We call this one the

GRIFFIN CULVERT.

Why?

It's some interesting scribbling inside a concrete waterway, just north of the fabulous Griffin Skate-Park Cat'n'Dog Hospital.  It was done - again - by those ankle-biter Mountain Heathens on the North Shore who don't go by stupid names like "Bob" and "Mike", but instead call themselves "Oaph" and "Zena-Warrior-Princess".

We're down in a concrete tunnel with pissing rain and pissing rivers.  Typical Rain Forest Shit. You know: "buy the Cashew Nuts & save the teddy bears" kind of thing.

Shall we continue?

"Jef" - short for "Jeff" - poises his young loins just above the rushing Griffin Creek for this exercise in humility. 

Jef may have "opted out" before the final exams in the Emily Kar-Kar School of Art-Art.  But he's got the basics down.  Simple colors.  Simple Theme.  Easily readable by morons like me.  Takes up time and space, without asking pointed questions.  A refreshing break from all those "puppy dog tails" in the Alleys of Queen Street, Hog Town.  Damnit Jef, they could use your backwoods simplicity in Toronto.

To show you the extent of the madness here, and make you appreciate the great lengths that me and all these famous painters have gone to, simply to entertain YOU, big shooter... here's a view of the downtown side of their business, shot from the top of the culvert.  Thank God for Zoom lenses and long paint brushes.

"MEK" does a bit of a marvel down here with a simple palette, calling it appropriately, "Another Lazy Day".  Nice blue 3-D dreams on a hot-dog red cutaway.  Feel like I'm watching Miami Vice in an ambulance.  With a 303 slug lodged in my brain.  Where the fuck is Don Johnson when you need him?

Another view of the Culvert.  This is painted on both sides; the slopes to the fence are mucky and slippery.  The whole place smells like Dead Moss and old Beer Bottles.  Whoever did this painting must have really wanted a Summer Job.

This next one is a really nice piece, signed by "Geasr", Cest, User, and Cheeto.  Now, here we go again with this "Cheeto" thing.  Is there a "Cheeto" in every town, or is "Cheeto" just another popular name, like "Ensoe" ... et al?

Anyway, too wet to go down, too dark to see anything, too lazy to hire a coolee and a rickshaw, this oblique look is all she wrote.

Okay, it's all "money on the tracks", as Theory would say.  Pecker tracks, Train Tracks, Seagull tracks ... they all begin to look the same after a while.

"Infkto" saves us from ourselves once again with his berserk experiment in Primary Colors, which, I regret to inform, will not make the cover of Graffiti Weekly Review!  However, for our own psychological masturbation, we present the image, intact, unedited and raw.

Reminds me of a piece of toast made on a Klingon Spacecraft.  Buttered, with Strawberry Jam.  The "safeway" kind of strawberry jam that's 90% sugar and 1 percent fruity.  It's Atomic, it's alive.  But somewhat mutated.

Radiation does strange things to the mind.  This kid was incubated in a microwave oven.

What's next?

Well:

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.  It's pointy, crusty, black & white and... well... it says ... uh... hmm.

Ok, ok, so there's room for all kinds here.  We're all at our own unique stages of Lunacy and Lightness.  No one's wrong, long or strong.  It's a buyer's market.

Jef's cousin, "Oh" reminds us that simplicity can multiply if given enough sperm and eggs.  Quiet, introverted and slightly obese, "Oh" hides his pack of calories and cholesterol down near the Riverside.

Yes, now this one is kind of cute.  A little humor goes a long way on a dark night.  In Sez' books, humor combined with a steady hand always wins the race.

Ok, we'll spring for maybe ONE PARANORMAL SITE EXTRACTION if you're a good boy and go to bed with Jesus tonight.

What turns me on about this piece of Graffiti is not so much that it looks like a Dead Grasshopper on acid, but the colors and stylings are unique.  A masterful blend of purple, turquoise and teal on a blood-red sky.  A praying mantis gone to sleep forever, the Big Wet Dream.  If it wasn't so damn miserable living in the Rain Forest, I'd rant on and on about it.

And, when you invite one Bleu Gonad, the whole fuckin family shows up.  So, here we go.  Scrawlings again done in a nice blend of ocean-going colors on rusty red digs.

Now  we get into the more interesting fare under the bridge: chinese girly art.  This Zena Warrior number one is an exercise in James Bond Fertility Rights gone awry.  Throw in the Bamboo and you've got "Fung Shoe" mixed with Wall-Art, which is not a bright idea.  Keep the Fung Shoe in your fuckin little health food restaurants that have choo-choo trains on the ceiling and we'll all be happier.

Now: we all know that Girls With Big Tits figure prominently into young mens' dreams.  I mean, who would want to paint a handicapped Cerebral Palsy girl onto a wall with spikey and wirey little Puppy Dog Tails all over the place?  Not me, buddy.  So, we paint our dreams and avoid our nightmares.  But - at night, when no one's looking - which one comes to call?

On our left, our writers turn slightly more Metallic, Crafty, Artsy, and Trendy.  WE are brought back in a flashback to a Grade 10 Metalwork class, taught by a teacher who's name is drained away, but who's memory remains.  The piles of steel shavings. The screech of lathes and the hiss of arc welders.

It's a boys' world; the government of thugs that abide under the bridge.

What a place to live, to flourish, to grow up, to experiment and blow up well-known institutions.

What a place to have a spear and a bottle of beer.

Even more shady, right above the Bamboo Lady, another symphony of Dancing Chromosomes.  Not so spiky - a dance of the balance of Masculine and Feminine.

And as we move into finalizing our wet-dream vision quest into the North Van swamps, Heavy Metal and James Bond Females preside again, numbing the young male intellect with promises of discipline and bandages.  What more could Purple Metal desire, than Females in Black leggings?

Sorrow no more, as our local Skull-Squasher goes berserk with Flamboyancies Untamed.  Besides my lack of further descriptive adjectives which do these pieces justice, I am already running much too late for the clock that ticks and talks.  Sez Panoramo opens this one up for further inspection and detection.

And now, the crowning Glory of our Underground Swim: the true Zena, Warrior Princess.  We have commented before about misplaced gender worship.  We will comment again, but we will make it slight and easy.  Giving a woman  a spear is akin to giving a man a knitting needle.  The right weapon in the wrong hands can start a war that is never fought, but always lost.

So, aside from the quirky male fantasies of violent femmes making up for castrated fathers, we notice also that this is no "twiggy model" - thank god for that.  These boys still appreciate a female with some ham on the bone.  Blonde, of course.  And no six-pak muscle booty either.  Good on ya' fellas. At least some sign of the Healthy Amazon left in the teenage eyeballs.

it bodes well for all Man-kind.

Goodbye, yella brick road.

"I don't care either" suggests a resignation typical of the castrated young male. Too many of these immature hoodlums are now being raised by unbalanced "Zena-Fem" energy - yes, you've witnessed them tailgating you in their Big Black Pickup Trucks.

Angry boys with no father, but a fat mother guarding a pile of skulls.

Think about that when you order your Starbucks and Gravy tomorrow mornin'.

A pleasant good'nite to ya'all.

Sezzie.