A brief bulletin of  be causes to be championed or challenged during my (eventual) bid to become mayor.
Prime Minister.

  1. Installation of a world-wide Ban on ALL Support Causes.  We do not support Cancer or Autism or Homelessness or any shitty thing we don’t want for ourselves, we fight them.  Writing that inane slogan on a fake ribbon and applying it to your bumper only makes you a moron with zero aesthetic understanding.
  2. Creation of Special Task Force to ensure Hazel’esque future re-election and mine own personal/professional enemy elimination.
  3. Decriminalize Peanut Butter possession/consumption in all public school lunch rooms.  Personal bubbles (or a gross of EPI pens) for the kids who are actually allergic.
  4. One-Time Eye (Sore) Tax of 250$ on all new mini-van and SUV sales.
  5. Immediate 10% Pig Tax on all FOOD (or food-like products) promising children ‘toys’ with their shitty little meals.
  6. Arrest, incarceration and fine of 500$ for any person/organization requiring Mandatory Donations to attend, park at or otherwise make use of a FREE event.
  7. Further to above, a fine of 50$ for each Fire Fighter Boot waived under unwitting noses with the intent to solicit or guilt donations at stop lights.
  8. Further further to the above, a 20,000$ fine (errr, mandatory donation) made directly to the cause they claim to be supporting for any business that asks customers if they ‘would you like to donate $1 today?’ at check out.
  9. Immediate 200% decrease to Bus’able Zone of schools.  From the current 1km to like 3 fucking km’s.  Because your kids are fat and the buses are overfilled with snotty kids making snotty faces…snotty faced kids ultimately too chicken shit to fight you when you run their bus off the road to confront them…
  10. Further to above, 30 day licence revocation for parents that drive kids to school inside the No Bus’able Zone before the bell.  Because parents are fat too.
  11. Immediate 5% Litter Bug Tax on all FOOD (or food-like products) served on/in non-reusable plates/bags/etc.
  12. Elimination and destruction of all Special Interest Groups (or whatever else they the major minority of organized uninteresting things call themselves).  Fuck them, they can vote like everyone else.
  13. True Cost Products Tax.  Fuck free-trade.  Immediate 1% Pollution Tax for every 10km a product travels to reach final POS (outside the first 150).
  14. New construction requirements (fees) for all developers.  Increased City Infrastructure Contributions.  Including bike paths, traffic control, community centres, public schools and a bigger fucking office for the mayor.
  15. Local Harvest Status for business that sell primarily (50% or greater) local goods (sourced within 150km).  Food:  tax and property credits for accredited markets, grocers, restaurants (those that sell locally murdered food).  Cars: despite what the ‘hungry yet?’ bumper stickers might imply, those vehicles made by TOYOTA and HONDA (in Ontario) are in fact DOMESTIC.  Cars made by GM are just shit, regardless of origin.
  16. Cat Culling.  Cats caught pooping outside, cats fighting (not for my entertainment), cats meowing or shedding, cats just generally outside the confines of their registered home and/or NOT licensed to a barn or factory (for security or pit fighting) will be farmed for meat and served in soup local kitchens.
  17. Additional 3% At Least Recycle You Wasteful Bitches Tax on all FOOD (or food-like products) served in/on non-recyclable plates/bags/etc.  Furthermore, fines of $20,000 (or more) for facilities that do not provide/monitor/encourage on-site recycling options.
  18. Abolishment and conversion of the Catholic School Board.  Buddha and Superman don’t have a fucking school boards, why does Jesus?
  19. Corporal Punishment (or Sargent Slaughter if you wish) for Bike Theft, Bike Rape or sniggering at someones POS bike, helmet head or tight jeans.
  20. Homeless Hiring Initiative.  Whinny, bitchy or otherwise uncooperative city workers will immediately and instantly be replaced with homeless persons.  The benefits to all parties are entirely obvious.
  21. Immediate and instant Declaration of War on Politically Correctness.  Words is money; less mincing means more doing, we’re pretty sure you’ll get over it.
  22. Immediate Banning of the term HERO when used to describe any person or occupation that does NOT involve running (a)cross a motherfucking country to raise money on a single solitary leg while enduring late-stage cancer.  You are a monetarily compensated public service person (cop, fire, nurse), not a hero.  Unless you are.  Then you probably got a medal and the afternoon off.
  23. Creation of a Special Task Force to investigate the economic and sociological cost/benefits associated with the complete or partial elimination of mornings.

