a time to be so small.

exactly.

this is why although i certainly respect the established and well known artistic geniuses, i have nothing but contempt for the sycophants who acknowledge their splendor exclusively, much to the chagrin of the artist on the come-up. the brightest diamonds often shine on well within the hard, dark shroud of anthracite.

or something like that.

the gentleman pictured above is Brit micro-sculptor Willard Wigan. and put simply, he is a master. albeit a mostly unknown one.

"Perched on a pin head is a $300,000 sculpture. Under the microscope, an eye can see an elephant, carved from a single grain of sand."

any asshole can fashion David or a Pieta out of a half ton slab of marble. but it takes a true Wizzzard to carve a statue out of a grain of sand.

as a child in the state school system of merry 'ol England, Wigan suffered from learning disabilities that made school even more miserable than it is anyway.

"The teachers at school made me feel small, so they made me feel like nothing... I'm trying to prove to the world that nothing doesn't exist."

bring on the miniscule miracles.

Wigan paints with a hair plucked from a house fly's back and admits that the actual work of making the sculptures is a real bitch.

while working on Alice, as in Wonderland, she ended up going down the wrong rabbit hole.

"I was carrying her towards the needle, and then I looked again through the microscope and she'd gone. Disappeared. I think I inhaled her."

the point during the report on Nightline when i really began to fucking trip face was when he said that as a child he built houses for ants but is now capable, thanks to the help of his microscope, of crafting sculptures on the microscopic level. think red blood cells.

a bold claim. i just chalked it all up to the artisan's delusion. until they actually showed the shit! then you're left with no choice but to believe.

balancing Charlie Chaplin on an eyelash was pretty dopesick, but once you start fuckin around on that erythrocyte tip? unstoppable!

sure his childhood was one of isolation and rejection. but don't feel too bad for the bloke just yet. Wigan sold his collection to the tune of roughly $20 million.
and that's what it's all about, innit?

right.

reminds me of how i applied myself, and why i now ride with TipTronic help.

"Twenty years or so ago, for a bit of fun,
'God' created a prototype man with a
mind straight out of Edward Lear.
Concerned by what he may have produced, however,
he promptly destroyed the mould and threw it away.
The result of his labours was Kasai.
Brilliant, bad, charming,
irascible and totally off the wall.
An original with extraordinary drive and energy,
blessed with a creative genius allied to
a kind of common sense that just isn't, well,
COMMON!"

- anonymous

alternate ending.

there was a time when i was slightly embarrassed to mark pete doherty as one of my heroes. biggest rock star in the uk, yet belly broke? constantly shooting drugs yet as lucid as if he'd been chewing flinstones vitamins? a menace II society, bashing about albion in margaret thatcher-era jaguars, perpetually under arrest? going to rehab like most people go to safeway? this is your hero kasai? jesus.
(scornful looks and scoffing ensue)

exactly.

look at what the last few months have brought for the kid and you'll know who's got the last laugh you squares.

hell, there was a time when even pete-o-philes like myself thought he would be strung out and dead at the crime scene by now, particularly after the whole blood painting scenario. but i guess that's the thing about expectations. just prospecting. like playing the lotto. can't count us out, can't keep us down!

shine on you tiny diamond!

your mane reminds me of the seas of bristol baby.

for the children. wu-tang loves the children.

Betta Late Than Nevah Mate.

i consider myself a devout atheist, an out and out denier of all things supernatural. but this has got me wondering. something i thought to be wholly impossible goes and happens. and i believe that that, my friends, is synonymous with a miracle.

the chemistry of these two legendaires (and the gloriousness of their art) is indelible, and though we can't possibly foresee what's going to come of this reunion, let's just float on our backs and bask in the glow a bit, eh?

kinda like the way pete is basking in that first picture. feeling all safe and warm in carl's loving embrace of forgiveness. truly what the game's been missing.

epilogue.
if you don't know who these two are, hang yourself. or ask me. then hang yourself.

Rock Your Face!

and now ladies and gentleman, time for a bit of violent comedy. here we see uk rock fans taking in the double platinum selling tripe that is Panic! at the Disco on some seemingly ordinary afternoon in the countryside. well taking it in isn't all they're doing. a bit of the hyperviolence to give the music some snap, crackle, and pop. Carling to the face fucker that's how we get down in Birmingham. gotta love the UK's wholesale rejection of tweemo (a similar incident, though less satisfyingly violent, befell Gerard Way and My Chemical Romance).

i heard about this incident not too long ago, yet it never occured to me to search for a video of it. god bless the omnipotence of youtube.

so yeah, like, i was at this Panic! show last summer, and like, some guy, like totally threw a beer bottle at Brendon's head. So uncool! Yeah. like, he fell down and was knocked out and we were, like, all worrying and like, a few people cried. but then we started cheering. just like, cheering Panic! Panic! Panic! at the top of our lungs, and Brendon got up. It was so cool. I hope the police got that asshole.

pussy. couldn't have happened to a better guy. my disgust with this whole scene reached its zenith yesterday or two days ago, when i convinced myself that reading the Rolling Stone cover story on "Panic!" would somehow prove rewarding, if only for a laugh. i got about a few paragraphs deep when i slammed head on at 120mph into a reference to the guitarist not having time for lunch because he spent the afternoon packing his Dior bag. jesus.

so there he is on the ground. you see him? bleeding? poss not def. surrounded by his bandmates and hangers on, maybe some security. stay down. don't bother getting up. fight's over.

many moons ago, yeah yeah yeahs frontwoman karen o was playing an intimate gig in New York when an overhead stage monitor came crashing down unexpectedly. fortunately for the monitor, ms. o broke its fall. after regrouping for a few minutes, she shot up, dusted herself off and got right back to raging out.

and isn't that what it's all about? the rage. something the mainstream these days seems to know little (or nothing) of. so let it be heard, across the land. a decree. death to the cubes, the highlighters, and the neon stripes and checkered throngs of hopeless hipsters, and the boys in girls' jeans. death to the fray, the conglomerate, and the mogul. death to the bastard offspring of the real lovers and fighters. death to the whole pussyfied batallion, the dullards and the phillistines burning up our oxygen. get off our fucking porch. we don't want what you're selling.

vive le cirque.