Johnson T-Shirts
13 creative works found
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A tribute to the legendary 917 Sports car by Porsche from the early 1970’s. Steve McQueens personal race car of choice.
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the starting 5 for the dream team – that’s just unfair!
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Gone in a flash>>>>
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Quite possibly one of the most odd but innovative race cars of all time. The Chaparral 2J banned after only a handful of races for being too successful (and dangerous too!).
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The race car with the biggest Booty in the whole wide world! Rock with the famous Porsche 935 Moby Dick tail racer. Yeah Yo!
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33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W The ardent numerologists and the vaguely insane amongst you spot it immediately. Three. The tainted seed from which all that is debauched and pagan and just plain naughty about rock ‘n roll flowers. All those blowjob closets and black amphetamine blood replacements and seafood buffet insertions. All that devil baiting and jailbait buggery and death by vehicular misadventure. A lurid bacchanal: a rock and roll Grand Guignol. A bas relief of vice, sin and theatre to give Caligula or The Marquis pause. Dante’s Inferno in tight pants and tall hair. Three. It’s all right there in the maths: elementary. 3+3+3+1+7= 17 1+7= 8 9+0+1+1+2= 13 1+3= 4 8+4 = 12 1+2 = Yep. 33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W. The crossroads near Dockery’s Plantation. A bluesman, a dream of immortality and a classic Faustian pact. Three. The recurring leitmotif at the very root of belief. The triquetra is the holy trinity: father, son, ghost. An triangle, inverted, is earth. Strength and life in geometry. Three sixes. And then there’s The Tritone. Diabolus in musica- the Devil’s Note, or flattened fifth. The Tritone was banned by The Church in the Dark Ages for its apparent knack of whipping the listener into a frenzy of rape and generally unbecoming behavior. Naturally, it’s the progression of notes that’s at the guts of the blues scale. The Tritone: a sonic Grail. The poisoned chalice offered in exchange for Robert Johnson’s mortal soul. The echoing, potent rumble of Sin chiming down through generations of popular music: Evoking shamen, from moonlit altar they spread their doctrine, summoning whores, rallying baying hordes: Legion. In alliance with mystics, yogis and snake oil salesmen, the gospel insinuates. Crowley, The Yogi and Colonel Tom Parker. False idols in greasepaint and Viking armor, the trappings of battle; totems living outside societal norms, evoking a wild mix and match procession of ideologies and perversions. The stuff of serial killer diaries and half lit dragons chased and ritual. The zodiac, tarot. Thoth. Enochian, runic and dagger alphabets. Shadowplay and performance conjures sex and death, martyrdom, golden Gods. All the good stuff. An embarrassment of Pans and Bacchii; a tapestry of grand narrative and gutter epitaph. Lizard Kings and Gods of Sun and Fuck, ego and id unbound. Hedonism at its most elemental, unbound: the pursuit of a personal truth, projection and worship of oneself over all others, the delineation of a personal narrative above all others. To what pantheon do they devote their howls? What primal, monolithic totems? What round table or Canon, steeped narrative embellishment and legend? Nine icons. Nine concepts. Nine stories. 33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W Three.
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33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W The ardent numerologists and the vaguely insane amongst you spot it immediately. Three. The tainted seed from which all that is debauched and pagan and just plain naughty about rock ‘n roll flowers. All those blowjob closets and black amphetamine blood replacements and seafood buffet insertions. All that devil baiting and jailbait buggery and death by vehicular misadventure. A lurid bacchanal: a rock and roll Grand Guignol. A bas relief of vice, sin and theatre to give Caligula or The Marquis pause. Dante’s Inferno in tight pants and tall hair. Three. It’s all right there in the maths: elementary. 3+3+3+1+7= 17 1+7= 8 9+0+1+1+2= 13 1+3= 4 8+4 = 12 1+2 = Yep. 33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W. The crossroads near Dockery’s Plantation. A bluesman, a dream of immortality and a classic Faustian pact. Three. The recurring leitmotif at the very root of belief. The triquetra is the holy trinity: father, son, ghost. An triangle, inverted, is earth. Strength and life in geometry. Three sixes. And then there’s The Tritone. Diabolus in musica- the Devil’s Note, or flattened fifth. The Tritone was banned by The Church in the Dark Ages for its apparent knack of whipping the listener into a frenzy of rape and generally unbecoming behavior. Naturally, it’s the progression of notes that’s at the guts of the blues scale. The Tritone: a sonic Grail. The poisoned chalice offered in exchange for Robert Johnson’s mortal soul. The echoing, potent rumble of Sin chiming down through generations of popular music: Evoking shamen, from moonlit altar they spread their doctrine, summoning whores, rallying baying hordes: Legion. In alliance with mystics, yogis and snake oil salesmen, the gospel insinuates. Crowley, The Yogi and Colonel Tom Parker. False idols in greasepaint and Viking armor, the trappings of battle; totems living outside societal norms, evoking a wild mix and match procession of ideologies and perversions. The stuff of serial killer diaries and half lit dragons chased and ritual. The zodiac, tarot. Thoth. Enochian, runic and dagger alphabets. Shadowplay and performance conjures sex and death, martyrdom, golden Gods. All the good stuff. An embarrassment of Pans and Bacchii; a tapestry of grand narrative and gutter epitaph. Lizard Kings and Gods of Sun and Fuck, ego and id unbound. Hedonism at its most elemental, unbound: the pursuit of a personal truth, projection and worship of oneself over all others, the delineation of a personal narrative above all others. To what pantheon do they devote their howls? What primal, monolithic totems? What round table or Canon, steeped narrative embellishment and legend? Nine icons. Nine concepts. Nine stories. 33° 31’ 7” N 90° 11’ 2” W Three.
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Teeth and Speed – the perfect combination for predation and mischief! Luckily for all of us, Sharklegs Johnson loves nothing more than delivering pizzas and appearing in games of InkLink, so our parts are safe from his nibblin’ glands. As a hot, TASTY bonus when you realise ‘Oh no, there is a shark upon my fronts!’ the tee is already shoutin’ for you, freeing up valuable time to eat pizza. Go team shark – both delicious and moist!
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A bit of an experiment , one of my most popular works
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Taken from a photo © Stephen C. LaVere
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saw district 9 at the weekend…..heres my little homage
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