Yes?  OK?


Vote for Pedro.

24 and Counting

Last minute preparations near one of two terminations.

  • Completion.
  • Complete abandonment.

From the completed files.
Anti-Prizes have been purchased and are now fully allocated.

Some new, some olde categories:

  • ANTI-WINNER.  The person who most and best exemplifies anything and everything losers hate about winners.
  • ANTI-LOSER.  This person clearly is mostly and totally oblivious to the fact that the Anti-Race is/does/has ever in fact happen(ed).
  • LAPDOG CALLOUT.  A personal and hateful challenge issued by The LapDogs Racing Team for the following season.  Essentially it’s a personal vendetta issued on behalf of one LittleDog by this unwitting third party in public stadium in exchange for prize funding.
  • MOST ANNOYING (Mechanical, Face, Whatever).  When you participate in a circle jerk of 5 or more, there is always some tool with equipment and personal issues.
  • PSYCLE YARDSALE.  Indubitably there will be someone who comes to a glorious full stop through the hefty application of friction on flesh.  By fate or fault.
  • MOST MOTHERLY FUCKER.  Briefly named the KINDEST ACT…the name was forcibly changed to more appropriately reflect the day.
  • PSYCLE EMBASTARD.  Shittiest bike.  Not necessarily in terms of general crappiness but as blindly judged by mine own FRANKEN-BELT-BIKE in terms of personal offence.

From the completely abandoned files.
Plates have not been completed.
Or even started.

As a general and partial reminder.  POSTERS.
DelStalk 2011 special’ed posters are in very VERY Limited form this year.
Free only goes so far.

If you NEED to have one.  Buy One.
Many or a few were signed by DEL himself.
If you aren’t too concerned.  Fuck You.

Enjoy Friday.

Misfit Psycles vs The Bike Show

Spring is nigh.

The weather may do as it fuckingwell pleases.  Deny if it must all intents to the contrary, riding season* is almost on us.

* proper riding, riding that doesn’t involve garbage bag skin suits and distain.

At this instant, tractor trailers are being docked at bike shoppes across southern Ontario.  Each one stuffed with product relegated to basements and storage facilities, products unworthy of floorspace, products that have not seen light since the fall (the last ‘bike show’).

Crates of neon chamois, grip shifts en-gross, stacks of USPS jersey’s and hundreds of 26″ Specialized bikes…

Over the next 48 hours each of these gypsy trailers will converge on the once great CNE grounds

Attention retro-Canadian-cycliste: The semi-annual flea market previously known as the Toronto International Bike Show is coming this weekend!
That’s right, for a mere 13$ entry and upwards of 20$ parking, you too can save 5$ on your OCA license!

In the event that you are missing the point entirely, Corporate Psycles will not be with a booth.
Not last year, not this year, not ever at this rate…


Except with bikes and shiny bits in place of the cars.  A place where cycling’s bourgeois offer their lesser brethren a glimpse over the budgetary fence.


Except with more people, less buying and more fighting.  A place were merchants desperately flog the mistakes of seasons gone by.


In the interest of sanity and fiscal well being Misfit Psycles is pleased to offer you BOTH the ability to SPEND without cause AND the time to do something CONSTRUCTIVE this weekend…de-ice the gutters, ride your bike indoors…go to JOYRIDE 150.

Misfit Psycles is set to announce it’s own cash and carry options.

OFFICIAL Newsletter mails this evening.
Expect it FRIDAY MARCH FOURTH from 10am to 4pm.
Expect frames for 300$cdn tax incl.
Expect LIMITED inventory, no exceptions, no rain cheques and expect to pay with exact cash…CASH.
More in the letter.

And simply because the ‘Bike Show’ has been arbitrarily dubbed ‘INTERNATIONAL’, there will be something for the rest of the rock as well.


Look for the official traffic grabber at the first ever Psycle Warehouse Psale.

Only a handful of people and one very super generous man have given to the Taipei Travel Fun.  D.

The rest of you lot had better donate today…or they (the generous) are going to feel really superior and probably lord it over you until you die of embarrassment.

Or whatever pain I can conjure up myself.

Without your help.

And a good day to you.

Suicide by Salt

Since whenever and over whatnot my (relative) state of fitness has come and gone.

