So which is it? The end of the old year, or the beginning of the new year? What sort of person are you?

Are you currently in the throes of looking back—happily or sadly—on 2011 and saying “damn, that was something” or are you held in thrall (demonsweatlive) of the looming twelvepocalypse and saying “damn, this will be something”?

I really don’t know where I fall between those two camps. On the one hand, 2011 was very good to me—my own little mopster!—but on the other hand, I lost my dog; another quiet casualty of the motherfucking world turning.

I am, however, looking forward to whatever is on the horizon with 2012. It promises to be full of new and exciting things for me as a father, and of course, not to take work/business for granted, but I’m sure if I’ve got the will, I will find a way to keep that thing ticking, too. Toys are either getting more exciting or less exciting—depending who you ask—and so I’m sure there will be plenty to talk about in that neck of the woods, too.

But what about me? Let’s get to me. As you know, O loyal order of Bloglin, I make this shit about me. I lure a bright magenta hook in the water and wait for you to come hither and nibble at the legitimate awesomeness that is this brand and then boom. A razor-sharp piece of middle-aged shrapnel screams right through your young and tender gills. You are now unwittingly reading about me and my feelings.

I’d like to find time to write more. I’d like to be here more often. Hell, I’d like to actually READ this blog…something about this past year has made me all but immune to new and exciting things on the internet. That probably includes everything—music, videos, memes—I don’t even think the porn I’ve been looking at is altogether new or fresh. Go fig.

I have wondered several times in the past few months at whether or not I’d ever return here (as an author, at least)…and I suppose I’ll keep wondering that between posts. Mishka has been such an awesome entity to be associated with….even in this loosest of ways, that I would hate to fall out of touch with that. Of course, on the other hand, I’m not gonna write about stuff just to write about stuff…I mean, it’s gotta be interesting, right? I worry about my predilection towards kid stuff now, as of course, I’ve always worried about my distance from ‘you all’…not just in terms of locale, but also in terms of age. Perceived age?

Why is it that I constantly do that to you? Why do I assume that I am at home, kicking back with Stephen Ambrose and PBS while you’re out at some sort of epic topless comedy club? I’m pretty sure that assumption is rude to both of us…but why can’t I shake it? #sorryBroDidn’tMeanItLikeThat

Are we all growing up together? Is this what that feels like? As time goes by, and we all sit here and mutate and feed and grow these ideas that are all rooted in nostalgia…is that what growing up feels like? And how many of you are so young and new and fresh that you don’t remember the first time that Air Jordans incited violence on the street? How many of you think My Pet Monster is something new? #seeAboveHashTag

Jesus. What a bummer. Why am I being a bummer all of a sudden? I came here to talk about toys. Didn’t I?

Reflection is good. It’s good to know what you do and why you do it. Right? There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking questions of oneself to really get a handle on how one feels. Maybe the weird part is that one is asking these things of oneself while 10,000 or so other ones sit around and wait for one to get to one’s point. Maybe?

As life—in all it’s forward-moving glory—progresses ever forward, I know I feel good about looking back. I know I feel good about toys. And I know I feel good about talking to you, The Bloglin, about all of that shit. I’m getting ready to enter my fourth year of posting here (which is sort of a lie…I don’t really count ’11, as I wasn’t really ‘here’) and I’m excited. I have absolutely NO idea what I plan on talking about, but I know I want to talk about it…and I know I want to talk about it to you and you.

I read a really fantastic article in GQ the other day (I was sitting on a couch in a hair salon waiting for my beautiful wife to get her eyebrows done…the kid was on my lap and I was feeding him cheerios with one hand and turning pages with the other [note: looking to get laid? find a kid {any kid} and take him to a hair salon.]). It was about how Aziz Ansari, James Murphy and David Chang sort of stumbled into this rad situation in which GQ was paying for them to go to Japan together and geek out on food and each other, etc.

Fuck…where am I going with this? Long story short: Bloglin Summit needs to happen. I have become pretty good (internet-, but still) friends with several of the dudes who post here, and I would just love to get in a room—any room—with them and shoot the shit. About whatever.

