stuff i got

January 9, 2012 • 2 notes

I wrote a screenplay where Vin Diesel plays a retarded soldier and I sent it to him.

Dear Vin,

My name is Evan Sinclair and I am a writer. I don’t call myself an “aspiring” writer any more because one of my scripts, “Horny Dudes,” was bought this year and I’m told it will be turned into a major motion picture late 2012. I’m also told that the guy who played Stiffler’s little brother in “American Pie 3” will play the lead character, Brody, a sexually frustrated high school freshman with a BIG* secret. (*he has HUMONGOUS balls!) Because of my recent success, I feel VERY comfortable approaching you in this manner. Although “Horney Dudes” is a comedy, I’ve also got a lot of experience in writing action/adventure movies, which brings me to my point. I’ve written another script called, “Special Ops: The Buddy Reynolds Saga,” and I believe you are the only man who can take on the lead role. “Special Ops” is a completely unique action/adventure movie in that it is the FIRST and ONLY action/adventure movie where it’s lead character, Buddy Reynolds, is mentally disabled. But what he lacks in basic social skills and comprehension, he more than makes up in muscles. Vin, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes right now, thinking, “Evan, how could I, VIN DIESEL, play someone with learning disabilities!? I mean look at me, what about my child-like, bald and doughy face on top of this unusually strong frame could possibly play as retarded?” To that, I would reply, “First off Vin, no one says retarded anymore, it’s offensive and I insist you apologize to your fans immediately. Second, playing a mentally disabled person is a GREAT career move. Look at Tom Hanks, Sean Penn or Matt Damon. And lastly, let the work speak for itself.” You’ll probably lean back in your rattan chair after I say that and give me your “I’m listening” face you made a couple times in “Fast 5.” So now that “you’re listening,” here is the last scene of “Special Ops: The Buddy Reynolds Saga.”

EXT. SPANISH FORTRESS - DAY

Buddy Reynolds holds onto Bridgette, who is still badly burnt and bruised from being held as a sex slave by the evil drug lord Zane. Around them lay hundreds of the slain guerrilla soldiers slaughtered by Buddy and his surprising strength. Bridgette weeps softly into Buddy’s tremendous pectorals, as he pets her hair like a kitty or bunny. Zane trembles on the floor, clutching the gunshot wound in his stomach as blood GUSHES and OOZES out.

BUDDY

Pretty lady OK?

BRIDGETTE

Thank you Buddy, I’m better now. I’m ready to go home.

ZANE

Buddy Reynolds! You bastard! You’ll pay for this!

BUDDY

I’m sleepy, can I have a nap?

BRIDGETTE

I don’t think this is the best ti…

Before Bridgette can finish her sentence, Buddy collapses to the floor and is fast asleep, like a bag of sleepy potatoes.

Zane laughs hysterically and rolls onto his knees, he draws a knife from his leather jacket and begins crawling toward Bridgette.

ZANE

Ha! It worked! I put cyanide capsules in his cup of apple sauce! Now, how about another quick one, for old time sakes? Ha! Ha! Ha!

Zane crawls faster and faster at Bridgette, she shrieks!

BRIDGETTE

Buddy! Please help!

Zane grabs Bridgette’s ankle, but before he can do anything else, he is pulled back by HIS ankle! Buddy, standing tall, has Zane by the foot and hoists him into the air, holding him upside down like a freshly caught fish.

BUDDY

I played a joke! I wasn’t sleepy, NOT ONE BIT!

Buddy spins Zane over his head like a lasso and throws him into a tree. Zane lands on the ground, his knife now dug deep into his throat. Zane rolls onto his back and blood GURGLES out of his mouth.

ZANE

But…but…How? You…ate..cyanide…pill!

Buddy holds up two apple sauce containers, one is empty and one is full. Bridgette hugs his massive arm.

Zane can’t believe what he sees, he is shocked.

BUDDY

What do you think I am….

Buddy holds up a grenade and pulls the pin. He tosses it into Zane’s lap.

BUDDY (CONT’D)

…retarded?

Zane EXPLODES, guts and blood rain down from the sky. Buddy begins laughing and playing around in the blood, sticking his tongue out.

BUDDY (CONT’D)

It’s raining! Yummy!

Bridgette stops Buddy immediately and pulls him in for a kiss. The two passionately embrace while the hot Guatemalan sun sets behind them.

