The paintings of Erik Mark Sandberg look like what the lovechild of Matt Furie and Frida Kahlo’s mustache would create if it ate some peyote at The Great American Waterpark. I fucking nailed it with that sentence. I get to use a sentence like that maybe once ever year. Fuck yeah. That shit is better than jizzing on some giant boobage with Foreigner blasting in the background. And so are Sandberg’s paintings. Even if the hairy people creep me the fuck out. That’s ok. I like being creeped the fuck out sometimes. That’s why I still watch Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood when I get crazy paranoid stoned. Sometimes you’ve got to see how far you can push it.
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