When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.
1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.
This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)
2: They’ve already gone.
Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.
I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.
And I’m about to share it with you.
Any second now.
There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.
And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.
When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.
Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.
If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.
Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.
It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.
There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:
1. It looks cool.
Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).
I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.
It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.
Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.
To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).
Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.
There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.
2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.
You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.
The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.
This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.
And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.
That little white square of essence.
A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?
This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.
I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.
The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.
Because that’s what words cause us to do.
The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.
Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.
Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).
Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.
‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.
Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.
In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.
I was one of those chaps born in 1989, there are a few of us, and being one of those chaps I was perhaps too young to appreciate Ghostbuster when it came out in 1984.
Years later, when I was essentially an adult, I watched it again and found it to be…not that great.
The humour was a little meagre for my tastes, and the nerd/slacker focus was a tad uninspiring too. However, I found the creativity of the film, in ripping open the subject matter of nerds/slackers meet ghosts/history/NYC/paying the rent was tremendous; and this is the essence of the original Ghostbusters that the remake should have harnessed, rather than a mere brand name.
The film has received nastiness, nastiness inspired by revenge.
People are angry, but why so angry? Crappy films and crappier re-makes have been made and re-made before.
What’s the issue here?
Here’s the issue here.
Hurting Those Who Gave the Original Film the Prestige Sony’s Cashing in On
If you fuck with a cult film, you’re going to hurt people on an individual level if you don’t have the best intentions.
For a cult film to become so, like Ghostbusters, it requires that audience member to put a degree of themselves into their passion for it, in the same way anyone comes to love any project of theirs. So when someone (Sony) takes it and twists it, not for the better, you’re taking and warping a degree of that individual and in many cases it is their childhood or loner-hood.
Films can go from neglected to beloved by the power of the many individuals who come to love it and espouse its qualities and worth; best example being “The Big Lebowski” (my favourite).
The women and men currently in their 30s, those for whom “Ghostbusters” holds nostalgic and personal value, are smarting from not only the poor quality of the film but more so because now Sony has done it to them.
Want to know why they’re pissed off? Google “Ghostbusters” – see what comes up.
The Gender Issue
It wasn’t an issue.
It was an issue for one group only.
The audience didn’t care that it starred women, only the studio did. You can’t take a beloved film and have 1 new addition, otherwise it is simply cashing in on the former’s reputation.
“Ghostbusters…This Time With Women!” didn’t need to be made. The studio’s highlighting that this time it’s got women as stars is not a selling point – it shouldn’t matter if it is men or women starring; gender of the cast should not be a selling point.
Doing this only goes to offend the nostalgia fans, the feminist movement and the audience at large because it’s meagre and a pointless transformation.
Gender should not be a selling point and the studio have insisted to the contrary.
By all means, make a film starring solely women, but don’t try to make that the reason we should go and see it. That’s shoddy marketing and an insult to us all.
The best intentions for a film like this should be that you wish to go by the old mantra: similar but different.
You’ll want to modernise the film in terms of what will gain 21st century audience attention span along with 21C humour, whilst also keeping the essence of the original.
In this case study, Sony did not have the best intentions and sought only to cash in on the brand name’s prestige and inject minimal creative additions: gender (ir)relevance and crappy 21C fad humour.
Awkwardness is not funny, as the abysmal yet sadly typical trailer demonstrates.
Just look at the work of the great comic Sasha Baron Cohen, who’s “Borat” and “Bruno” exemplified tremendously that awkwardness is an eventuality – not an objective – of comedy. If it doesn’t come from a funny premise, it is merely awkward and that’s not worth anyone’s time. Cohen’s characters always came from a humorous premise and this is why the films were funny, whilst their hallmarks of awkwardness were an eventuality – not the objective and not the selling point.
Something to be born in mind here are those involved who are not to blame for Sony’s actions.
A good cast of actors, each with a promising future and dedication to their craft have been hoodwinked into believing this is going to be a quality product and have likely given this project their all, as have all those many names in the final credits of the production.
You can only do what you can do with a shitty script, poor direction and production, especially with an awful overseer in Sony.
They don’t deserve hate.
Given better projects, they’ll likely shine and we should wish them all well.
They will have learnt this bitter lesson.
Sony will probably do this again, as will other studios.
What to Do Now
Well, if you liked the original Ghostbusters, watch it again, laugh and remember, alone or with buddies.
The original film, or rather the “Good Ghostbusters” hasn’t gone anywhere.
It’s still there in all its 1984 glory.
So be sure your kids see that one first, and perhaps see what you can do to get the “Good Ghostbusters” higher in the Google rankings.
Go see the next Melissa McCarthy film, the next Paul Feig picture and even the next Sony release.
The might be good, might be horrendous, might be great. You’ll never know unless you go see it and give it a chance. If it’s rubbish; go home and watch the “Good Ghostbusters” again.