BUDDY (CONT’D)

He was a BAD, BAD man.

END.

Vin, I can’t thank you enough for taking the time out of your busy schedule to read this. Please write me back with ANY notes you may have, as it is my goal to make “Special Ops: The Buddy Reynolds Saga” as good as it could possibly be.

Namaste,

Evan Sinclair.

April 3, 2011 • 2 notes

i wrote one chapter of a book called, “Between Me and a Hard Place, The unauthorized Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson Autobiography

CHAPTER 4

Now that you know that I was born in Nairobi, Africa and that I was raised by the virgin daughter of our tribe’s Shaman and a wild Lion, I feel that this is the best time to explain to you how I came up with my catch phrase, “Can You Smell-l-l-l-l-l what The Rock Is Cookin’?”

It was an insurmountably hot summer day in the year of 1980, and I was up to my ankles in swamp mush on a reconnaissance mission in the Jungles of Thailand. I led a four man group of mercenaries on a mission to assassinate the Iraqi Billionaire, Ahmed Hussein Taleed. We were following a lead that he’d been in Thailand to explore his sexual palate for the young, Thai lady-boys of a small village several miles away from Bangkok. The sick bastard. The thought of him and those lady-boys together made me want to slip my elbow guard off and slam the peoples’ elbow into his chin/neck area, after leaping off a ladder and body slamming him.

Our group was made up of Explosive’s Expert Tony “LeadFoot” Toggleson, Judo Black Belt Randy “The Bear” Berkowski, our Sniper Ace, Sniper “Michael” Thompson and myself, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Between the men and me was a combined 50 years of brutal combat experience. Of course, I was only 8 at the time, so my 8 years of experience made up a smaller amount of the previously mentioned 50 years experience. But still, in those 8 years, as explained in Chapter 2, I had already killed an elephant, graduated from the Naval Academy and lost my virginity. Twice.

Bear looked up at me from his map, “We’re about two clicks away from target.” “Clicks” is Bad-Ass for “just a little bit longer.” And we were two of those away.

“Set up a perimeter! Bear, head north of target, check out the scene with your binoculars. LeadFoot, get those hand cannons ready, and Michael, set up your sniper rifle.” I commanded.

“Where you gonna be, captain?” asked Michael.

“I’ll blast in, head first, because real men think about shit after they’ve done it. Plus I’ll look fuckin’ awesome doing it.” I said. He agreed with a wink.

Our team spread out and followed orders perfectly, like a group of trained dolphins. Super ripped dolphins that can walk on land, and can’t stay underwater for very long. Except for me, considering that by age four I swam to the bottom of the Marianas Trench to do daily water cardio for two years straight. With everyone in position, we listened closely for Bear’s scan of the situation.

“Alright boy’s, just like we suspected. This place is crawling with guards. He’s even got a couple inside with him.” said Bear.

“In numbers, Bear! How many guards exactly?” I gruntled (mix of grumbled and grunted.)

“Ok, we got 6 outside, and 4 inside. Each have an Afghan AK and two 9mm glocks. Taleed appears to be unarmed, aside from the massive erection tenting up his dress thing he’s wearing.”

“It’s called an Abaya, you dumb cracka.” said Michael.

“Looks like a dress to me.” said LeadFoot.

Just then, the crack of a single gunshot pierced the silence that shrouded the jungle. The Guards looked out and started firing in our direction. Our plan had been jeopardized, but by who? There was no time to think about it, which was fine by me, because my plan involved very little thinking, and a lot of ass shredding.

I moved in like a violent bi-racial tidal wave, bullets flinging by my head, bouncing off the coarse stubble on my chin. I chose my shots wisely and picked off each guard with one shot each. I do this because I’m an excellent shot, and It hurts to pull the trigger too much due to the Carpal Tunnel I had from fingering so many chicks. Bear had started hurling grenades left and right, like some god of loud explosions and shrapnel. He took two to the chest but never went down. Michael was nowhere to be seen, which is what made him such a great sniper, and an even better repeat home invasion offender. LeadFoot had rigged a turtle he found with C4 and chucked the shielded reptile like a frisbee straight into the lady-boy hut. I remember saluting the turtle right before it landed, which all happened in slow motion. If you don’t believe me, LeadFoot took a picture of it on his BlackBerry and would be glad to text it to you for a small fee. BOOM! The hut was demolished. Bits of blood soaked Iraqi pervert dress fell from the sky like crimson snow flakes. Luckily I had grown accustomed to eating blood, being Nairobian and all, and let them land on my tongue. It tasted sweet. Sweet and Bloody. (Alternate title of book)

The boys celebrated, like every time we completed a mission, with their signature trademarks.

