DJG Design » Writings

Depot is Closed

djg — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 20:41:17 +0000

Pulled horsie over. He wasn’t Russian but had to urinate like one. The car pack’d traffic like a habit. Ice + gas and all credit lost. A Dave Thomas refill on the rocks. I got a new cup. Gulped down all I could with the first while the other did a filler-up-please. I should do chin-ups. But, I don’t. Driving music through road construction. More. Back in. Tent set. Car honked. Books read. Lights out. Coon Crunch. Found the cooler. He was cool. He looked at us and we flashed a camera bulb. Party Pic of the Week. Sneaky. Similar to the worried look of panic and “WTF?” as the elderly try to eat modernly. Big racks of rips and sauceshakes. All too big for the mouth and needs about an acre of napkin cloth. I needed a shower. I was like Shaq in the shower. Well, at least this is what it must be like for giants. I got more than “taco neck.” I helped a small toad go-go-go. What a life, dwelling in the shower stalls. They are closed November through March. So, there’s a plus. You have to take the pluses when you can. Fly lands on toothpaste whilst walking in the carved out woods. A million to one shot. I will now duck into this port o’ potty to transform into Jeff Goldblummers. Cheap diner food hits the spot but never makes me wish to put an “X” on the spot to come back. If it wasn’t for cheap gimmicks, many would be even more mediocre. I want fried okra. Lady gave me my tickets. I took them. She then took my card, swiped it and while waiting on the receipt to print, stared me down, placing two more tickets under my bank card and with a rock on top. The rock was clean and polished. I looked for flakes of rock debris. Nothing. I signed the receipt and told her I already had tickets, the same ones she handed to me the first time. She grunted something that was out of my range and I walked away chuckling. Some health food stores smell as if a fresh body has been fitted for funeral, anointed and washed with washed garbage. Not to mention the man flapping a thrift store smell at stage left and the stage right smelling of pew chew lee. Depot is closed. I’ll look in the windows with doubt.

-djg

Baby Squirrel Rescue

djg — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 20:40:51 +0000

I walked a different way home after work for the first time in over 4 years. I found an open spot to cross 6 lanes of traffic about 50 yards sooner than predicted. I then almost went down the street I had planned to as I crossed the 6 lanes, but changed my mind at the last minute, whipped around a tree and came across an infant squirrel wiggling on the sidewalk on the hottest day of the year. I knew what I should do, but didn’t know if I should. In the wild, it would be easier to let him be. In the city, on a very hot day and facing the obstacles of human life, he might not last too long. While thinking about this tiny beating heart, I found a stick in which he partially grabbed hold of and I moved him to the grass at the edge of the sidewalk. At least he would be shielded a bit more from the sun and from the possibility of a person or bicycle running him over and/or becoming prey or play for another animal…

I started to walk home quickly, phoned my wife about the discovery and possible decision(s) conflicting me. While on the phone walking towards home, my body instantly turned around and backtracked to check on the baby squirrel. I paused for a while to look after him near the edge of the sidewalk, pondering what to do as I got off the phone. I then told the baby squirrel to “Hold on.” and took off in a very fast pace the two blocks to get home, deciding along the way that I needed to help as my heart told me I had walked a different way for a reason. On the walk home I almost asked a mailman what he would do in such a situation, as he walks a great deal and may have encountered such a thing in his many hours of service. But, I didn’t. I finally got home, grabbed a small box and glove, hopped in the car and drove back to the little guy. Thankfully, he was still wiggling there. I was a bit nervous and carefully placed the little half naked, blind baby in the box. I surveyed up in the tree I found him under, but couldn’t see any signs of a nest or squirrel activity. I hopped in the car. I turned the music off in the car so as not to disturb him. At home I put him on the kitchen counter and got out the phone book. I was worried sick, wondering if I’d done the right thing and if there was anything at all we could even do for him. Was it nature’s way? Was I interfering? Was a concerned, panicked parent out there looking for her baby boy? I cried. I prayed…

