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!

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!