Let it fade into obscurity, just as this film shall, and relax.
Jeez, I don’t like either of them anyway.
Three miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.
In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.
It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.
I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.
It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.
It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?
Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.
They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:
- Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
- Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
- Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.
How did they realise democracy is the way forward?
They read it my democratic countenance.
I look democratic.
And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.
It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.
Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.
Such as: what cloth shall I wear?
I shall be nude.
Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.
However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.
Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.
Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.
And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.
But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?
Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.
For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.
Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.
Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.
Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.
An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.
And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.
Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.
Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.
I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.
You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?
I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.
Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).
A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.
Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.
Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.
I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.
Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.
And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.
Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.
I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.
Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.
“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.
Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?
Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.
Because murder is convincing.
Not as convincing as a statue; of course.
And none more so than a statue of me as myself.
Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Keep in touch with your stone masons.
Tip them regularly.
I’ve heard some criticism as of late.
Following the seemingly destined article from Time magazine by a chap following Ali through his early to late years, an article of magnificent insight and appreciation as only from one who was there if not him, I read a “Dear Editor” letter in response.
Apparently a wanker had a pencil this day.
Forgive a paraphrase or two, (something along the lines of which I’ve said prior) for the response came as thus:
“I don’t like boxing. He wasn’t great. Nah.”
Indeed, this Italian chap named Fausto, spoke of his likelihood to not even read this edition; so strong was his disappointment of what it contained within. Not that he would know; owing to not opening the edition he was so disappointed in.
Little minds might well sift for insight into menial and miniscule subjects, and that’s fine (what could be finer than thinking about nothing much at all – please see metaphysics), but I don’t like a bully with or without a pen and to see a journalist and the dead picked on for the purposes of you wishing to share a bad day are unacceptable.
Get thee to a nunnery and from there turn left to OFF in a FUCK manner.
Why was Muhammad Ali great?
Only in terms of people; yes.
In terms of the science of the sport; indeed – “Nah”.
Nifty and continual; a chap who showed his penchant for dodging like a loony-tune, and leaving a man exhausted from successfully achieved swings and far more numerate misses.
His boxing was very good; and that is an understatement when regarding the mass murder (he could kill me repeatedly if he wished) of him vs I, and then an enormous overstatement should he have ever dared (as surely he would have) to dance with Tyson.
And that’s that; most thatilly.
And it is joyfully important to recall to all minds that his boxing talent and skill were merely as they were; “His boxing was very good”.
Naturally you’re to assume I’m on my way to thriving in verbosity over his spirit and standing; his courage and morality; which I have regard for, but not before compliment boxing as the scene-setter it is.
A world of men willing to receive a knuckily death-threat to the pretty and increasingly ugly face, the whimpering brain and even the shocked visceral innards.
It might not be the art it is often entitled as; but it is an extraordinary frame.
And so on to the man beyond the athlete.
Compare the term “sacrifice” to the term “donation”. The sacrifice of three prime years to a melancholy ether, could well be a synonym for donation to his might, his thought and his future.
Less so a matter of sound fiscal planning; his absence from the boxing scene was a departure from the income scene; his heroism of self did his wallet and entourage no favours.
Still, though I am grateful to this man, who made demonstrate the easeless act of will in order to achieve a more contented heart.
Morality made apparent.
There is a final credit to devote to this man.
I’ve heard a plethora of vocal recordings, capturing Ali and often letting him loose, from squeaky loud mouthing to an old hat wearing a better one than you, I’ve heard what Ali said to himself.
“I am the greatest!”
“I AM the greatest!”
And thus he became so.
Amidst a dislocated brain from the meat mountain of Foreman and the part immovable object/part irresistible force of two-hundred-thousand-year-old genetics from Frazier, and the shuffling existence of the concussion-infused Parkinsons disease; Ali has remained the greatest through no victory other than this; he took the time to realise he was.
“I AM the greatest!”
Ali was because he told himself he was.
And luck – both good and sour.
Ali told himself he was the greatest and so he was.
Self-doubt can lay a person to the unknown foundations of tomorrow, but Ali would only be the foundations of that tomorrow following a regard held highly and a continuation of the mantra.
He told himself: “I AM the greatest!”
And then; see what happened.
For the superb article of Ali by Robert Lipsyte, see the following link: http://time.com/4358073/muhammad-ali-robert-lipsyte-on-the-life-of-the-greatest/
To begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.
There a line from Glen Garry Glen Ross, Al Pacino’s character returns to the booth and says to his mark: “You ever take a shit that makes you feel like you’ve slept for 12 hours?”
Gosh that’s true.
I took a shit earlier and I emerged from the bathroom thinking: “What was I worrying about?!”
There’s sunshine on my foot, a nice big ole’ beam of it; landing on me most comfortably.
It’s giving me all kinds of erections, especially with the breeze coming in.
Fuck my fiancé? What an option!
