S.R. Wild: Artist and Graphic Designer

The Drunk and The Hypocrite

While walking down the street this evening I saw an angry drunk guy walk right into a preppy college kid without even trying to avoid him. They both kept walking in opposite directions while exchanging a few words.

Preppy College Kid: “Excuse you.”

Hairy Drunk Guy: “No, excuse you. You’re the hypocrite!”

PCK: “Why am I the hypocrite?”

HDG: “Because you mask your fucking hate!!!”

The preppy college kid laughed, I laughed and the hairy drunk guy most likely had already forgotten what just happened.

No matter how bad I feel, at least I’m not that guy.

Burrito Sunset

In my continuing effort to keep everyone abreast of my compelling existence, here is what transpired this evening. After fiddling about at home all day, I watched the sunset and ate a burrito at Battery Park. Afterwards, I went to the café where I had coffee and a piece of Triple Layered Mocha cake (I don’t usually do cake but today was a special occasion). I read a letter from a friend; her words made me chortle and smile. I have no idea what I’m going to do tonight. It might involve a photo shoot, rusty metal, and/or glue.

His Routines Bite Hard

He usually wakes up early in the morning, not because he has to or likes to. He likes the idea of early mornings, they just don’t work with his preference for late nights. He wakes up early because his stomach feels like it’s being torn wide open and repeatedly stabbed with a dull serrated knife. He has an exceptionally high tolerance for pain but this makes him whimper and moan. (No doctor has figured out why; it’s a rare disease that has no name, perhaps one day it will be named after him.) Once the morning ritual of agony passes he uncurls from the fetal position, wipes his eyes, crawls out of bed, freshens up, puts on his uniform, and walks out the door.

He walks everywhere and wonders why he even owns an automobile. He would sell it if it weren’t for the fact there isn’t a grocery store or video store within walking distance, he likes to take aimless drives, and he loves to travel to urban areas. When he didn’t own a car he used to hitchhike everywhere. He sort of misses all the interesting people he would talk to. However, he doesn’t miss the creepy guys at all. He tends to walk fast, people make fun of him for that. As he walks, he looks for interesting things to photograph or pick up. Spring is a good time to find junk on the ground: melting snow reveals many treasures, dog shit too. He has a respectable collection of rusty bits.

He arrives at work, in one of the coolest old buildings in Burlington.

He fires up his G5 and dives into various projects. The things he works on can been seen in grocery stores, video stores, and many other places. He’ll never say what they are (unless you ask) because he would rather be known for other things and doesn’t like to brag.

Throughout the day, he occasionally glances out the window to his right.

After he is finished with work, he walks home. He’s usually in a rush because he wants to work on his own projects. People rarely see them and they don’t produce money, perhaps someday; right now, he doesn’t care.

He stays up late, tinkering with this and that. Eventually he falls asleep, occasionally in a bed. Hopefully, he wakes up in the morning and the cycle repeats.

He knows many people, alas, he considers few to be friends and vice versa. He is more than OK with that; he has always believed in quality, not quantity. He obviously doesn’t have much of a social life — never has and never will, it’s not in his nature to. When he does go out, he usually goes by himself to an art gallery, movie theatre, concert, café, or bookstore. He rarely goes out with friends, unless someone holds a gun to his head.

He is very troubled theses days, somethings he can’t ignore or move away from. He hopes people will buy his artwork, hire him to design, commission a piece of art, or invest in S.R. Wild Industries.

He doesn’t like writing in the third person, he just finds it entertaining to talk about himself like he isn’t there.

That is Some Hair

[ABOVE] My head last weekend; [RIGHT] 2000 Mugshot; [BOTTOM RIGHT] 1998 Mugshot

I used to cut my own hair when I used to wear it really short — I’m talking buzzers and a military hairdo. And the numerous times I had dreadlocks I didn’t cut it at all. Since I’ve become dandier, I go to someone who is actually skilled at cutting hair. I’m a hardcore DIYer, but I know when I’m in over my head (no pun intended) and it’s time to go to a professional. Plus, being skilled in what I do, I like to support others who are skilled in what they do. I don’t like it when unskilled clients design their own materials, so why should I attempt to cut my own hair.

Without fail, the person cutting my hair always says something along the lines of “Wow, you’ve got some hair!” (Baldness is something I’ll never have to worry about.) Last night, was no different.