I guess this is more of an aside that I originally planned intended, but anyway, I guess the gist is that I love the Bloglin. I love you, the readers. And most of all, I’m oh-so-very fond of the friendships and acquaintances I’ve made through this site over the past three years, and I look forward to this next one. Very much so.

Happy New Year, Bloglin. Thanks for letting me play.

Oh. Shit. Right. I made a movie for you to watch and enjoy. Please watch and, um, enjoy.

Until next time.

So have you forgiven me yet? Or are you completely and forever numb to the sound of my voice? Has my inexcusable ignorance of mighty mighty giants like John Romita, John Romita Jr., and Sal Buscema completely blacklisted me from your bloggy wiles? Or do I live to fight another day as you turn a sympathetic mouse toward my tenuously temporal and peevishly personal writeuppery?

I suppose that, either way, I’m still just that Yahoo From Nowhere who gets up here from time to time and starts spouting about mildly strange and unassuming stuff. At least, I guess, when you take into account that I’m in my thirties.

And so fear not! Love or hate (ho ho), slice or grate, here I am on some super-duper Niche Fetish bullstuff, son. Back at ‘em.

A couple weeks ago, my wife came home and dropped a couple of foil packets in my lap. I thought they were poprocks or something. She had been at Target, plumbing the depths of their baby department for diapers and such. Oh, and, by the way, for clothes for 2-year-olds as our 8 month old kid is in beast-mode. #beastMode.

They were not pop rocks, friend. They weren’t even trading cards. They were random chase LEGO minifigures. I’ll save you the suspense: even though you will very much want to, you cannot put them in a pipe and smoke them. You will want to.

So went my addiction. Aw shit dog, gotta go to Target to get socks. And some minifigs.

Damn girl, gotta go to Target and get some Ghost Dots. And some minifigs.

Yo pahtnah, boutta jump out to Target and stock up on Armorall and some Ni-Cads.

And some minifigures.

Then I found out that while Target had Series 5 (of which I was starting to get dupes), there was a Toys R Us in the next town over that had some Series 3 shits. It was on.

Fast Forward a week and I was on Amazon Marketplace #primeSteeze straight creeping on the hazmat dude. And Mr. Mariachi. And Small Clown. Cheating. I’m not even sorry about it.

Blackout. Lose a day.

I’m up in my attic, digging through bins of LEGOs looking for all the Star Wars dudes that I KNOW I have somewhere. How did I get up here? Where did these brand-new minisets of Pharaoh mummies and space aliens come from? Who assembled this motorcycle?

You get it. These little photographically-confounding, shiny-faced bastards were haunting me. Full time. So I worked through my issues. I stole their souls. Dropped ‘em in a hotbed of microzags and glow bugs and creepy as fuck #lurkers.

So yeah. It’s not my best work, but I had fun playing with these little dudes, and I hope you have fun watching. Enjoy.

Until next time, friendz. Love, Your Friendly Neighborhood Hateball.

This week there will be no High Five and you’ll instead be treated to the Bloglin’s original countdown, Hateball’s “My Top 5.”

So what’s the big idea, son? We don’t hear from you for, like, months, and then it’s twice in a week? I mean…jeez. It’s almost like it’s someone’s birthday and almost like they asked you if you could throw some posts up to, like, fill, while they attempted their first day off in, like, months.

Rilly. Seriously.

It’s like that (headslide) and that’s the way it is. Almost exactly. Here I am….typing from my lap, with a twin-toothed monster chomping at my toes…getting a post or two up this week so as to pitch in and let someone relax. Like, way relax. Chillax, even.

And, while we’re pitching in, I figured I’d write about a shared interest that this person and I have, so boom. My Top 5: Spider-Man covers.