As it was well after 5pm, every phone call was answered with a “closed” message. We called at least a dozen more numbers, only talking to actual people manning after hour phones a handful of times. Each message and actual conversation ended in phone numbers leading to more phone numbers. One message told us to keep infant mammals in a comfortable place, warm and to not handle or feed them. We had done this. We phoned a friend who mentioned a couple more places and we made some more calls. One place told us that they were open, but couldn’t accept a squirrel across state lines per legal reasons. In the meanwhile, we upgraded the little squirrel’s cardboard apartment and glove to a pink pet carrier with t-shirt interior. He was wiggling a great deal and it was an ideal space for him to explore and with more options for snuggling. Finally, we had a very nice person call us back around 8:30pm. She volunteered to answer messages for a local wildlife clinic. She said we were doing the right thing and could bring the baby in at 9. I thought she meant 9pm, readying to life flight him on over. However, she assured me nobody would be there until 9am. So, the little guy was spending the night. We put him in the guest bedroom and shut the door so our 3 curious kitties wouldn’t disturb him. He must have wiggled around all night. I did too…

Morning came and I checked in on little baby squirrel at 5:30am. He made it through the night and seemed more alert than ever, most likely because he was undernourished and scared. I was thankful for his life, but still worried as I just wanted him to have a good morning before my wife drove him to the wildlife clinic. She called in late to work and I worked on some artwork just to get my mind off the little guy. As we seat belt buckled in the pink pet carrier apartment, he seemed very hungry, wiggling around a great deal to find his mother and/or siblings. My wife took off for the clinic and I watered some flowers, feeling better but still concerned. After 45 minutes or so, she called me and said it was a success. The clinic said we did the right thing. He was dehydrated and may have been out of the nest for a couple of days. They have a squirrel rehabilitation specialist and also have a baby squirrel of the same age. I am so thankful and happy. He is going to make it. Someday, maybe we’ll find our squirrel stealing tomatoes off the back porch and hopping across the rooftop and I will be OK with that. Today I will probably walk my typical way home after work. But, I don’t regret following the heart’s path and helping out a life in God’s great kingdom. The End.

Story & Photography by: DJG / KCMO / August 2010

What People Have Search Engined to Stumble Upon DJG (All SIC)…

djg — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 19:50:12 +0000

-a person with belly button fascination is called
-electric face mask grandmother
-bday spanking from grandma
-need to find a woman graphic designer to be hire for a job in springfield mo
-colioptus
-djg artist bears
-how to get lint off black pants
-reasons why people admire james hampton the artist
-christ jacket
-food stamps
-dj.g.groove
-turtle and the hare
-ray johnson stanley donwood
-food stamps
-DJG Knife
-what does djg mean in aim language
-do you have joy day brighteners??
-Lint and Loan Services
-photo booth in iowa
-eccentric design spray paint seattle
-my pants collect too much lint. what do i do?
-why does so much design talent go to waste
-intern architect salaries djg
-ships that crashed
-he spanked me on my bare bottom and on my pee-pee
-hunting peasants
-how can I keep black jeans from collecting lint
-why do my pants have lint on the inner thighs
-black pants and lint
-guys sleeping with no pants
-my mom spanked me evere day after shower
-Help with building a clubhouse out of old barn
-black guy with no pants
-djg antique duck decoys
-stickerman motorhome light
-fluffing inside pants
-turkeys grafik group

