Omar Mung for Monday, December 7, 2009.
Title: My Costume is Called “You’re a Pedophile.”
Date: Halloween 2010
Media: Cardboard, t-shirt, marker, double-sided tape, string, EL wire
TheÂ Orange Trumpet of Death was a little number I picked up way back in 1997. It was plastic, it was incredibly loud and it cost $2 at the Halloween store… it was irritation incarnate – the vuvuzela. Like the grain of sand no oyster can gloss in soothing pearl, like the truck-bomb blastÂ MacGyver-ed from everyday ingredients, such is the sound of this instrument, the output of this tool. I kept theÂ Orange Trumpet of Death close, knowing I had the dormitory equivalent of an atomic weapon, should I need it. And at times it was inconvenient to keep a giant orange horn around, but there is no going back. Like Alfred Nobel and his TNT, there is no way to put back this discovery.
This vuvuzela-packing-world is not the perfect world you might design, but it’s still your world. Embrace it. (And keep some earplugs handy.)
Sometimes, Sunday morning is for: Rapping.
[The] cinema projector beam
swingin’ up the side of the empire state
in a space invader fall
you just kill ‘em all
and cut off their braids
you don’tÂ resuscitate
or dance on their graves
in the gunsmoke haze
under satellite scars and shooting stars
blood and leaves rain down
on a pale afternoon
with a big-ass tat
on the middle of your back that reads:
StayÂ bumpin’ funky diatriabe
speeding through the skyways
off the map, Launchpad McQuack
Shanghaied, eyes, beak, feathers and backpack
yo some take this path, and some take that
cotton pickin’ minute in this tiger pit
isn’t it funny?
Gene’s face, IMAP erased
this bandwagon seems late
Ollie, Ollie Oxen Free, man
i’m kinda weird at this point
feelin’, like, annointed
Icicle Jones, killin’ microphones
[walking through the...]
A new bike ride friend said, ‘Hey come to the party,’ okay. But she had to go by her house first. ‘Restroom stop,’ she said. But now it’s just you and me, Cat. Murky water. Perhaps you have been lonely and she thought I looked like my petting was strong. It is, Cat, but you may never know, hunkered down in your cat-chow.