—–

5. Amazing Spider-Man #306 (Humbugged) // Illustrated by Todd McFarlane

Throwaway storyline. All the 300 shit has sort of died down. Now what? Let’s Biggie-Tupac on some Action Comics shit. If you count backwards from 328 (which subsequently led to Spider-Man #1, which very shortly thereafter led to something called Spawn and Image Comics) you can sort of imagine Todd McFarlane staring at himself in the mirror of his helicopter living room and telling himself how awesome he is/was. Which, at this specific moment, he was. #mcSwag #ballFarlane

—–

4. Spider-Man #23 (Revenge of the Sinister Six) // Illustrated by Erik Larsen

Gog, dude. Gog. Have you ever read ‘Revenge of the Sinister Six’? This is Erik Larsen on some HUGE Scottie Pippen shit. Jordan’s gone, son. Time for someone to step up and fill some shoes. Fill some damn big shoes. This storyline is so fucking epic…it kind of takes away from Kevin Smith’s run on Daredevil…that saga is so weird and diverse and left-field…but this arc is left-fielder.

Read it. Or just look at the covers. But this cover is the best. I mean to say, ALL FUCKING THREE covers of this comic are amazing. Full wraparound, yo. For $1.75. Larsen probably made $900 for writing, pencilling, inking, and covering this issue. How about we reboot back to this moment in time?

—–

3. Amazing Spider-Man #325 (The Assassin Nation Plot) // Illustrated by Todd McFarlane

As with 306 above, I have little affection or recollection of this story, but it’s Red Skull. This is sort of an epic, all-american Jack Ryan-type cover, and I think it looks boss. The story is probably a little flat, but on the other hand, Todd probably sexed Silver Sable the hell up, so go fig. I love this cover and have always remembered it.

—–

(more…)

Why hello there. You are well, I trust. I am the same old sameness…that dude who pops up here and there, hither and thither, and spouts a few words about whatever and then disappears for 60 days or so. You know. That guy. Teh Hateball.

Speaking of hateballs, Team Hateball just recently took a quick little jaunt out east to NYC, and while there, we were able to do all sorts of fun things like catch up with our good buddies over at MishkaNYC (as pictured in this rather darling shot of Romy and my little dude) and just sort of soak in the sights and sounds and, well, whatever.

Granted, having a kid and a stroller and a diaper bag and a backpack handy at all times doesn’t make for the quickest of quickstrikes ever imagined, but we were able to get out and hit the streets a bit, which, as you know, means that I had my camera and was annoying the bejesus out of my away party by stopping. And stopping. And stopping.

But why dog? Y U b stpng SO ruff #homeBoy #srsly?

To take photos of ‘graffiti’ and ‘street art’ of course.

I didn’t go balls out like I normally do in Tokyo, but I was impressed by a few ‘tags’ and/or little bits and pieces of stuff, and decided that I’d like to share them with you here. Please enjoy.

“Mole Man”, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

“Flea Gang”, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

“Crab Daddy”, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

I was really intrigued by this trio of ‘tags’ in Clinton Hill…not really due to any artistic quality they possessed (actually, quite the opposite) but because they were so strange. So very strange. As I walked around and collected these shots, I started to imagine a running gang of dudes (maybe little kids…maybe little kids like those found in Fortress of Solitude) who went around ‘Getting Up’ for the sole purpose of confusing and intriguing middle-aged tourists like me. Hum.

“BAAL”, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

Surprised to not have ever seen other ‘Baal’ tags. So biblical and foreboding. Seen on the back door to ‘Mike’s Diner’ in CH which happens to be the blow-up church spot on Sunday mornings. My dog was so down with my grits that he fell asleep.

“All You Dead Fucks”, Williamsburg, Brooklyn

“Phil Cony”, LES, Manhattan

“Creepy”, LES, Manhattan

These last two were either on the same wall or in the same alley…again: very outsider…is this the first time the world has heard the term ‘Graf Brut’? Either way, I want to know who this Phil Cony person is…but I have to assume that this is not him.