There will be no fuck-uppity here.
Accomplished in-out with a wondrous use of vocab; what a woman!
Now coffee and juice.
Then some sort of accomplishment to follow it up with. Some ‘afters’.
Might as well be quicksand.
And I’ll appreciate that quicksand.
“Hey! Quicksand! I ‘preciate chu!”
It’s a good struggle; just a couple o’push-ups and downs again.
Then run away and back again.
Teasing the quicksand. It knows I’m only playing.
“Hey! Quicksand! I’m done with you! Aw don’t be like that!”
Now I have to clean the mud off my suede shoes (this is the definition of sacrifice). I knew my suede would have to take it but at least I know where to get some shoe-shine-sun-shine.
10,000 hours to become a master of something.
It can’t take that long to become average at most things. Plus you’ll end up a tad less cross-eyed in terms of devotion to one thing.
Never happened to me but I’m still saying it: now THAT’S conviction.
I tell you, I do, what I’m good at.
I do honey.
I find it, I elope with it, and we spend the night together.
Honey was there for me whilst you guys had all scarpered.
Even now, entirely non-sexually, I’m curled up beneath my sheet, entirely non-sexually, clutching a pot of honey, entirely non-sexually, with sticky fingers…sexually.
Well, not really, I’d say my relationship with honey is more of a mutual respect that romance.
Plus it’s real hard to get the lid off those stubborn prudish pots.
Enough with the fucking honey fucking.
Some things don’t belong on toast; but still it’s happened to me owing to matter of attempted cleanliness.
Think I’ll leave that there.
By the way, whole new man that I am, realised a challenge I’ve not considered before.
Scale a mountain? Fuck you, no (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/17/the-metaphors-are-rusty/)
I’ve always thought the vagina had the basic requirement of a good rock-climbing hold.
Remember that wall of vaginas, by the artist Jamie McCartney?
I recommend turning that sideways and having a sign stating: “Do not climb when wet.”
Consider, with me please, the state of genitals for climbing.
Vaginas are perfect for climbing, though not when aroused.
Penises are perfect for climbing, though only when aroused.
Plus imagine being midway up a mountain when the erection hand-hold feels it’s been grabbed too tightly and emits its self-defence mechanism and ejaculates in your eye.
And then you fall 300 feet onto a plain of more penises, though they’re all floppy too and what’s worse is you don’t even die.
You’re just laying crippled in a meadow of floppy dicks, reminiscing about vaginas you climbed once.
Thoughts…thoughts like this are why I am a whole new man today.
Plus I just took a tremendous dump. Think I lost about a pound.
Chin up people.
If you insist…
I, however, will be knocking the sour bejeezus out of those lemons and over my garden wall because; thanks for the lemons but I’m going to have to destroy them now.
I’ll knock those lemons into the river.
Sour-up some fish.
Put it on a T-Shirt and promote the hell out of it.
“Go Sour Fish!”
Why not put it on a T-shirt?
There are people who criticize things on T-shirts:
“Oh really? Is that cute little T-shirt supposed to sum you up?”
Yes – motherfucker. Why else do you think I’m permitting it to lay upon my canvas?
Sure my torso’s a canvas. It’s the only real billboard I have and I’m going to have to use it to sum myself the fuck up owing largely to the fact I’ve nothing to utter but: “Aarrgghh!”
https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/ shall tell you more; though my spelling has altered somewhat.
Of course I see the chest as a flag.
Let it remain brightly.
So, offered lemons; perhaps you could make lemonade.
I, however, designed a really rather nifty T-shirt and flag.
I think it’ll suit the masses marvellously.
And they really deserve a break.
You need not make just a T-shirt and flag.
One could demonstrate the outer limits of human imagination and ingenuity and go about staunchly and unapologetically creating lemonade.
I’m not ashamed of making lemonade; it’s just that I’m more of a T-shirt and flag kind of guy.
That’s what my friends say about me.
Flags are our history and T-shirts are our expression of extremely personal nationhood.
No man is an island (including the Isle of Man), unless he T-shirt lets you know otherwise.
Should his T-shirt state: “I’m Up and Dressed! What The F**k More Do You Want?!” then fuck that guy and his life choices.
Imagine the scene of the purchase:
1: “Louis! Look at this here shirt! We have to get that for you!”
Louis: (laughing) “Oh come on you guys! I know I like a lie-in but that T-shirts got swearing on it!”
I’m sure you’ll appreciate my “fuck that guy and his life choices” comment.
And although what one wears might not necessarily denote what one is; it is a truth that a guy who looks awesome is a guy who looks awesome and the looking-awesome guy who looks awesome probably has a degree of insight and input into looking so awesome-guyish.
Essential; a funny or expressive phrase upon your T-shirt says something about you.
Hence, therefore and thus; make it something awesome.
Beats making lemonade.