re not allowed to “finish”

manyhaha said:

It’s a misnomer to keep the cops away

Thus ends one of the most glorious moment in the history of planned conversation. It was over too quick.  Funny thing is, the conversation consists of posts updated over several days.  Who said the internet is making things go faster.

_Kieran

Location: Thrift Store in Chicago’s Wicker Park

Mood: Sober

Aging Hipsters.  “why have you force-fed poverty down your throat  for so long that you must shop here in your mid-thirties?”.

Listen, You. You walk in here with your free starbucks water. You walk around for 2 minutes and then you realize that you should be at the mall browsing the well-kempt and liver-spotty rack of Anne Taylr. Did you just want to make an appearance? Here’s 2 crederettes, now please leave me and the poor minorities alone.

This is what you look like. Only female.

Guess what the iron represents.

_kieran