Move over finely-aged cheeses and milfs-in-my-area, because today I achieved peak maturity. That’s right: I put some REAL hair on my chest. With the stoic fortitude of Atlas lifting the world on his shoulders, I actually framed one of my posters. 

Reactions this action elicited from members of my household ranged from simply flabbergasted to inconsolably confounded.

“It’s like watching my son go through puberty in one night – from little league straight to whacking home-runs on more steroids than contained in an asthmatic inhaler,” stuttered my hornswoggled housemate, Dylan Hamuy. “I mean you should have seen the state of the room before this; it was a tasteful, subdued mix of stolen traffic signs and FedEx-printed low-res jpegs pasted to the walls, with some under-exposed polaroids peppered in for flavor. But now? We’re looking at the big leagues. That’s right, frames have hit the room!”

Local artist (and full-time housemate) Ana Light was unrepentant and unrestricted in her critique of the art. 

“Out of everything to frame, it sure is an… evocative choice,” Light remarked. “I’ll be honest, I can tell that it is a poster, but I am having the hardest time telling what it’s a poster of. Let me tell you what my trained eye sees: looks like an ostrich with human legs? Nothing’s really the right hue – it looks like it was designed to be some weird psychedelic test for the colorblind? I definitely know that whoever made it was ‘feeling groovy.’ Not to mention the melty ‘I had one quaalude too many’ lettering. Was it a show poster? Taken out of a child’s paint-by-color workbook? Maybe it was one of those ‘test these gel pens’ scraps of paper from Office Depot?”

Others in the household expressed concern about the precedent for household decor set by this framing frenzy. 

“He’s power mad,” whispered Rae Blackbird. “He got a cheap frame at Urban Ore once and now our house looks like the shittiest gallery in SF. He’s framing everything: newspaper clippings, doodles from his notes, atrocious sun-faded LP’s. It’s frankly out of control, and if he makes a power-grab to hallway wall space I’m going to go ballistic.”

At press time, I’m framing some thrifted underwear in a chipped, third-hand desk frame.

 

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