If you’re interested in seeing some of the other street art shots I nabbed, go ahead and hit it here. I had a fantastic time—a fanTASTIC time—and did a lot more than just take shots of street stuffs. If you’re at all interested, I made an SAST version of my photo tirade that you can hit here. I won’t embed it since it’s about a 70/30 ratio of photos of ‘stuff’ and photos of my ‘kid’.

Ding. Hope everybody’s summer was fantastic.

Hello there. I suck at talking to you. I am sorry. I have been busy—so busy—with many—so many—things. Babies. Working. Websites. Thinking about Space. Dreaming of Electric Sheep. Making a sound in the forest while nobody’s around to hear it.

You get it. And you’re like, save it, Hateball. And you can go ahead and call me Thrifty, cuz I’m bout to save that shit. Takin it to the bank and putting it to work. Straight. Up. Collecting dividends on this whine shit. Balling. Motherfucking Hi-Bounce balling. Reckanize.

And so, it’s July. It’s the very end of July. And I’m sure you know what happens every year at the end of July. Comicon. Of the San Diego variety.

This piece of meat was there, son. Beer in my hand, camera on my face…stunting like a fucking daddy. I took so many photos (with serious help from my good friend Mr. Stash Blackner) and spit so much booth game and drank so much beer and spun so much chrome while I was down there that I needed my own Flickr feed to remember it all. That’s the future, duder: exporting memories. To social networking services everywhere.

You can share in my wealth of Comicon memories—as always—on my photostream. I have cropped, color-touched, smacked up and flipped, and packaged them up—nice and tidy—for you to peruse. I have also take the two following unprecedented steps: made a Short Attention Span Theater version (embedded below) as well as selected—for you, feel?—my top 5 favorite shots.

I’m the guy with his mouth open.

##

1. Doc Fucking Hammer

Co-Creator of one of my favorite shows ever to be on television. Or in my case, on DVD, as watched on my standard definition television. I was SO. TOTALLY. STOKED to see him. So much so that I gave him the pin off my shirt…and he was nice enough to both take it and act excited about it. What a thrillride. Getting giddy just ‘talking’ about it.

—–

2. Thee Brian Ewing and I drink a beer

To each other. For your health.

—–

3. META Muppet

You’ve read me here before (probably? Maybe?) You know that when something like ‘Muppet’ or ‘Meta’ is in the title, well then, I’m all about it. I’m all about this photo. Just stop—drop the internet persona for a second—and LOOK at this photograph. LOOK at it. Allow yourself to realize JUST. HOW. SURREAL it is. That is all. Carry on.

—–

4. Droid Boing

I sort of promised myself that this list would NOT be comprised of a bunch of photos of me with pretty girls in costume…and for the most part, I think I’m succeeding. This one, however, is absolutely not pass-uppable. Like. Not at all. IMPOSSIBLE to not include on a list like this.

—–

5. Do you love Katamari as much as I do?

So much so that you put the theme song on your baby announcement CD? Yeah. Well. That’s how I roll. So you can imagine my pants-wetting excitement when I saw this gal in her home-hewn cousin costume. Like, what.

—–

BONUS!: THE Becky Cloonan, dog.

Not only is she incredible at art, not only is she just, like, the coolest fucking person ever, not only is she an angel sent from gingerbread heaven…she like, tolerates a person like myself. This isn’t the only photo she agreed to take with me. For serious. There were others. I didn’t even have to pay for this. People are planes. This gal’s a jet. Write it down.

(more…)

I think by now it’s probably pretty obvious that one Mr. Hateball is not your typical ‘goin’ out during the week’ type of mister. Sure, I have my fun, and I’ve had my fun, but at the ripe old age of married with a kid and a business, that whole ‘get so drunk tonight that I’ll still be drunk tomorrow’ vibe doesn’t really work. Responsibilities and whatnot, yo.

That is not to say, however, that I don’t sometimes break form and go get my funs on. I keeps it real like that…try to lob little sucker punches on the soft underbelly of The Universe from time to time…keep that thing guessing. Last night was just such an occasion: a friend of mine surprised me with a free ticket to go see The Deftones, a band that I truly like. They played a small club here in Sacramento, and, as a bonus, had invited The Dillinger Escape Plan—another band I like—to play with them.

