After the insidious banality of small talk over an awkward dinner...

You must be bored to tears after undergoing lengthy convos doting on Aunt Sarah's recent hip surgery and Reiki classes, witnessing your Mother's feeble grasp of control on the only day she can really exude it and trying to be interested while all the testosterone decide on bogarting the T.V. because of football. (I dealt with none of this by the way and it was fabulous.)
Nothing renews like the weird and avant garde. I find that editorials spewing a little grit always make me hopeful; even if it's dripping with a little cheese, however, the powers that be are becoming better at the recapturing of such sentiments. One of my favorite conceptual fashion ridden subjects are gorgeous folks featuring Mohawks and attire whose worth could outfit a small village in Somalia.
I don't know if it's punk laden roots, the Native part of me or I am just slow to conform or maybe I am just a giant prick, either way I have had a Mohawk longer than I have had any other hair style throughout my life. My sincere hope is that I have not worn out my welcome and look like a Hot Topic aficionado, if I am wearing that out, please tell me, my virtue in the way of appropriate quaffs must be preserved. Enjoy.