StrangeLove

‘Twas the year or so before December 2012 when my friend Nick Halkias finally emailed me with the question he’d long been hinting at but never previously managed to put into motion: Would I be interested in collaborating on a shoe for Nike SB? But not just any old shoe—this was to be the Holiday 2012 release—and he asked if I was familiar with the mythological creature known as Krampus. "First, hell yes I'm interested," I responded, "And kinda, maybe, only sorta I'm familiar?" While most demonic figures had crossed my radar at one point or another, I wasn’t entirely hip to all the fabled facts behind this particular pagan beast. Nick, who had apparently run across a vintage greeting card depicting Krampus and subsequently gone down the proverbial rabbit hole in search of more background on his origins, thought it would make an entertaining holiday story for a Dunk and that I would be the ideal artist to tackle such a project. Woohoo!

This comes way too long after the fact—and probably should've been posted in part before I even embarked on my trip to Japan back in October—but let's face the confusing facts: My woven word webs here are often difficult enough to understand as it is much less the labyrinthian maze of mutilation they no doubt are to someone whose second language is English. And that's not something to boast about by any means. In fact, it's a complete disservice as a writer to the reader. Intellectually, I get that, but am I going to do anything about it and change my excessively wordy and murky ways? Probably not.

Picture Pages, Picture Pages. Time to get your Picture Pages. Time to get your crayons and your pencils! Picture Pages, Picture Pages. Open up your Picture Pages. Time to let… uh. Hmm. Well... how about you just do you and do whatever you wish with the Picture Page that we're gifting you today. Or tomorrow. Maybe even next year should you happen to stumble across this long dead and dormant post via a wormhole through the Claymore minefield of AI that the Google has since become. Where's Princess Di when you need her? C'mon, Lady Di, we're losing the battle for humanity here.

Before diving into this anything but Ernest Hemingway-like tale, I should warn you, the reader, that this post addresses the hot topic of ignorance. I know, bear with me, we've all been put through the wringer in 2026 and the big dumb decline of western civilization has yet to exhibit any signs of slowing down whatsoever, but I'm about to set sail on a braggadocios toast to the most brainless thing I’ve ever done in life—and yes, that’s saying a-goddamn-lot, because if there’s one thread of commonality to stitch my life of unbridled inertia together it’s that of dumb or any stupid combination thereof.

You know, it's always a crapshoot when it comes to these posts. I mean, in theory I know where they ultimately have to end, but generally only have a vague notion of how to start and practically no idea what's going to happen betwixt… and I have a sneaky suspicion the taint on this one is about to get extremely muddied indeed. So, let’s just jump right in and get it on with Rex Mason, aka Metamorpho, a lesser known hero sprung from the wackiest substrate of DC Comics in 1964.