The show was awesome. The problem, however, is the cellphone. The cameraphone. I was part of this problem. And me, being the metaversal soldier I be, well…I got a little carried away. By the end of the night, it was about seeing who I could sneak up behind and film them filming the band. And then it became about trying to see how many LCD screens shooting footage of the band playing I could fit into frame in my LCD screen shooting footage of the band playing. Very Hateball, I know. But my point, I guess, is that everybody—and I mean everybody (even this douchebag)—at this show was shooting the band with their micro-compact digital cameras. It was sort of like everybody was there watching the show on TV. To turn a phrase, it was like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. Or something.

But! The music was awesome. Dillinger I could sort of take or leave, but Chino and company really did stomp out something special. And so, with little to no fanfare, I bring to you My Top 5 Deftones songs.

—–

5. “Around the Fur”

Typically, I try not to have any sort of real ‘order’ to these lists. It’s not really like a ‘ranked’ top 5…just a top 5. In this case, however, I LOVE this song. Like, turn it up as loud as it can go whenever it comes up on shuffle. That kind of love. So you may as well slap it my favorite, my #1 even though it’s starting things off.

Something about the drums (obviously) and of course, the Chino-ness of it all…I don’t know. Reminds me of being a 19-year-old store manager at Mr. Rags and getting girls to try on clothes that were way too small for them for my own personal enjoyment. Something to that effect.

—–

4. “Digital Bath”

Try as I might, I can’t ignore the trippy ‘omg we’ve been touring so long our soul is sort of gone’ video cliche on this one. Was “Wanted Dead or Alive” the first of those? “Nothing Else Matters” is in that class too.

Maybe I should make a list of those (Winds of Change?). Either way, this song is full-on Deftones. Does there need to be another reason?

—–

3. “Deathblow”

Jim Lee Image Comics Debut Reference. Harmonica. Go.

(more…)

I’ve been an absentee Hateball, I know. Was it last time that I told you (all?) that I wouldn’t start posts like this? Sadly, I do not have the time to go check…which is the first (and second) rule for how to spot a poor interjournalist. I suppose you will have to just shoot me.

Alas—forsooth!—I have been busy with my other family. My secret family. The one that doesn’t really translate to my internet life. Sure, they are involved, but, well, it’s different. If you’re my real internet folks, then this beautiful creature sitting next to me is my hidden mistress, and this not-so-tiny version of myself at my feet is—yep—a keep-a-Hateball baby.

But! Like any deadbeat would say, I’m here now. And that counts for something…right, champ? I know I been busy, but I been out there—up on my grind, steady mobbin, cold lampin on them curbs, stunting like a daddy. Like an actual daddy. So ya. On the real. Haters at east, playas say please. Let’s talk about some toys.

Much to my sort of huge shock and surprise, I was recently asked to participate in an upcoming book. A book about collectors. Apparently, when approached by the curator of the project, my good galpal Skinner told the person that my collection puts his to shame. Or something. Which was both very very nice and very very wrong. Still! This person reached out, and I sort of half-jokingly accepted, assuming that any book/publication (present company excluded, of course) that would have me MUST be a joke. So let’s joke. When it’s on it’s on.

And then I decided to take it seriously. Really wanting to document this year of our Lord (and baby) as it relates to my toy collection. Who knows? Maybe something will change in the next year or two and I won’t have it anymore (no plans, but still). It might be good to get things in order and do a survey..and hey! what a great opportunity, right?

So, for the past week or two, I’ve been diligently trying to push myself to take ‘good’ photos of my ‘best’ stuff. I’ve been attempting to ‘actually’ write answers and be ‘interesting’ in response to interviews. I’m thinking of themes for essays. That’s right: I write essays. No shit.

One of the stipulations of my participation in this thing—a stipulation I outlined at the beginning—was that I would not, under any circumstances, attempt a ‘collection’ shot of my toys, as I did not really want to tear my office apart. I didn’t want to learn about photography in that way. And I didn’t want to take the time. It was out of the question.

