Wednesday, July 30, 2008



Tuesday, July 29, 2008


Monday, July 28, 2008


As a childless man over a certain age, I'm the first one to admit that I want my brother's and sister's spawn to spawn in turn. I crave the screaming of little brats and the smell of crappy diapers. Just like I did with their parents, I can cuddle, cajole and curropt....then go home smoke a joint, turn on the TV and pop a cold one. Once again, I need to lavish love and have it lavished in return on me. No judgement. No expectations. It's not that I don't get love from all of them, I do, do I put this to those of you of age? Tick-fucking -tock kids?

Since I've never hidden this weaknest, it is in this atmosphere that my brother Bird totally took advantage of me this past weekend. I've been working on this new collage and half way through it I ran out of coloring books. It is a 54X90 canvas done entirely from uncolored coloring books, with background colors of red and black. It's sharp. So last week I asked Bird if he had any old coloring books in the attic.
On Saturday we'd been drinking all day at Wolf Lake and had just recieved a phone call from Paradise pond. The Voegelins were heading our way. Bird, Duke and I headed for Uncle Jimmy's to get more beer. But before we got in the car Bird pulled out a bag of coloring books. "Before I give these to you I want you to promise one thing." he said solemnly. "What?" I said, expecting him to insist that I backfilled the septic tank, which had just overflowed and he had just dug up. (That's another story). "Just promise." he growled. "Fine." I relented, still expecting shovel detail. "I want you to give that collage to my first grandchild." I was floored. Touched. Choked up. "You got it." I said and we shook on it. What the fuck was I thinking?

Did I tell you how slick this collage is? It's the culmination of a body of work that has been distilling for a while. OK, maybe it's not Johns' flag, but it's close. And now I have to cough it up to hang in some little snotnose's nursery, in return for six dollars worth of old coloring books?

Well, I'm nothing if not a man of my word. Which ever one of you girls have a kid first, this collage will go to that child. Boy or girl, genius or passenger on the short bus, this one's for Little Booger. I promise.



Sunday, July 27, 2008



Wednesday, July 16, 2008


I'm about a year away from opening the doors of the church. It's hard to schedule funerals , so I think we'll start with weddings. I like weddings. Personally I've been married twice. The marriages were iffy, but the weddings were both top notch.

My first wife and I got married in a Justice of the Peace's rec. room and had a big blow out at the Woodstock Pub. Later we stole 13 cases of beer and took the party back to our shack in the woods. We woke up to ritz crackers peanutbuttered to our windows and a house full of hungover friends. We didn't have sex.

My next wedding 20 years later was in back of Bird's house, with sister-in-law Heidi playing guitar in my tree stand and a Presbyterian minister doing the honors. The Workdogs played and Mike Wild roasted a pig. Everyone had a great time, (except wife #2) and we took the party back to Wolf Lake, where I stayed up all night, drinking, smoking pot and playing dominoes. We didn't have sex.

So now that I'm going to start officiating other people's weddings, I'm once again thinking of tying the noose....I mean knot, myself. I don't give up easy. I'm in love with a wonderful woman. Why not? Plus, I don't want to guarantee any of my work if it won't work for me. So I'm proposing. You heard me right. I'm popping the question. I don't have a response yet, but once I get done here, I'm checking the inbox. In the meantime I'm accepting reservations for Spring '09. Call (845)434-1918 to reserve your wedding day.

Maybe I'll try wedding night sex this time.

Friday, July 11, 2008


Thursday, July 10, 2008


All artists make fools of themselves in some way or another. But it's the ones who get paid for it and then deny culpability who get to me. Case in point is Olaf Erickson or Erik Olafson who recently had a big Moma retrospective and capped it with 4 East River "Waterfalls", that cost $15,000,000. I missed the piece, but caught the PBS stroke job on Channel 13. It was weaved in and out of a more pedestrian overview of NYC public works. But the waterwalls were the stars. And, of course, the artist. This guy denied any atachment to spectacle, but insisted it was all about embracing the negative space "between the falls...." in some way pointing out to us all that the bike path and bridge struts were the real show. I never heard such bullshit. Let me remind you- 15 million.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like public art. I even like those waterfalls. But scaffold and pumps? Where the fuck does that kind of cash go? This work is what the public wants and in the words of my brother "Do we have to kill you to make any money off your shit?" So I'm stepping into the public arena. Just so happens I have a few pieces in mind.

EL TORRO: This is a piece I've had in the works for some time. It involves building a "chopper" motorcycle and shipping it to Cuba. In the gas tank of the motorcycle will be hidden a sealed liquid nitrogen chamber that will contain multiple straws of bull semen. The semen is from bulls I have purchased with names like Cooley Jordan 8017r17 and Sonar of Brinks 607l18. Once in Cuba I would impregnate a cow and hopefully have a calf. The motorcycle would be ridden across Cuba and exhibited with the calf.