“Signed, sealed, delivered!” said Bear.

“Shoot ‘em up! Light ‘em up! Blow ‘em away!” shouted LeadFoot.

“Whoo-Haw, I love this job!” exclaimed Michael.

And then, silence, as usual. Their eyes toward me, waiting, wanting, hopeful for my shout. But what was I supposed to say? Sure, I’d tasted a man’s blood before and knew what it was like to take a life with my bare feet, but I was only 8 years old. Writing wouldn’t become one of my strong points until I realized it wasn’t faggy anymore and received a Pulitzer Prize for my work in Fiction. But that wasn’t to happen for another 4 years!

But something happened inside of me that day, something indescribable. Like the feeling you get in your junk when you go too high on a swing or when your leg wakes up after you’ve been sitting on it for too long and it gets all stingy and hurty. It was the feeling of growth. The feeling of maturity. I opened my mouth, tilted my head to the sky, pulled the microphone from my cargo shorts’ pocket to my mouth and shouted…

“Can you SMELL-L-L-L-L-L-L-L WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKIN’?!”

And the rest is history.

Literally.

February 11, 2011 • 2 notes

VIDEO I DIRECTED BY THE BAND CHARLES MANSION

February 4, 2011

NEW JERK ROOMMATES. i got a web series. we got a new episode. ENJOY

November 27, 2010 • jprescott

[Flash 10 is required to watch video]

jprescott:

Julia Vickerman and Evan Sinclair do the “Bernie” and are rudely interrupted.

October 30, 2010

The phrase, “EVAN I SAW THIS AND THOUGHT, EVAN NEEDS THIS, SO I BOUGHT IT FOR YOU,” is still one of my favorite things to hear. That, and the sound of Vietnamese people shouting. It’s also a pretty bittersweet sensation I experience, since “THIS” can either compliment me or degrade me. An example? Recently my friend Leah told me she was thinking of me, WAIT FOR IT, because she overheard an old man say something slightly inappropriate about 9/11.

CRYING SLAVE BABY VELVET PAINTING. Still with me? I know sometimes I like to get wordy and entertain the idea that some of you are reading this for it’s quality and not just for the pictures. Who knows, maybe you’ll walk away from your computer after reading one of these and say, “hmm I guess I WON’T kill myself today.”

What I’m trying to say is that I appreciate your gifts, I really do. I know you’re “thinking” of me, and you’re spending money that you worked hard for in doing so. However, I’m not entirely sure that you made a sound investment in purchasing a CRYING SLAVE BABY VELVET PAINTING for me. A couple reasons why?

Where the fuck am I going to put this thing? One wall is completely out of the question, because it’s opposite the windows and I don’t want my neighbors seeing it. Not because I’m worried they’ll condemn me for being a racist, but because most likely they’ll try befriend me for being a racist. Long live Huntington Beach, CA!

Did I mention my roommate said she wouldn’t live with me if I put it up on our walls?

I can’t put it in my room because the chances of this thing bleeding into my dreams are far too great. Last night I had a dream that bobcats were chasing me while I was on a hike in the desert; and that was because earlier in the day my neighbors cat bit my hand. Could you imagine what kind of dreams I’d endure having this thing a foot away from my face every night? Oh you can’t? Here’s a hypothetical paragraph from the perspective of me as the crying slave baby in a dream I’d probably have…

da big boss man, massa jeffy, clubbed my head bloody. said its cus i made eyes at his daughta’. she sho am a purty girl, but id know betta than to eva set foot in da boss mans home. yessir. oh lookasee! a buncha men dressed like ghosts!

