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Human Communication

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By Joe Puglia | July 30, 2009
From his private stock of bootleg wine, Papa Puglia would fill his decanter, find his favorite glass and, while giving me a scowl, proclaim to all present, “Don’t bother me. I’m writing a letter!” Papa’s only sister, Zia Carmella, lived in Misterbianco, Sicily, and each Saturday evening he would systematically grab his Montegrappa pen, some sheets of fine linen paper, Waterman blue-black ink, and meticulously scribe the weekly events. I always wondered what he wrote.
ENTERTAINMENT
August 18, 2005
Anomaly art gallery and piercing studio presents "I Know You're Sorry, Now Apologize" a joint exhibit showcasing the paintings of L.A.-based artists Tyler Floren and Ruinsoncemore. This show will feature four new paintings by each artist as well as a few of their older favorites. Ruinsoncemore is a self-taught artist residing in Pasadena. He draws upon his many travels through America and his East Coast upbringing to express a surrealistic sentiment. His use of pop icons and technically decomposed backdrops serve as a critique of our modern society while simultaneously allowing the viewer to see a new world through his skewed vision.
NEWS
Joe Puglia | July 27, 2011
My buddy Ray Early and I were contemplating the ills of contemporary life. From microeconomics to text messaging, nothing was spared from our scrutiny. Our analysis evolved to the paradigm of human communication. “Who writes letters today?” Ray asked. “I do!” I replied. I have a penchant for writing letters. Kids today are ill-served by the phenomenon of electronic communication. My grandfather taught me the art of writing a letter. I remember his weekly ritual. Each Saturday, Papa Puglia would pour a glass of wine, grab his Montegrappa pen, some fine linen paper, Waterman blue-black ink. Then he would sit and meticulously scribe the weekly events to his sister, Zia Carmella, who lived in Misterbianco, Sicily.
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NEWS
By Joe Puglia | July 30, 2009
From his private stock of bootleg wine, Papa Puglia would fill his decanter, find his favorite glass and, while giving me a scowl, proclaim to all present, “Don’t bother me. I’m writing a letter!” Papa’s only sister, Zia Carmella, lived in Misterbianco, Sicily, and each Saturday evening he would systematically grab his Montegrappa pen, some sheets of fine linen paper, Waterman blue-black ink, and meticulously scribe the weekly events. I always wondered what he wrote.
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