Thanks! – The DJG Management

Half-Eaten Pepperonis Whistled at the Short Shorts

djg — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 19:31:59 +0000

She died last winter in a snow toilet that the bums scrawled signs of “ill tempers” and “botched flavors” in neon yellow. Her bow tie was caught down the drain and a few months later appeared in an irrigation ditch west of Denial. Then, for a solid month or more there have been construction all over the route home to and from work. Every day a hole is dug and then refilled. Her bow tie was like, “Uh…? Does that really work? These are MY tax collars!” Yesterday in the city next to the stand of leakidy ice cream cones, two girls in short-shorts and tank tops (girls in their summer golden slumber clothes, no doubt) walked by shaking their things. Nearly shoook ‘em clean the heck off the map. Immediately, as if the foreman sent out a memo to construction crotch-fitted jeans down 39th St., all work was halted, hammers dropped and necks turned as grins bon-fired. They watched the girls disappear into the horizon line of the cross with their pepperoni teeth all hanging out like Hukl smashed the back of skullz in and pushed everything out further and then all turned to each other with imaginary high-fives. They called her “quits” for the day and went to party. And here was bow tie, on the other side of the street going, “La dee da dee baby, I am coming home! Oh, look at those flowers and the little bees! And the reflection of jelly fish in the shade of that tree!” She then slipped down a drain that went to Ackulpokuldots. Nobody knows nothing about what happened next. Some say she was spooted on the neck of a tractor trailer parked out back of the once world’s largest something rather. I think it was a bib or a fib. Sadly, she is still out there somewhere. -djg

Got All “Bad” and Stuff

djg — Fri, 28 May 2010 15:39:34 +0000

Desperate-longing-humbling in the museum of stuffed walls. Barely enough places for a rotund mid-westerner to roam. Only fitting. Walked for ages when I could. Back hurts but it’s that good kind of hurt that communicates with the bones that it wants to stick to the meat and bone cousins. Navigated ebb and flow (Even Flow forms a rut like butter flies? – I have no idea) like ship in chopped waters. Rain going to catch in my mit, trying not to spike people with umbrella. Overwhelmed and amazed. Zombied into and out of in mush. Saw a man sitting up out of a wheel chair. He’d just messed himself before the train stopped and unloaded peeple up the stairs he was miraculously raised for. What prince valiant golden calves could have climbed and flexed before? Not mine as they needed my dad’s come-along and log chain to pull the baby out, dangling since 6am in the dewier than dew. Chinatown underground cheap tricks get us going. Old five and dime hagglers making the big bucks, even talking about how it was made elsewhere for cheaper. Costs too much here. A tiny baby doll hollers at a constant. To stand feet feet all day would drive a man insane, but the woman said she was used to it and if it wasn’t there, it wouldn’t be the same. Hmmm, I reply as I really liked her reply. I thanked her and got the “H” away. I wanted to free the tiny slug turtles from the well. Kettle cooked full and the fountain was filled the same and kinda cool nobody was harassed for cooling off and keeping their cool. Good people on a good day such as today. Just need to hit mute on all this construction. Lincoln logs blown to pieces. Mosaic tiles trying to look all old and stuff, but not, but I dig the sincerity anyway and wonder how many hours to lay a thousand as a thousand people pass by in a few seconds without looking or touching. Maybe I just gawk gun stuff too much. Mangos look at me too. All walks. All runs. Mo-fo-go-juice. Can’t possibly go hungry here when stirred-up in the can like no other soul patch of the modern era. Step outside and taste it. Saw a man yanked and arrested. He just needed to get to work. Should have believed more. A ton of people walked right after him. It was strange and comical and silly. Then, a great sanitation truck slammed breaks and stayed put, blocking the intersection like Batman would or something from Hollywood. It was really something. People piled up thicker than thick to see it. Little birds go after the half almonds all over again. Brave suckers as not much space to inch in or out. Wiggle worm surprise. Feel like I do when eating a pizza out with more than one person. Good, but always can be more. Saw baby and tranny really make a connection and it was very lovely inspiring for me to come out of my shell a bit. Bible singers then caught my ear lobes near a row of cops holding up the wall for next month’s spread. Lovers locked lips too. It was happening all at once as I swiped my card to pass go and see the stumble-upon stop where Michael Jackson got all “Bad” and stuff. -djg