In order to better assist you with context I could make (another) chart that would accurately reflect my desire to achieve any given state of fitness.

Much like the desire it’s intended to represent, it’s just not worth the effort.

What happened December 18 was (essentially) nothing special.
I woke inspired and I intended to start that lofty climb towards some elevated state of fitness!

I attempted to run.
It went badly.
Merely another failure in a string of many.

Anyone that has been successful in maintaining an elevated level of fitness will attest, shitty days are just part of the package.

Again and again I have made wild, random and ill-concieved lunges towards ANY state of  fitness (anything that wasn’t my current state).
Again and again I have either failed or succeeded.  Regardless, I’ve been able to maintain some form of intention-momentum.

Not lately.  The excuses vary but the result remains the same.
Failure.  More Failure.  Another Failure.  Not Success.  The opposite of Success.  Failure squared.

Without at least the periodic injection of Success I have sputtered.
Each and every failure directly effecting the intensity of the subsequent attempt, reductions all but ensuring the impending result.
That is, until I stopped altogether.

Clearly.  I lacked a plan that would guide me towards any given goal of fitness.
My plan, any GOOD plan, needs a graphic representation.

I understood my failures.  I understood my subsequent decline in fitness.

What I did NOT understand was the rate at which it was all occurring.
That is, until I laid Sharpie to paper.

I was no longer a cyclist.
I was still eating like one.
Not one of those annoyingly svelte cyclists who eat nuts and shave their fish, one who rode and rode and rode and then ate whatever they wanted.
Without consequence.

So.  I documented what had been December…

NOT an exaggeration.

January would be better.  (Attitude)
I knew what was broken.  (Acceptance)
I knew how to fix it.  (Intention)
I had drawn fucking pictures.  (Action)

January 1, and I was already VERY productive.
The ENTIRE day was dedicated to mental preparedness.

January 2, first VICTORY.
Run.  1hr 15min, 14.5km.

January 3, second VICTORY.
Trainer.  1hr 30min, 0.0km.

January 4, full-stop.  FAILURE.
Of the complete and total variety…activities to which I had become accustomed (like getting fat and laying down) DO NOT HURT.

My decline has since intensified.


And Another Thing…

Onward and upwards.
Ideally, in brilliant plume of flame.

Progress means considering the unconsiderable.
Progress means doing the undoable.
Stretching and bending the unmalleable soul of our corporate being.
Beyond tradition.  Beyond expectation.

Progress is, relatively speaking, an huge-waste of time and resources.
Progress was explicitly and exclusively invented by corporations with both to burn and little to lose.
Progress is a rouse meticulously packaged and sold to the consumer-nation by a corporation to further deepen their strangle hold on the world’s carbon and metallic red stock piles.

Progress is a luxury I can’t afford.
…this progress can be disguised as an elaborate metaphor cleverly cloaked in a veil of ironic subversion…

New initiatives at Corporate Psycles:


Comfort: Seven years an inbox slave to the work’sclusive BlackBerry.

Uncharted: iPsycle phone decals have been approved, now with 30% less phone and 120% more time (well) wasted.

Be the first to get your iPsycle 4 Decals, EXCLUSIVELY available HERE.


Comfort: The brilliant simplicity and un-squeekability of the diSSent (Mk.iv) sliders.

Uncharted: Something else altogether…

The research and design currently being considered by PsycleLabs is no-longer the olde norm.  In fact, for project Brontoawesomous I suggested something entirely more brilliant than the words I elected to communicate same with:


What I meant to say was something more along the lines of “just go ahead, make it a frame that IS everything I hate, see if I care”.

The most relevant and oblivious facts have been blurred to prevent assumptions…suffice to say I elected to utilize the other, lesser practical Misfit Psycles identity, Menstrual Psycles for the purpose(s) of purchase.

Our secret is certainly safe.

Happy Thanksgiving to the Americans.

Remember Americonsumers…Super Awesome Friday of Mega Black Death is coming.
For a limited time and only on that day…you need not heed any of the logical laws of monetary responsibility.

If the mood strikes, purchase away.
Purchase here.

To help gravy the wheels of consideration, the next and exclusive edition of TWOFOUR in 24 departs at 22:00 est November 25NEWSLETTER SUBSCRIBERS ONLY.