And so, in true Hateball fashion, I present to you a super-quick 2-minute flyby of the setup for the ‘collection’ shot I just took. The final shot will be submitted for the book and of course be rejected because of some flaw in craftsmanship. Or something.

REJECTED

SRSLY: To get all photogeek for a second. I took it at 20mm in 1 shot at F/22 with natural light. Was OK. Bad reflections. Then I decided that I wanted it crisper, so I took it at 50mm (also at F/22) in 2 shots and bungled the stitch. THEN, I returned with my 35mm portrait and also still had to get it in 2 shots, and the result was good once I removed the doors from my cases. And foiled the windows and switched to fluorescent light. Which I count as a sin. Against God and nature.

Finally, I used my business partner’s micro 4:3 shooting RAW at 90mm and stitched no less than 12 shots together. Unreal. It took, literally, the computing power that I assume UNREAL took a few years ago.

This thing here, though, was done in about 30 minutes using the Flip we got at our baby shower. I had a Jericho-sized headache at the time and could only see out of my right eye. I hope to return to the scene of the crime and take something longer…possibly narrated (that’s what she said). We’ll see. Please, at the very least, enjoy the sound of Danzig’s voice.

For now, Hateball’s gotta go away for a few days. I’ll be right back I promise…maybe we can go on that fishing trip NEXT weekend. Be good for your Crook while I’m away. And download Relics of Dune if you haven’t already. Best mix I’ve heard all year.

Someone once told me that those of us who live in beautiful Northern California are super-lucky because we have the distinct privilege of living within 45 minutes of any sort of climate anybody would ever want to live in. We’ve got the cool and breezy coast. We’ve got sunny valleys, temperate forests, and chilly mountains. It’s like, the Great Valley or some shit.

And you know, I don’t totally disagree. Granted, the whole state is a bankrupt parking lot filled with dirty diapers and rave fliers, but, well, yeah. It’s nice here. I suppose that’s easy to forget when you’re paying $5.19 for a gallon of gas and—I don’t know—$36 for a pack of cigarettes. But all in all, it seems worth it.

Even more so up in the beautiful Shasta Forest, where I had delightful and bliss opportunity to drag my little seedling family to a few weeks ago. My dad—mountain grandpa (we’re hoping this sticks in lieu of ‘pot pop’)—has a few acres that my buddies and I migrate to each summer for a work/drink weekend (have I talked about that here?), and the Mrs. and I decided that we should take a little trip. With the kid. While there was still snow on the ground.

Granted, it’s more than 45 minutes away from our humble abode, but, aside from the screaming banshee strapped into the backseat of our very sensible SUV, it’s not the WORST drive in the world.

But wait a minute. Aside from my subtle and alluring tourism pitch for sunny California, why—in the world—should I think that you want to hear about all this? Why do you care about my family trees? You shouldn’t. BUT! I was able to smuggle some toys up. The good kind. And while there, I was able to sneak away for a very brief amount of time and take some shots. Some videos. Some…well, shots.

Let’s be honest—way real—: you can fucking TASTE the HASTE with this clip. It’s certainly a sketch of a sketch. But I had fun, and I finally got to use this quirky little They Might Be Giants tune in one of my projects. A bonus.

The shrewd and avid Hateball fan will also notice that I’m broadening my horizons—to questionable gain, but still—with this one. My strict-ish rule of ‘no transitions or titles’ that I’ve maintained since the first couple is being broken here. I even got down with some advanced cutaway titles, which was neat for the first few. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but, well, I guess I feel OK enough about them to share with you all.

It’s a pretty random clip, now that I think about it, but, sometimes random is so ugly as to be enchanting. Like life. And iTunes DJ.

With that, please enjoy my latest. Briefly:

Briefly… from Justin Hateball on Vimeo.

TTFN.

My man is killing it lately. KILLING. IT.