Seafood on the Cedar

djg — Fri, 28 May 2010 14:24:35 +0000

Groomed, fine-cut. In tune. Seafood on the cedar. Every hair finely placed or plucked. Me in my uni-brow and tattered sleeves. I peel potatoes with the best of them. God is peek-a-boo champ from fingering cloud slats in skies at me, staring out a plane. Over 30,000 feet of string or stick to the ground. Wondering if we’re meant to fly, am I the only one who is enthused/concerned as eye-lids tap the thin sheet of glass between me and heaven knows what? If I am to die, I am good to go if good enough for Him as he plays the fiddle and handles the aircraft. Everything is making more sense and my senses, extra-strength, ring bells a little louder. Landscape when becoming un-skied is zippered up, waiting for relief or just baited for combustion within some day. Will it with the last strike of fence post. Strange, obtuse vehicles you’d dream of minin with on a far moon colony. Moon of a moon. They greet us and immediately pack frozen fish into the plane. Breakfast. Brunch. Linner. Belly full. Every man sits up-right, stands, fips open palmed objects and checks stats. Things in place and I stay put. No need to shout an attention span that doesn’t exist, or rolle my call. I continue to keep careful knowledge of not to reveal the name of my book in chance a conversation would stimulate or deviate. I’ve done this for over twenty-five years and counting. I’ve run out of wood for abacus. The color of India or South American war lord wardrobes sit. The moon mining cars drive back and forth as if auto-activated, and on remote from some big kid boom-box controlling the crap out of them. I think about my one and only biggie-size remote control car and become sad as not ten minutes shy of out-of-the-box joy, my driving not yet matured, the car came out from under the chair to greet the wrath of my father’s foot. The vehicle charts are nothing unlike circus trains, at least the ones from old television or play sets. I crane my neck for a giraffe sticking out. But, I know they are flexible or at least will position their bodies uncomfortably the same as I have before, for hours, only to ensure that somebody else is more comfortable. Inside the vacuum bag I have a conversation with a phone booth. Bathroom stalls invite me with high floor-to-ceiling walls, un-marked or yeared (lived-in) by a time line of grime. I think about all the thoughts that took place here. Mostly the little things like watch checking, event/trip calculations, idea of “back home” sounds good only in these moments, who uses traveler’s checks these days, what did I eat last night and what the weather will bring, so-forth. Best kept bathroom secrets. I wouldn’t mind putting my chips down for a T.V. series or book. The conveyor convenient walkways make sense to me in corraling one-in-front-of-the-other fashion. Hounds tooth or braunschweiger, I always get the two confused. Let’s just say a man wearing both lost his nuts and then a bird flies off a cliff for half an almond just like bison per a hunt. Kinda mean, but kinda respectable. Very clever, indeed. Though, John Lennon was sorta killed the same. Not cool.

-djg

Words I Spell Wrong (Continuing Education)

djg — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 15:19:26 +0000

Vaccum
Sherbert
Occassional
Volumptuous
Embarassed
Poision
Dialate
Foilage
Mayonaise
Accummulation

(to be cont.)