Don’t worry guys, little Evan Washington Jones grows up to be a senator in that dream. But not before he takes a bite out of that white girls ass…

ANYWAYS, If I can’t put the painting up at all, I’m pretty much forced to just hide it. Sounds like a safe bet? Wrong. Suppose under unknown circumstances I invite an African exchange student over to my house, lets call him Jair. Jair comes over, and I tell him to enjoy my place while I go to my room and change my socks. It’s just something I do. So while Jair is freely exploring my house, he finds a framed picture behind my couch. Curiosity leads him to lift it up, and Jair discovers the little secret. PAUSE. You may think you can cover this up by saying, “I didn’t know that was there,” but that excuse only works with firearms when dealing with the cops searching your car. The picture being hidden is actually worse than it being up on the wall; because it’s hidden it is now something that I am ashamed of, but still own. You know it’s horrible, but you like it so much that you just HAVE to keep it. There’s a reason part of the Klan outfit is a mask hiding your face. Putting it up on the wall, having Jair come in, and explaining that it’s post modern art which changes it’s emotion completely might be the safest bet. But once again, roommate hates it.

The CRYING SLAVE BABY VELVET PAINTING is pretty much the catch-22 of tacky art. It is tight rope walking the line that divides that which is satire and just flat out racism. It’s like making a black face Jack-o-lantern for Halloween. So on that note…

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

August 26, 2010 • 4 notes

And now it’s time to brag a little…

Some of the things I have are really completely worthless, aside from their comic face value. And I don’t mean worthless like it’s not worth any money, I mean worthless like the WNBA. But every once in a while, I acquire a treasure so great, that just holding on to it makes me pee a little bit.

While I was working at Yo Gabba Gabba season 3, I participated from time to time in the dress up days; everyday of production there was a dress up theme. During lunch, we would hold a contest between Boys and Girls and were voted down to a few finalists, and then based on the level of applause by our peers, a winner was selected. Often times, when the theme called for it, there would be some kind of showdown, too. FOR EXAMPLE; on punk day, a house band comprised of Warren from the Vandals and Ricky and Ian from The Aquabats, would play an obligatory punk song, and the finalists had to make a song up on the spot and sing it for the crowd. Fun Stuff.

Usually the prizes ranged from cool Kid Robot stuff, Gabba merchandise, a VHS copy of Great Encounters of the Third kind from the private collection of Christian Jacobs (co-creator and director) or a large tub of canned white chicken meat we found in the kitchen one time. So putting our dignity on the line for one day while dressing like a sexy homeless person COULD in fact pay off with a really practical gift.

SIDE NOTE: On “dress like your favorite co-worker day” two people dressed like me. And one of them was a guy! HOW SILLY!

I never really took a lot of the dress up days very serious, wearing a costume meant being super sweaty all day, and my job (Van PA) usually sent me all over the Greater Los Angeles area. So being dressed like a native american or a Las Vegas call girl while picking up camera expendables in Glendale didn’t really top my list of “Things that make my job SUPER fun!” Often times I wouldn’t even be back in time for lunch to partake in the activity.

Anyways, Used Car Salesman day rolled around and something in me came alive. I knew my schedule was sparse and I also knew that our special fun time guest, who would be joining us for lunch, was MARK MOTHERSBAUGH. First of all, my first concert when I was 11 was Devo and and second, Mark Mothersbaugh is to things I like as magnets are to Juggalos. Fucking Magical all up in this bitch.

I put on the sleeziest outfit I could find, slicked my hair like a comb over, drew on a mole, wore a gold necklace and VOILA! Oleg the Russian Car Salesman was born. I walked around all day screaming, “Opah!” and telling people about “cousin Boris and his hi-tek radio systems. I give deal!”

So lunch started, and I was selected as one of the male finalists. But would I win? Each of the finalists were given the opportunity to sell themselves to the crew as to why they should win. So each chester the molester, pervin mervin, meeley eddie and fast talkin Joe took their chance, each having success in their own way. I remember Avi our head electric killing it, and Joel Fox, master of all things cool, doing a great Cal Worthington impression. Then it came to me.

Friends, when you are faced with pleasing a large group of people who are anticipating the laugh, lean on the side of caution and go for the easy joke. Does it always work? No, but most of the time It does. Because when pretending to be a Russian Used Car Salesman named Oleg, making fun of an entire nation for treating their women like mules apparently works a room over pretty well.

“IF YOU VOTE FOR ME, YOU CAN ALL MARRY MY DAUGHTER!”

Big Laughs, Big applause.

Did I mention that Steve Agee from The Sarah Silverman Show was there too? What a nice guy.

So Christian decided to let Mark Mothersbaugh and Steve Agee come to a decision as to WHO the winner was, instead of the traditional applause-off. During their deliberation, Mark stood up and said, “The Russian!”

