We find ourselves wondering if "Cheeto" is a common name, or a common complaint.  From factories and treadmills to the Iron Roads of TrainLand, Cheeto moves across complex dimensions.  But this sig seems somewhat "thwarted" so we won't attribute it to the same "Cheeto" who graced the tracks in other chapters. Instead, we move right along to Electricity and Current, one man's Teal Crusade on walls of grey. These OTHER GUYS, we'll mention in a state-of-passing, becauser we're too lazy to write and they're too lazy to paint, but they still add color to grey, which is what "mimimalism" is all about: to put it in the terms of musty intellectuals who study for years in college to be able to bore us all with their stupid complexities of "what could a line on a wall mean to Fidel Castro anyway"...?

It's a Garden Salad in an unforgiving Rain-Forest.  It's a Griffin no larger than a child's story-book.   One look at your dentures says it all: take the long road to Retirement Village.  It's a safe colony with locks and door-openers and look-alike cul-de-sacs.  We'rea all headed that way eventually, yes/ no?

These guys did their number on the "Safer Side of Sin". Located just West of the Nortorious Hospital Ankle Stanzas that we enjoyed all too briefly at the top of the page.  Ensoe and Company paint a Sprightly and Effervescent tribute to Snakes and Mushrooms (what mind-altering agents do we now employ for "foreign translation"?)

Taking the highway miles for granted, the color co-ordination and modular intertwining of the Snake are dreams of another era.  Obviously much planning and forethrought - not to mention Teamwork - goes into place for one these undertakings.  We can often scoff openly at graffiti, but stop for a moment and visualize the meeting of creative vision that necessitates such creation.  Yes, "wow".

We move on to February, where it's colder in the Pink Laundromat.  You haven't shaved for a week; the neighborhood girls are all hung-over and your mother looks like Frankenstein.  Where is the "remote-control-of-life", you ask?  No one knows.  No one cares.  We all sleep in the beds we make and try to find the house-maid.  Doesn't matter what you're after, it's what you're Laughter that counts.  The horses you keep in the stable may be more stable, but the Wilde Barne over the hill is where your Heart really lingers.  Trust your fingers.  They do the walking on the pages of your dreams.  Pink Romance is what makes this sucker deliver a lightning bolt.  If we could all be as different as we could be different, would the world ever be the same?

And so, we continue, hungry, but visually content.  Blue always wins in the end, so Ace calls a Spade a Shovel and delivers the end of the wall from the hands of morbidity.

As we turn away one last time from the Grinding Gears of Mortality, we reach across the horizon of the the Entire She-Bang at the fabulous Griffin Health Spa & Day Retreat.  Our tired senses in limbo, we breathe in the grandeur of tortured concrete as it sings beneath the relentless Wheels of Fortune.  It's a Pancake, it's a Watersport, it's a Cableguy in a Necktie that strangles the intellect.  but here she be for your undertaking and consummation: Griffin Skate, Whole and Hole-some.

Holistic and Holey.

That's "mom" there on the right, bleeding from between her legs where she had YOU, rug-rat.  And how much kindness do we turn back to the ones who sacrified so that we could breath our first fumbling breaths?  Mothers should have a special place in the world of Graffiti and in the world of "art" as a whole, not just as cheap sexual objects or items of ridicule from naive unripe minds, but as martyrs of humanity, as they are.  But as providers, sustainers, and comforters, as they are.  But as reminders that stupid humans capture a glimmer of hope to succeed as a race that can live with sustainable Beauty.