April 18th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
Goofing around with the detail collage for my post on the “Instrucciones” poster inspired me to create a few fun (and totally stupid) products utilizing an iconic graphic from one of the instruction sheets: a spring-loaded, Japanese robot fist flying through the air!
I dunno about you but I’m definitely getting one of the shirts …
http://www.cafepress.com/coreyshead – Enjoy!
March 28th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
February 11th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
October 8th, 2011 by Corey A. Edwards
That’s right, get your shoes and socks on, people: it’s time once again for me to approach on bended knee (you try that – it’ll ruin your pants, I tell you … ) and beg, with great, big, brown puppy-dog eyes, for you to consider, with an appreciation approaching worshipfulness, my 6th and final, kinda-sorta annual, calendar offering.
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October 4th, 2011 by Corey A. Edwards
I’ve heard ’em all, sir. Every one.
The cheating wife, the stubborn son,
the stupid boss; the kitchen sink.
You take a seat, order a drink
and, soon enough, you lend my ear
to troubles soaked in scotch and beer
One mug, two mug, three mugs tossed
straight down the hatch: hell with the boss!
You’ll learn that boy. You’ll kick his ass;
replace your wife with some young lass.
You pound the bar and slap my arm.
Bleary and weak, you’d bet the farm
your new friend (me) can cure all ills.
In sooth reverse: you pay my bills.
August 8th, 2011 by Corey A. Edwards
They said he was from Japan and that accounted for his funny accent but it was clear to me he weren’t no Japaner. They said his metal body was the result of wounds he’d received in a war or some such but I never believed that, not for one minute. Who ever heard of such a thing; a metal body?
He wasn’t a this earth, I tell you, not even this time, maybe. Sell my mother if it aint true.
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July 21st, 2011 by Corey A. Edwards
July 15th, 2011 by Corey A. Edwards
Weird noises come out of his place at all hours and the windows are almost always dark. Some nights you can see little, flickering lights moving around in there like he’s maneuvering about the place with tea lights in his hands and plenty of shochu in his veins.
Oh, yeah he drinks alright. Sometimes alone, sometimes with what sounds like a million angry ghosts but always the next morning: the clatter of glass and aluminum out the back door, down the steps, and into the recycle container, often to overflowing.
He bangs that porch door a lot and, if you look over, he sometimes waves his little, plastic swords menacingly in your direction.
We turn our heads when this happens, politely sucking on our cigarettes, pretending we aren’t amused, interested, or even aware of his bizarre, red costume with the bumpy blue eyes.
You don’t fuck around with a guy like that. Not in San Francisco. Not when he’s … the neighbor.
