Graffiti | Buttercup of Doom ep 43

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and now available on Google Play Music

From spray paint on buildings and brick to ink on flesh, graffiti is all around us, balancing between art and statement and vandalism. Whether you like it or not. Whether you approve or not. Whether society is ready or not… This week we look at graffiti in fiction, physical and metaphorical, in neighborhoods, and in spirit on the body. A short episode, because well, I get a holiday weekend too. Enjoy!

Oh, and for all the writer’s out there, put your “bloody shoe description” here.

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Mentions/Shoutouts and Linky-Links: The Horror Show w/ Brian Keene  • Ben Chen: flicker or FBBanksyDavid ZinnSheppard FaireyKeith HaringAnonymousSarah Sheetz @ Wandering CanvasBenjamin Lloyd  •

Hashtag Hell: #tattoos #scars #qweequeg #mobydick #threadless #anonymous #graffiti #vandalism #gang #tag #gypsy #hobo #smiley #swastika #kings #crips #bloods #banksy #brokenwindowtheory #newyork #nyc #detroit #LA #roku #patreon #facebook #twitter #instagram #projectiradio #buttercupofdoom #podcast #kelliowen

Coming up: #moviesVSbooks #keene …and your suggestions?!

This Week’s Rating: R (language) buttercup ratings system info here 

One Response to Graffiti | Buttercup of Doom ep 43

  • Amber Fallon says:

    My <500 words about a bloody shoe…

    The linoleum was badly scuffed and faded into that nicotine yellow color that automatically makes you think of the 1970s, even if you weren’t alive back then. It had been peeled back in places, mostly where the edges met, exposing the drab grey stuff beneath. Dust, grease, and suspicious looking stains made the original geometric design into something that became a strange mix of sinister and comforting. The shoe on the floor in front of the dishwasher took away the “comforting” part. It was a girls’ shoe, probably a young girl, judging by the size of it. A beige canvas high top, the grommets threaded through with pink laces that curled up like the wires of an old corded telephone at the ends, eliminating the need to tie bows to keep the shoes on. There was a tiny Hello Kitty bead sewn onto the tongue with clumsy stitches and sparkly purple thread. Dried blood the color of old rust on iron fence posts rimmed the top of the shoe, which lay on its side. The faint echo of a stain remained on the floor around it, long ago having dried and flaked away, evidence stolen by the hand of time.

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