Give Them What They Want

What makes good reading?
THIS is not going to be good reading.

Good writing is good reading.
I know what good writing is, ergo, I know what good reading is.

I know that Shakespeare is better than John Kennedy Toole.
I know that Homer trumps Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller.
I know this, because I was directed to read these over those.

Those being the books I would choose to read.
Now, because I read these – not those, I have a degree.

Validation of intellectual conformity.  On 100lb stock.
A major in reading and a minor in arguing.

I know that while I was being instructed, taught to read, I didn’t.
I studied.

One doesn’t need to waste 6 or 7 years on a 4 year degree to declare with authoritative impunity;
Relevance you fuckfaced twits, relevance (and profanity), make good reading.

I know this, because I’ve read enough of what else is GOOD READING and the way it’s written, isn’t GOOD.
Not always, not even usually.
Technically speaking.
I know this of my self, because I account for 11% of my visits on any particular day.
I know this because you continually tell (remind and implore) me.
Graphically speaking.

And more times than not, I don’t fucking listen.
Normal, Normal, Normal, UBER-RELEVANT, Normal:

Relevance is a connection.  A connection with the reader by means of subject.  A subject that can be enhanced (not created) by technique, a subject that allows (self) introspection without fear of (personal) judgement or a call to action.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Relevance is the ability to articulate thoughts through (mental) images onto and into the context of someone else’s life.
I know you know exactly what the fuck that means.
Otherwise this isn’t relevant.

Yesterday: Exhibit A.
Yesterday I discussed a minor inconvenience/issue that I was dealing with on the job.
Logically, in the interest of corporate accountability displacement, I moved to discuss employee/employer relations.

Thomas had fucked up a whole lot of shit.
Fucked it up way to the fictional heavens and back sort of shit.
Nothing major in a specific sense.
Thomas couldn’t have known it was going to be his fault.
But by fucking this shit up, Thomas made the other shit better.
Thomas couldn’t have known this because I didn’t tell him.
Thomas has so much to learn.  He’s learning right now.

This is a dynamic relevant to the masses.
Everyone has been employed.
Most everyone can recall a super mega employer of awesome.
Someone like me.

People come to read that.

This blip in visitation, the existence of blips, is nothing new.

People get off on the absurdities of life.
People get off when the absurdities of life happen to anyone else.
This get-off-ed-ness is the reason Bob Saget had a career.

My life spends a disproportionate amount of time fandangled in that particular absurd.
The most read posts list reads more like a FML screen-play then a corporate psycling blog…


It could be worse.  I could be THom.
His readers don’t want to read HIM, they want HIM to read someone else to them…

Things Unsaid

Confusion is part of life.
A necessity of sorts.
Without confusion, there’d be chaos.

Not the kind of Utopian chaos promised by the Dil Pickle Club.
Chaos by paralysis.
Order without confusion.


Confusion is the ultimate camouflage.

Understanding this, at least once you’ve partially convinced yourself of such, you might ask “how is it that anything gets done at Misfit Psycles“?

Until this spring I simply DID it.
Whatever it was.  Whatever it wasn’t.
Whatever it was intended to be.  Whatever it became once it was finished.
For the most part, life, was easy.  Predictability through improbability.

In the end, whatever it was, was CORRECT (in the context of specific intent) or otherwise sold as ‘intentionally like that’.

Enter Thomas Wood.
Thomas and I went back and forth for some time before he officially started.
I never doubted HIS qualifications.

I merely MORE fully understood mine own powers.
Powers that beguile and confound better men.  Powers that include clairvoyance, psychosis and omnipotence (latin for self-important).

While preparing some frames (for delivery) I ran into a few issues with a few too many frames.
I became emotional.

Not specifically about the issue I was having.
That, specifically, would be handled.  I knew that.  I hated knowing that.

I found that quasi-instant resolution (of the issue) infuriating.
I was robbed of process.  A process that included outrage and ire.

I was going to need to find something else.
Something I could be pissed about.
Something with NO immediate resolution.

Fucking eyelet’s.
Fucking Thomas.

For those that might (rightfully) doubt his powers of deflection, here, is Thomas’ response:

Text book.  Composed.  Perfect.
And total bullshit in it’s accuracy.