A Work in Progress

djg — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 21:12:46 +0000

The number system orders itself left to right – with the far left disappearing into the fog of the dawn of time – into rank and position, each next set of ten a little taller than it’s brothers and sisters into infinity (which actually freaks me out a little). I’m not good with numbers or math, so the calendar is a better example and also shakes this theory up a bit. The calendar years in my head, when placed together, are divided into blocks of centuries (though, I can’t fully see all centuries) and deeper they go divide into the decades. The calendar is headed from left to right in a somewhat half-hearted stair step pattern, only really like this from 1900 – 2000s. But, not a perfect rise as their are steep ups and then steep downs in this stair case. It’s an odd bar graph, with wide bars. Each century or decade within isn’t exactly higher in step pattern than the one before. Case in point: For some reason the ‘70s are higher than the 1960s and 1980s are shorter than the 1990s. Anything before the ’60s is pretty much the same height. And the ’90s aren’t quite as tall as the ’70s, just slightly shorter. The ’90s are slightly higher than the 2000s, but the difference is small in comparison to the difference of the ’70s height as it sits between the ’60s and ’80s. The ’90s are definitely taller than the ’80s. Though, I’m sensing a higher definition in rise with the start of 2010. I can kind of make out the outlines of future years, but nothing much past 2012 to 2015 at the moment. And the future is fogged off much like the opposite end going back to the left into the dawn of time. Also, the century of the 1900s is the highest out of all centuries. Far superior to the 1800s and 2000s, even though the start of 2000s when coming right out of and/or extended from 1995-1999 really aren’t that much higher than the bulk item that is the 1900s. But, when seeing them as a whole, the ’90s are higher. It’s as if anything prior or post (even though there isn’t that much post) to 1900 is in a pit, yet the 2000s are higher than the 1800s, at least for now. I can only fully vision the 1800s from about 1865 – 1899, anything prior to ‘65 is quite a blur, but it is still there, the definition of it’s step patterns insignificant to that of the 1900s. In further detailed appearance, certain periodical highlights, affairs and instances of the 1900s, appear in certain colors and/or have higher steps in those places. I won’t name colors as it would take a great deal of time, but these things of color and altered stair steps are things like wars, U.S. presidents, disasters and other things. Personal highlights are also included, but not that important compared to the things that affect more than me. However, there is another way I see a compact span of twelve months, at least the ones that make up my life span. This year-by-year calendar flows right to left, even though the rest of time flows left to right. I can’t really explain it other than I believe it’s because they’ve had the breath (and breadth) of life breathed into them, yet I can’t properly explain why it appears an opposite direction than every year ever accounted for before my birth or the entire vision when seen as a whole. Which, again I see as a whole from left to right. I can sometimes man the controls of the entire span of left to right time and like a crane, pick up only my years (individual years at that) and spin them so they are in the right to left position. Though, how come when looking back at my ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, I see these years within their respective decades as left to right? Anyway, I also see the two weekend days as higher block mountains, the weeks being valleys between. Thinking about the idea of a day just simply being another day quite challenges me, especially on a Saturday or Sunday (hits me harder on a Sunday though) when I see it in my head as much higher in build. Further on, the highest block in a year is December. The very highest of it’s high being the span of Dec. 25 – Dec. 31. Jan. 1 is very high too. They appear a lot higher than the other months, per a sort of doorway into the new year, I assume, which drops back down a bit. Keep in mind this new year is in black and white and it’s an immense responsibility I heap on my shoulders to color it as I come out of a cannonball splash of color and holiday glaze from the momentum built off the previous year. It’s quite haunting to look at this black and white. And it’s quite exciting too. I also see the seasons as separate blocks as well as semesters when I used to be in college. Certain musical arrangements or complete albums strike me in this visual way too. Typically, they flow right to left yet they are subject to change per the case subject, yet never change individually once in position (to be cont.)… -djg

Your Loon is in Cushioned Wide Screen

djg — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 19:54:10 +0000

Out of tune with the compromise and now headfirst homespun saloon song ‘n’ dance. Check the deep end. A van camped meal. Horse apple bonfire and pic-a-nic basket surprises. Yogi Berra blast a nutter one. He was partially on the right run way to mad and then he heard an upset tummy rumble and gurgle, spit and moan, an inner merman waiting to harpoon the lagoon and break that dam. You, yourself, chose to put your beans in the cooler corner (to keep from burning off one’s lips and mouth insides). You, yourself, even put ice cubes in the hot chocolate. You, yourself, had Frankie tie your shoe laces when it was time to switch out and back again for Gym. You still wish to tie them once and slip ‘em in, just like a neck tie, or just Velcro snug and hope that your best friends don’t make fun of you by thinking you look like the people wandering hospital halls. Not a bad thing, I guess? Still, I wish it were as easy as flat-licking the palm/fingers and wiping them on the high-tops, hop back on a bus and take a nap. The best naps ever as you tire so easy of people bragging about taking “red-eyes”. You think you’ve got a big ol’ bundle of quality found vinyl records and then you get home and sift through and the pile went to Jenny Craig and you’ve now famished your mind after lunch to thinking that they’re out to get you and so you decide to go back to the office via an out of the way route. Even keying the lock you think you’re being watched. You think you’re suspicious. Get-a-grippers. Gripper now doesn’t have enough quarter juice to dip down and grab anything. The only time you didn’t turn the sound off and “play” for real was the time they actually had something to say and/or needed your something to say. The man just wanted to go to the grocery store. The other man just wanted to help. There was a thick language barrier. An up and down looker. You stood too long in “the paint.” You waited too long to pull the tape off the winders. -djg

