Every four years the election season wafts into the bay—a nauseating red tide. We ruminate: do we book it for the homeland? I certainly weigh the options of dairy farming in County Cork, maybe even bootlegging growth hormones in by boat from Amsterdam. I could complement the wholesome back-breaking labor with a slim output of watercolors. Paint the steaming cow shit as it congregates with the mist at dawn.

Everyone at PG is too overextended to back down from our posts at the frontier on 187 East Broadway. We’re up to our ears in debt, outstanding arrest warrants and dinner party obligations. In LIVE FREE AND DIE, our artists aren’t concerned with the cosmetic rhetoric of the election. They work full-time at the crash test site of commerce and entertainment, at the laboratory of indoctrination, and with weapons of mass distraction.