I was running around all day yesterday, trying to catch up on a long, overdue to-do list. Getting my hair pruned was on the list because I wanted to look my dandiest for this weekend. I kept getting sidetracked — I spent way too much time digging through junk — so I didn’t get to it until late last night. After trying a few joints, I was able to get squeezed in at the last minute.

The woman who cut my hair said the usual, “Wow, you’ve got some hair!” numerous times, along with, “This is going to be a challenge.” When she was finished (I just went for a trim, but there was huge pile of hair on the floor), I checked it out and I was satisfied. What’s odd is she was too. She told me how much fun and enjoyable it was to cut my hair. She gave me her card and told me to come back.

The Wound Room

When I’m at home, I spend most of my time in three areas of my apartment. All of them are in my workroom/library/studio/study/trashcan. I’ve never figured out what to call it. Although, I’m partial to Wound Room after a visitor said “Peering inside the workroom… is like peeling back the many layers of a long festering open wound…” — no wonder she never visited again.

I find it interesting to look at others’ work areas. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because you can tell a lot about a person. On a hunch that some reader might have a tepid interest in seeing my work areas, I thought I’d post a few pictures. I’m also a bit bored and I’m trying not to think about a few things.

I spend a lot of time looking at books, magazines, and the like here. Whenever I’m stuck on a project and need some motivation, I start looking at things. This is also where I write and occasional pay bills. I used to have some movie theatre seats here, but I needed more room and they’re better off in my living room. That reminds me, I need to help Miss Cherry put together the movie theatre seats I gave her.

The drawing table is where I cut, glue, doodle, paint, and carve for my journals, artwork, postcards, and various other small projects. If it’s a big project, I move to the kitchen floor.

I’m trying not to spend as much time here because I sit in front of one of these machines all day at work. I usually keep it on because it provides the soundtrack. By the way, I designed and built that desk — if you can’t find what you need, make it yourself.

Obviously, I like to be surrounded by a lot of stuff: clippings, photographs, junk from the street, old ephemera, etc. It’s like I’m building a nest — actually, that’s precisely what I’ve done. I could live in this room.

I don’t have much going on these days, so I have a lot of free time. I plan on not spending as much time in here. I need to get out more.

I Got Wood

Tonight, I finally got a piece of wood big enough for my life-size self-portrait. I bought a piece of 4×8 plywood and had them cut it into 2 2×8 pieces. This piece is going to be big, and I’ll have enough for another big one. I’m not a large person and the wood probably weighs more than I do, but I’m going to add some embellishments.

Finding someone to help me was difficult (am I fucking invisible?) Once I found someone to acknowledge my existence, everything went smoothly — until I got to my little car. It barely fit; somehow I managed to wrestle it in and close the trunk. It went from the trunk, over the passenger seat, and pushed against the windshield. When I got in the driver’s seat, the plywood was a few inches away from my head. If I took a sharp turn or got in an accident, I would have been decapitated. The chances of either of those were increased because I couldn’t see to my right so well. I like to live on the edge.

I plan to finish this piece over the weekend. I haven’t decided if I’m going include my boy parts. I probably will because it’ll look weird if I don’t. I’m not shy about such things. I’m just shy when I talk to strangers.

I also went to the office supply store and craft store. Nothing interesting happened. I bought a big letter X and X-acto blades (always need more, I go through 2 a night).

I love going to office supply and hardware stores. I can spend hours looking and thinking of things to make. Whenever I’m bored or feeling low, that’s what I do.

Dirty and Thirty

A lot of people have birthdays today: H.P. Lovecraft, Robert Plant, Connie Chung, Isaac Hayes, and many other people who aren’t famous, such as myself. Around 2 o’clock this afternoon it will be the 30th anniversary of my eviction from the womb.

Many people have asked what I’m going to do today. I suppose I’ll take a shower, drink coffee (lots of it), eat a few times, go to the bathroom numerous times (due to all that coffee), breath, work, walk, and… you know, the usual. Other than that, I don’t know. I never do much on my birthday. Although, now that I think about it, ordering a ton of Indian takeout, watching a movie, and taking a nap sounds really good right now. Especially since there’s one thing I’m not going to do today: sleep. I’ve been up all night, and it’s so late (or early) that sleep would be futile.

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