Church. Chore. Chow.

djg — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 21:44:46 +0000

Slug got tracked through the house. Starting point was a squash in the loose tile carpet from a dilapidated office space in the suburbs. He didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see it coming. Still fresh and noticeable. It must have taken him all day and night to get there. Inspiring and sad. He wanted under a paper stack, I think. That is all he wanted. Later that day I got the mail from the box, tucked it under my left arm and went inside the house. Laying the mail bundle on the table a ball of lint with legs shot out fast and I jumped like I had my Air Jordan’s on and a low b-ball hoop. The little spider smelled Spring and hauled it across the table and thought he was hid under the lip. Nope. I smashed him for real with a paper towel piece. In such cases, the first thing you want to do is smash it to bits. That’s sad. And usually you can’t find anything to do it with and you don’t want to mess up the sister-in-law’s birthday envelope that was return-to-sender in the mail. Ya know? So after much time to myself I spent some more time to myself. I was twiddling a toenail I found in the rain slicker pocket as I thumped along the walk. I was behind a pole when a tinted window ride coasted by and if there had been a spray of bullets, the pole would have stopped them. Well, depends on the caliber. I’d have to suck it in though like Tom Arnold. Just then, a little boy materialized out of the grass patch and took a fast lane to the an evergreen colored dumpster in the back corner of a parking lot. I perked up and turned my head fifteen times to the right. The average head turns easiest to the left, so it was a good workout, but nonetheless, it startled me and confused me. I saw the same boy the next day squatting in the same parking lot. This time he was staring at me and he didn’t have to turn his head. The dumpster boy took me back eight years to when I found what I thought to be expensive crystals in a parking lot space right after I visited a dumpster with an offering. I showed the crystals to a superior and she didn’t know what they were either. But, she kept one and I kept the other. I thought it was fair because she was always giving me muffins and goodies. Besides, a man who was in on our shared crystals thought that they were a cheap knock-off that came with some starlet fragrance. A gift basket package of cheapness or was he trying to trick us? Maybe he was jealous because he parked his car near the spot where I found ‘em. Cheap or real, still a treasure to open the chest and have it giggle and gargle. And there is no such a thing as magic crystals. Maybe? The phone rang next but it sounded like a pay phone. Pay phones have a specific ring tone. On the other end was a prominent electrician. Charlie wanted me to help him. I don’t know anything other than he always had intimidated me before and I also knew not to stick forks in toasters which I learned way too late in life, but I obliged. I was supposed to tug on a cable that a string was hooked to and all the while he was hollering from two rooms over via the cables and our respective holes in the floor that we were both reaching far into. I ended up not understanding this premise or objective and actually let go. I just let go. I don’t know why, but I think I was thinking too much about it all and ended up visualizing a whole different world there beneath the floor. All I knew was that Charlie knew it, that I had let go, and didn’t know why either but his voice coming out of the hole got more alarmed than it had been the previous nine minutes. I was intimidated by him even more after that. In this crouch position near the hole in the floor that Charlie’s voice sounded from, I could smell myself. It wasn’t the most pleasant smell and I never thought I would ever smell like what I smelled. I blamed it on not enough sleep and when I did sleep, it was done with my work clothes on so I could get up and go and not waste time changing. I also slept on a couch. I also acknowledged I smelled of the gunk at the bottom of a dumpster, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing when you’ve got a pay check and alone time to show for it. The gunk kinda resembles that of smashed slugs. I then somehow got elected to help some dudes move a soda pop machine. Still smelling bad, I told them to give me a sec and I ran to my little room and took my undershirt off just to rid of a little extra odor. Soda pop machines are heavy, by the way. And I still smelled, but it was something you don’t get to do often, move a soda pop machine. I thought about all the quenched thirsts that the machine had delivered upon. Paid in full for fifty scents.

-djg