I had a boss once who, despite his paranormal powers of veto and a propensity to review everydamnthing personally, used to scream at the top of his lungs “if you’re saying this is my fault, what the fuck do I need you for“.
The fact that the words spewed forth in a shower of nicotine flavoured cholesterol didn’t change a thing, the answer was obvious.

I was there because he was a fucking idiot.

Eyelet’s = Waterloo.

In politics… never retreat, never retract… never admit a mistake.
Napoleon Bonaparte.

The fix was in.  I had my confrontation.  I had disorder.
I had an outlet in an eyelet.

Thomas had shown weakness to similar confrontations in the past.
I expected a response (telephone/email) requesting clarification of mine hostility.
Or resignation.
Literally or figuratively.

I received my response.

The note is four fucking years old, in blue ink (complete with a drop shadow) from a doctor in California.

This effort brought a tear to my eye.

We are being controlled

No August.

No Anaheim.

All Vegas.

Fucking Morons.

Dear Retailer:

I would like to thank you for attending the 2010 Interbike show in Las Vegas. With your support, this year’s event was able to attract more than 1,200 brands and 550-plus members of the media. As a result of this intense coverage the cycling industry was exposed to a global audience via endemic cycling media, along with prominent mainstream outlets such as USA Today, NBC, the Wall Street Journal and many more.

Due to the overwhelmingly positive response to this year’s show and the countless conversations we have personally had with retailers and exhibitors regarding the future dates and location of Interbike, we are reversing our earlier decision to move the 2011 show to Anaheim in August.

You lost me you lost me you lost me you lost me…


Pussy motherfucking assface suckups.

Interesting by Design

Something funny has been taking place at MPHQ.
Since I got Wood earlier this year.
Though apropos, I don’t mean funny in a meringue to the face kind of way.
Funny strange.

First I was like, Ob-La-Di.

Thomas was working.
Thomas was doing what he was supposed to do.
Thomas was good at what it was he was doing.

Shortly thereafter, just when I’d come to terms with my new and improved state of indifference, something else happened.

An interesting thing occurred while I wandered InterBike, showing all who cared my new Wood.
Not interesting in the cliched Vegas way.  It was a way that did not involve petroleum jelly, skittles and a silicone-sling-shot.
Interesting by EXCLIMATION!

Then I was like, Ob-Les-Wha?

Because right there – that’s when the funny I had, collided with the interesting that was, and became this strangely interesting funny ‘thing’.

THAT, that this, was the moment when I recognized this ‘thing’.

For the record and in hindsight, once acknowledged, this ‘thing’ was (clearly) more a revelation (of sorts) then it was any ‘thing’ at all.

For me, it was less that what it was.
More what that it wasn’t.
This ‘thing’ was entirely and completely nothing rather than something.

Then I was all like, Ob-Le-Ques-Que-Fuc?

I don’t DO anything.

His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.
Stephen Dedalus

Renny (YESS Products) politely suggested it.
Mauro (Columbus) touched on it.
Jon (Hayes Bicycle) joked about it.
Jonas (the Hive) was even less than kind…he laughed about it.

I get it.
What I didn’t realize was that (this) was got’ed outside mine own head and that those that got-that didn’t really have a clue.

I don’t DO anything.  As it stands, that is, so far recently.
Since Wood.
Of course this multiplicitous InterBike declaration wasn’t intended entirely literally.

Couldn’t be.
Shouldn’t have been.
I still pack boxes, surf the internet and provide the sturdy visage that IS Misfit Psycles.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
Stephen Dedalus

By no means is this recognition (of mine) a declaration of intent to DO more.
Fuck no.
Doing anything is, authentically speaking, counter productive to doing nothing.
What I DO though (it should be acknowledged) is what isn’t done at all.

The undone is what THEY want.
What THEY expect.
All THEY get.

THIS is what I DO.

Ignited by a re-found purpose (the foundation on which the Empire was first cast) I set forth to DO something.
Delete emails.
Maybe even respond to a dozen or couple of them.

I was feeling inspired.  Agitated.

I get a lot of email.  Disproportionately so.
When my times allow I open them ALL.
It is my belief that deleting an email I have ACTUALLY read causes greater cosmic harm to the offending party than merely deleting an email, sight unseen.

“Yes, I read your email and I deleted it.  Motherfucker!”
“No, I didn’t read your email, I deleted it, motherfucker???”

When times do not, I sort.  Sortation with an aggravated intention to review.
To be deleted (perhaps even responded to) in order of priority.