RUSSIA WON! THE WAR IS OVER! RUSSIA WON!

I honestly think my boner got a boner, I was so happy.

What was my prize? A silver painted football from season 1 and a sharpie. The entire day, I walked around set with the pen having everyone from the crew sign the football. These people were my friends, but each and every one of them were incredible artists and extremely talented in one way or another, so having their signature was an absolute honor. However, My favorite signature on the ball, which hopefully you can see, is Mark Mothersbaugh’s energy dome with the inscription, “GO RUSSIA!”

THE MORAL OF THIS STORY. Tell every child you know to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, because the only thing I want to do right now is be back on set with all of my wonderful Gabba friends, for a very long time.

August 17, 2010 • 2 notes

I am ALL for bad ideas. Bad movies, bad themed restaurant gimmicks, bad science fiction movies; these, and more unmentioned examples, are the wheels that run my car of interests, off a cliff of excitement, into my trench of likes. And that is the lone idea that has kept this Vanilla Ice commemorative Doll on my shelf and out of my trash can for so many years.

I received this V.I. doll, not to be confused with the V.I.(venereal disease) doll, “Little Whorephan Fannie,” as a gift, and what a gift it was. If you get close enough to it, as I have taken a closer picture to showcase, he even has little lines in his hair. This little son-of-a-whitey has been given every little touch of detail to recreate the magic that is Mr. Ice’s unique style. The only real difference between the Doll and the actual Vanilla Ice is that the Doll hasn’t performed at the Gathering of the Juggalo’s Festival. Yet….

So why do I like this doll so much? Simple; IT WAS A VERY BAD IDEA TO MAKE AND DISTRIBUTE.

Who would sign off on this? I couldn’t think of a worse time to market musicians to children than the late 80’s. Everyone was coked out, materialistic and boring. Whats next, a Rick James action figure with attachable cocaine pinky nail and bitch strangling kung-fu grip? I mean, clearly they were trying to squeeze all the juice they could get out of this talentless hick before he dried up and no one cared about him, but a fucking Vanilla Ice doll? Do you know who buy’s dolls? LITTLE GIRLS and HIGH FUNCTIONING AUTISTIC PEOPLE. And coincidentally, they’re both just going to drool on it.

It seems like such a terrible idea, as a parent, to buy the Vanilla Ice doll for your child. Sometimes being a popular pop star doesn’t inherrantly make you a good role model. Look at Lindsey Lohan and ALF; one was a lazy, mutant like creature that mooched off its family and ate cats, and the other was a popular Puppet from an 80’s sitcom. The point is, no matter how much your child begged and pleaded for the doll, you should have put your foot down and said, “NO, your life will be so much better without Vanilla Ice in it.”

If you’re having a hard time relating with the fictional parent from the late 80’s I’ve created, imagine over hearing this conversation the next time you’re in TOYS R US…

“MOM! I NEED THE KID ROCK DOLL! IT COMES WITH A SILVERY COWBOY HAT AND PRESCRIPTION PILLS! MOM I WANT TO BE AN AMERICAN BAD ASS!!!!”

Sure, if they put the kibosh on the production of the Doll, i’d never have one, and i’d never had made this entry, and maybe you’d never of read it and actually got some work done JULIA VICKERMAN AND SAYAKE PAGE.

But would I trade owning the Vanilla Ice doll for a world that never had one? Maybe people would have never had it buried deep in their subconscious that the only things that mattered in this world were nice cars, ho’s and dance breaks. Maybe people would have given up on mainstream rap and its negative side effect on society and focused on more important matters.

Probably not though. People always gravitate to banal, mediocre, flashy things. Look at Dancing with the Stars or Lady Gaga. But don’t look at Lady Gaga too long, your eyes might get Hepatitis C.

But on the bright side, I’ll never have a shortage of one of my favorite things; terrible, horrible, useless, Bad Ideas.

August 13, 2010

“Sometimes the shit you have is kind of dumb when you buy it, and you’re like, ‘that was a fucking waste.’ But sometimes that same shit can turn out really cool when you do shit to it.” - Eleanor Roosevelt, 1945

Eleanor was right, sometimes the shit you have is kind of dumb at first, but when you do cool shit to it, it becomes fucking cool. I wish Eleanor survived being eaten by sharks long enough to see some of the things that I’ve made cool. Such as these notebooks!