ADAM AND EVE: This involves taking two wild turkeys (a male and a female) into Central Park and releasing them, hoping that they would establish a population there.

THE MONEY CANNON: This piece would definitely require funding. I propose rigging a Blackhawk helicopter with a very real, very loud, very lethal looking door gun. But instead of firing bullets this gun would fire bursts of dollar bills. This piece could be done anywhere, but preferably where it would not be shot down before blasting the bills. It's not really about spectacle, .....rather the redistribution of wealth through proactive means.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008


The other day I was sitting around the kitchen table with Slick and GNJohn, divying up a bag of eye medicine, when I began to moan about a week long depression. "It's bad enough having my eyes slowly dim." I bitched. "But then to have to listen to nothing but bad news...." GNJohn nodded in sympathy and added "I know. Poor Britney." Now I was talking about genocide and a global food shortage, but GNJohn was right. It's the individuals of the world, the "poor Britneys" who are suffering. In an overwhelming climate of seemingly unmanageable issues like the melting of the polar ice cap and institutionalized rape in Darfur, maybe it is time to take a microcosmic look at how our neighbors are doing.
The poor Britneys in the former Miller's Settlement,(Glen Wild) are doing quite well, thank you. Even the trailer dwellers off on the extention roads drive shiny SUVs. The richest of the bunch, directly across the road, spends thousands on fireworks and turns the music up to 11. The sphincter loosening bass lines thump into the night as if to announce to the world- LIFE IS SO FUCKING GOOD....MUTHAFUCKER....DANCE, DANCE, poor fucks. Over on Paradise Pond all the PBs are drinking and eating steak and throwing knives 'til the wee hours. Me? I have money in the bank, gas in the car and venison in the freezer. BUT...and this is a big one- I can see the storm coming. I have no work, nor any expected soon. The art thing only drains my bank account and if things don't change I'll be dead broke again come first snow. Am I worried? Not really. Been there. Done that.
This past weekend, as Nidal beat Federer, my 8 year old fishing buddy Ace sat on my lap, sqirming and asking questions about firearms and playing his DS. He's the future. Decisions that are made today, in the world at large, will affect him. This is what worries me more than the fortunes of all the Poor Britneys in the world. When I'm 75 he'll be 28. What will his world be like? Then I felt a slight bit of air pressure on my leg, as he shifted his weight. "Did you fart?" I asked. I no sooner got the words out of my mouth, before he ripped one loose that shook the entire house. A pregnant pause followed......and then he and his father laughed so loud, and hard (at my expense) that I knew everything would be OK. Somewhere Poor Britney is passing gas. Now if we can just harness that energy.

Monday, July 7, 2008



Thursday, July 3, 2008


Yesterday I went for a bite down at the local bar and ran into an old friend Evits Snyder. I've known Evits since forever. I have a picture of the two of us as 8 year old baseball players. As we downed our lunch we got talking about the state of things- skyrocketing gas prices, encroaching unemployment, no health insurance, food riots, global warming, floods, wild fires, war, cancer, rape, starvation, torture....I ordered the cheezeburger. Evits had the Italian sub. We both wanted the liver and onions. But they took it off the menu.
Sitting in that cool dark bar, ticking off the world's problems, we kept harkening back to the salad days of our early adulthood in the 70's. Things were tough when we were crapped out of the education system into the work force. Interest rates were in the double digits. Gas went from 25 cents to 50 cents per gal. in the blink of an eye and you had to wait in long lines to get it. Vietnam was just winding down and Iran and Iraq were heating up. Unemployment was 50%. The Northeast was not the place to be. Evits went to Florida and I went to Cali. By the end of the decade Carter was out and Reagon was in. Before long interest rates went down, gas was plentiful and the party was back on. We both returned to NY. What happened?
Reagon and his puppetmasters decided that a straw president/actor and a corporate cabal could run the country (and the world) way better than politicians. It was a little like the Tudors in cowboy hats. And surprise, surprise, it worked. Big tobacco sold poisonous nicotine delivery systems as health aides at 50 cents per pack. Big oil went into Alaska and bullied OPEC and gas stayed below 75 cents. The hostages came home. Vietnam became a distant memory. After Carter's teetotling admininistration, booze came back to the Whitehouse. Coke was cheap and plentiful. Sure there was something called AIDS. But only fags and junkies got it. On the hole life was good. What happened?
By the time Big Bill was getting his pants pressed and cigar greased by Monica it was already to late. Remember this country was built on a slave economy and the genocide of indiginous peoples. As I look out my window at a new born calf and the oak tree swaying in a gentle breeze, I realize we're all living on borrowed time. Our society is in decline. The word "sustainability" that those granola eating, greenists love so much, rings hollow. We can't sustain a lifestyle that has been built on deception, greed, lies and crimes against humanity. Our days are numbered. Now if they'd just put the liver and onions back on the menu before it's too late.