Ego Stroking – emails of praise and thanks for being awesome.
Revenue Generating – emails that (likely) may result in income.  Tangible, short term, immediate INCOME.  NOT potential, possible income related to goodwill, charity or sponsorship (see Revenue Sapping).
Solicitation and Balls – You have money, we have shit.  Let’s talk trade.  To fuck with that, if I haven’t asked for it, I don’t want it.
Revenue Sapping – emails of request.  Whatever they be they are but they ALWAYS require participation without a transaction and presuming I have a future is presumptuous.

I elected to review the inbox.
Which had become more an in’tainer.

In relatively short order, the ego was vigorously stroked and stroked again, revenue was generated and all solicitation sacked with prejudice.

Lo, hidden amid and amongst the Revenue Sapping requests of mine personal charity there was a branch I hadn’t pruned in some while.

Requests for information.
Superficially exhausting and instantly uncommercial, this was an avenue I ONCE had opportunity to exploit.
Exploit it well I did.

Interviews, reviews, cross-promotions and the like.
Possibilities could potentially abound that afternoon.  With this hope, I set forth.

In what could be best described as a flurry of (re)inspiration I responded to each and every request.

Channeling my inner Ralphie, responses flowed effortlessly from one into the other.  Building in succession, evolving in both scope and depth.   Without obligation I would carefully dismantle objections before they were considered and validate assumptions before they were implied.  Each response as if it were part and parcel to the request that previously past.

I sat smugly in and between each retort and carefully (though admittedly after-the-factly) reviewed what it was I was doing.
What I had done.  What I had said.

Impressive in both structure and intent, a fist pounding re-volution, a resurrection of the MY Empire.
Yet even to my rose-coloured eyes, it became obvious these disjointed responses were (at best) unintelligible to all but the most intelligent.
The most attentive.

I was talking to myself.

Right then.  At that moment.  And (clearly) just for me.  I reclaimed my rightful place, my roll in what IS Misfit Psycles.

Should those six or seven recipients ‘er find themselves in contact with one-and-the-other, they will know EXACTLY what the fuck it was I was trying to say.

I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile, and cunning.
Stephen Dedalus

Starting tomorrow, so I don’t have to respond to the numerous responses that followed (Dear Peter; Thank you for the response…???), I intend to publish random excerpts from a few.
Then they’ll know.
Then you’ll know.

And then you’ll ALL be sorry.

You’re Terminated, Fucker

Your emails and calls of concern for my well being have been heard.
The outpouring of love was nearly gratifying.
Seven emails.  Four calls.
One week…

To the asshole that called my parents looking to buy the remnants of the Empire for a cardboard coffin and six-pack of Pabst.
Fuck You.
Imagine their disappointment when I informed them I wasn’t dead.

Resoundingly unmotivated to recount the final days of the Breck Epic 2010 I lounged, single cheek propped and lap top resting on my gelatinous growth, watching TERMINATOR.
We shared Doritos.
It’s not that I hadn’t written.  I wrote’d.
Bike Mag chose not to publish (any of) it.

Aside from the obvious explosions and expletives there were a number of underlying parallels clearly hidden in that 1984 class act.
Terminator I mean, not Bike.

Arnold is the Terminator.  A really good really bad guy in black.
Linda is Sarah.  A whinny self righteous world saving bitch.

I am the Terminator.
Dicky, Sarah.

The Breck Epic, our current tense recent past post apocalyptic world.
Directive, destroy Dicky.
Thusly preventing any future time Dick-spawn love-child of  history altering bullshit…

Or whatever.

As I lay awkwardly in my futuristic black leather couch I thought of the Breck stages in terms of the Terminator.

Handsome naked Arnold.
Determined Arnold with a jacket.
Violent Arnold missing parts of his fabricated flesh.
Explo-melted Arnold in all his robotic killing glory.
Half robot Arnold with red eyes and crushing hands of fury.
Destroyed Arnold with single surviving arm (somebody say sequel…)

I set forth to compile these images and wry footnotes of comparison.

Then I stopped.

I fucking HATE the new goober image search interface.

Instead, I channeled my outer artist.

What follows is a compilation by condition.
Each image a virtual reflection of post-stage me.

Fuck Yeah.  Then some.

August 27, 2010
I got VD.



Sorry Mike.
I’ll be back.