I started carrying a little notebook in my pocket several years ago. Mostly to document funny things around me that I surely would’ve forgotten. But then it turned into a sketch pad for stand up bits, sketch comedy scenes, teen vampire drama treatments and the occasional, from memory, dick sketch.These are the notebooks that I have filled up or are still filling up.

This seems like a flawless system to help keep track of ideas in my head; I get an idea, I go to my pocket, write it down, put it back in my pocket, REPEAT. However, sometimes I struggled with committing to any idea strongly enough to actually go through all of the motions. So the ideas that floated away into the Chernobyl toxic sludge moat of my idea bank would sink and remain there, while the ideas I, at the time, felt were SOLID GOLD would get etched down.

It would appear, however, that the cracks in the floorboard of my brain were larger than I expected. Some of the notes that made their way into the notepads are completely cryptic/don’t make any sense at all. I’ll sometimes pen through and try to retrograde extrapolate some of these one liners, but I still have NO clue what I was thinking when I wrote them. Here are a few of my favorites…

“vegan farts = opposite of puppy kisses.”

“Machine turns fish into peanut butter…”

“Louis Armstrong but NOT Louis Armstrong.”

“Fire works ==> 9/11”

“Convicted Sex Psychiatrist.”

“Camels are stupid.”

“Ways to make Horse Racing more Interesting to watch; Have one of the Horses be Sarah Jessica Parker, and if you can pick her out from the other Horses, you get a signed copy of Sex and the City 2 AND you get to brush her mane.”

“Peach runs for President, announced Cantelope as running mate.”

These notebooks may not hold a light up to my other things as far as their general face value are concerned, but they are as much a personal item of mine as my canned Possum Meat. OOOO SPOILER ALERT!

August 10, 2010 • 3 notes

I hope that while on my death bed, I’d have imparted enough decent advice on the people around me to enhance their lives just a little bit. Maybe some more than others. The point is, I try to say things for a reason, for a cause. There’s no sense in wasting perfectly good oxygen on some meaningless phrase like, “lets keep it!” or “git-r-done.”

It is with this preface that I suggest, to you, and to everyone, that you take these words with as much importance as possible; “IF YOU HAVE TALENTED FRIENDS, USE THEM WHILE THEIR STUFF IS STILL FREE.”

I have a little friend named Erin Pearce, and her talents far exceed the amount of space her body takes up on this planet. She does the voice of one of the characters in the television show Yo Gabba Gabba, keeps me entertained with her facebook/tumblr updates and most importantly, is a real sharp artist. How sharp? If her skills were a cheese or a sword, they’d be wisconsin watoosi sharp cheddar and the sword from the movie Blade.

Anyways, one day at Gabba land, I saw one of Erin’s doodles and discovered that she draws most of her things for fun, as an innocent hobby. “How exciting,” I thought out loud. “I wonder if I could commission her to draw something for me.” That time I thought that in silence, because one of the girls in the bathroom stall next to me heard me think out loud the first time. They truly are the more sensitive sex.

I let the wheels in my head turn as much as they are allowed to, and came up with an idea.

Not even a full day later, I am presented with a hand drawn manifestation of my request; Me, eating a deer, in the wild. She even put me in a fucking tank top!

Needless to say, I was extremely pleased. Just look how awesome this is! This was the best gift I’d received since my mother gave me the gift of Life. Life Cereal. Its my favorite.

What I’m getting at here is that chances are, you have a friend who cooks, plays an instrument, makes japanese sex dolls or heck, even draws things real well. Maybe one of these friends will become ultra famous by means of their incredible talents, and they forget about you because they’re too busy going to Kaballah meetings with Aston Cuntcher. Oops, I spelled that wrong. Ashton Cuntcher. There we go.

Why not completely exploit your friends talents by asking for a hand made dinner, a song about you, a doll that has the same pubic hair color as you or heck, a drawing of you eating a deer like a wild animal?

I hope you don’t think I’m telling you to do this so that you could in turn sell this possession for money in the future, because that is not the case. My hope is that you appreciate your friends while they are still starving artists, because that’s when they need it most. Sometimes people who create things will gladly take a heart felt compliment over a pay check for their work. Personally, nothing motivates me more than having supportive friends who are stoked on the things that I do.

So Git-r-done, and take advantage of your friends talents while they’re still just for fuck’s sake!