You know who I’m talking about. Brian Ewing, that’s who. I talk about dude so much up on this blog, he ALMOST needs his own category. Almost. For now, we’ll just say he’s a secret society. A freak. Occult. An Occultist.

And so what? So now what? Do you live in NY? Are you looking for something to do? Something Monstrous? Something Underground? Something Arty? Well then…the folks at Royal Flush and Toy Tokyo have a showing for you. Go check out the Crazy Monsters show opening May 6th at TT-Underground Gallery, and get you rmonster on. Here thar be Frankensteins, I’m sure.

The REAL reason to go check it out, however, is that Mr. Ewing will have two new pieces hung in this gallery that absolutely blow minds. He’s been on some SERIOUS graphite steeze of late, and the hits just keep coming. Take a look below for a sneaky-peek at his show submissions…he’ll also have signed giclee prints of one of my favorite pieces he’s ever done…’Innsmouth Study’.

If you do go check him out, look for the dude with the glorious beard and give him a hatehug for me. I miss that little dude.

“Galtan” | Framed 5″ x 7″ Graphite on Rives BFK

Mars Attacks! | Framed 5″ x 7″ Graphite on Rives BFK

Innsmouth Study | Framed 5″ x 7″ Giclee Print on German Etch Watercolor Paper

Oh, and: as an added bonus, a dude named Jason Edmiston will be showing there as well. Dude has got SERIOUS monster skills. Take a peek, and thank St. Hate…now you know who did that rad painting of Cobra Commander that I have a poster of in my garage that I can’t find the photo of right now. Boom. You’re welcome.

Halloween can’t get here soon enough.

Friday May 6th – May 15th, 2-7pm
TT Underground
Opening Reception: May 6th, 7-11pm
91 2nd Ave
New York, NY

Oh, hello. Been a minute. Did you know that your typical rhinoceros sleeps standing up, and he only eats at night? It’s true. I also heard somewhere that a hippopotamus’ sweat is clear and pink (or something). What a weird wild kingdom.

And so yeah…this is me ignoring the fact that I’ve not checked in with you in a couple months. I am working on it. BUT! I wanted to do something special (well, SOMEthing) to commemorate our dudes down at Toy Street getting their nerd #swag on. Or, I guess, their nerd dragon. It’s really the same thing I guess. You know my steeze (this is a Drag-On joke…remember him? Didn’t he appear on a Gang Starr remix? Something like that.)

Gargamel x Bwana Spoons HP Rootbeer Boris the Bee & HP Pocket Globby

So. Not empty-handed in the theme department. I stood on a little footstool this morning while my coffee brewed and took photos of some of the toys sitting on top of my refrigerator. The light was nice, and I was all, this is nice, and so there. Brightly colored photos for all my NF dogs (if there is such a thing).

Max Toy x Martin Ontiveros Booska

I was so impressed with this sculpt…plus, it was a gift! Yeah!

Some of these dudes have shown up here before, and some haven’t…but again: I just snapped the shit that was up there. In the overflow. The top of my fridge is my overflow parking. It is both sad and happy.

Buff Monster KFGU (Clear Green)

Additionally, I am listening to the Foo Fighters’ back catalog this morning (after, of course, my daily dose of The D) and I had originally intended to tell you how I’m not getting tired of you, and, like, how all my life I’ve been searching for something (or something), but I figured I’d let you off easy today. No more bad meta jokes.

I will however just remind you to listen to the Foo Fighters. And read Crook’s review of their new album. And, if you can, catch the boss Rockumentary (ugh) that VH1 put together for it…it watches like a Dave Grohl Goodfellas: fall. rise. fall. rise bitter. fall. rise happy. Way gangster.

King Bee x Zollmen Jellybean Popy Dog (w/ wearing Bobongo’s Deathmask…again, gangster)

Zollmen Pink Bobongo

Blobpus Dokugan DX

Born of sin. It always all comes back to Dokugan forever and never. Always. Ever.

Marmit Glitter Hedorah (one of my favorites!)

Elegab Hitogomira (The People Puker)

Anyway. Miss you. KIT.