BASTARD SONS OF ETERNAL WYRD

For no particular reason at all, today I feel compelled to celebrate a very special artist and the man who created the insignia for my latest guerrilla enterprise, Wyrd War. If there’s any justice in the world or any integrity whatsoever remaining in the music and fine art industries, Joe Petagno will retire a wealthy man and a monolithic middle finger shaped runestone will be hoisted in his honor on the day he finally rides that white line to the vanishing point. At the very least he should be celebrated as a national treasure here in the U.S. with all the dubious fringe benefits that might come with such a distinction. Problem is, he split California for London in 1973 – eventually settling in Denmark where he resides to this day – and anyway most Americans are too dazed to recognize the intrinsic value of anything that doesn’t turn a quick buck. Not that Joe’s fantastic artwork hasn’t turned a quick buck. If the average biker rally and shithole dive bar are any indications, his work has certainly lined more than a few pockets over the past four decades. His snarling “Dog Face Boy” for Motörhead, probably his most well-known creation, has inspired generations of malcontents to find their voice and experience life on their own terms – bleeding ears and bruised knuckles be damned! Consider how insipid and wimpy your own flesh would be if it weren’t for that gnarly Snaggletooth tattoo which at some point in your life has a) gotten you laid, b) gotten you a complimentary Jack & Coke or c) gotten you fired from your bullshit job. The man and the beast are everywhere! That’s probably because the beast in man is everywhere. Joe’s iconic Snaggletooth prevails as an abominable insignia of the Wolf Age, conveying in a single glance the primeval paradox of the enflamed death head cock poised on the precipice of the cunt throat abyss. The luminous glare of the werewolf antihero is a challenge to stand up, hold fast and push forward. The fearful hesitate and are swallowed in the gaping jaws of disintegration. The rest of us march on. Force conquers inertia with a few measured slashes of the maestro’s brush, ere the world crumbles. The bastard son of eternal war is in your face...FOREVER!