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Chas is made of welded iron and was designed by Dan Jackson, who was commissioned to create the sculpture circa 1972 by the owner of R&R Auto Parts,2 later succeeded by GO Pull-It.
Chas was apparently named for Charles Newport, an employee of R&R Auto Parts from 1969 to 1977, although the figure was reportedly modeled after Newport’s brother.3
Sounds like bullshit, but it makes for a cute yarn.
When the nearby Buford Highway was widened to four lanes, Chas moved from the ground to the top of the sign,4 where I first met him in October 2024, following a rather muted repaint.
Chas’ face was originally white, his tongue was red, and his eyes were blue, but that’s too much color for these dreary times, I guess.



































They all take turns sticking their tongues in his crusty white Republican anus, their noses pressed into his sweaty taint as his sagging balls slap against their faces.
Pulling kinky gray hairs off their lips, they nod at each other with forced smiles and moan approvingly.
“Mmm, it’s so good,” they exclaim. “The power tastes so sweet.”
One of these days, their subservience and devotion will pay off, and the asshole will actually do something for them—any day now.















Life never turns out as you expect anyway.
Sometimes it’s better to show up without a plan.

Wander around a little and see what you find—
No angles or attachments. Just being.






























Old water towers—especially rooftop ones—have become such a tired, cliched symbol of urban life that I’m almost embarrassed to publish these images. Almost.
By now, most U.S. cities have been scrubbed clean of any real grit, thoroughly gutted by cookie-cutter development companies, though their marketing teams often push to keep a few post-industrial vestiges as a simulacrum of character and a unique selling point—they’re anything but unique, of course.
If there aren’t some old machine gears lying around to refashion into abstract sculpture, preserving a relic water tower is a great way to convince clueless college grads from the burbs that their overpriced loft with quartz countertops and stainless-steel appliances is the epicenter of the new Williamsburg.

In vacuous cities with no tangible identity (see also: Atlanta), a developer can easily build their latest stack of plywood boxes around an old water tower and be praised by sycophantic members of the local press for historic preservation and “placemaking.”
Hordes of clueless transplants snap pics of the preserved tower to feel some sort of connection to the city—no matter how tenuous—and to lazily flaunt their cosmopolitan lifestyles on social media.
Meanwhile, their friends and relatives back in Bumfuck just roll their eyes—like rusty old water towers don’t exist in every possum hollow.
But screw all that. I just like the way old water towers look against a vibrant sky. Deal with it.


I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a fern
OK, so that’s not how it goes, but I consider it an improvement.
There’s just something about ferns that speaks to me: their quiet grace and elegance, and their ability to thrive in the dark, hidden places where most plants could never survive.
I find the delicate fronds of the marginal wood fern particularly alluring, and it feels nice to run my fingers through them.
This evergreen fern grows in wooded areas along the Northeast Corridor, which is more forested than I initially thought.
Hey, I’m here for the small surprises.

How the hell did we end up in this intricate mess?
Is this the fate sealed for us?
Maybe one day, we’ll look back on this time and think,
“Wow, that was some crazy shit.”
If we’re lucky.
And if we’re wise—
We’ll make sure it never happens again.
Too bad we’re so fucking stupid.