The whole street art/graffiti/Japanese toy designer thing is so overblown and crappy that it's spawned a whole genre of magazines like this, and most of it is the same crappy crap that sucks. 75% of the time, Juxtapoz is no deviation from this norm, but they still drop the goodness in there, right about the time you're about to stop paying attention. They also hyped up this bullshit genre of art long before the rest of them did, like way back in the days before I had childrens and a wife and even a steady place to sleep at night and was popping pills and bumming drinks in Richmond and going to work underneath houses with guys named Phil from Tennessee who had spiderweb tattoos on their elbows and would talk, in the pitch dark underneath a house replacing rotten beams, about Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet. Then we'd go to his house in his busted ass Chrysler, and there was one room, a mattress on the floor, a flag of Tennessee on the wall, and we'd drink Evan Williams like a motherfucker, until our pores smelled like liquor the next day underneath the next house. So because Juxtapoz's glossy ass has been on bookstore shelves long enough for me to go from degenerate to productive, from hellbound to don't philosophically believe in hell but still most likely doomed, from getting drunk as fuck in one room flats with convicts to sharing a Little House on the Prairie bedroom with three upwardly mobile daughters sleeping in bunkbeds underneath Christmas lights that have been up since 2004. All that new school street art bullshit, glossy magazines with stank ass soy ink, it's a whole lot of nothing.
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