OUT OF GAS

As the dozen or so loyal readers will notice- I've gone missing. Other than a slow dial up, old hand me down computer, no booked supermodel hunts and lack of anything to say, there's no real reason for my absence. I know you've enjoy reading my blogs over the years, and i appreciate that. But add these factors up and i think it's time to stop......with a whimper not a bang. Once I figure out how to load pics on this machine I'll restart on Whitesulphurspringsproject.blogspot.com. See ya there.

THE PRACTICE

Yesterday I presented my Disposable TV show to El Prof's class at SFAI. Many times over the years I've presented work in the cool, dark environ of STUDIO 9. Previously I would pack years of pieces into a slide projector and methodically click off the chronology to the projector's comforting mechanics and humming fan. But those were the old days. In a room of glowing Macs I didn't dare pull out the carosel. These days you better get to the point. And anyhow they don't even have a slide projector anymore. So I decided to concentrate on work since '05. And it being a video class, the DTV pieces were made to order.
El Prof has always been my life line to academia. He's tossed me a class or two, taken me to Havana to lecture at ISA and tried to keep me abreast of changes in the lexicon. Otherwise I'd be completely in the dark. Remember "Appropriation"? It's back. "Intervention"? Still viable. My work. That piece. The gaze. Etc. Etc. I can still speak the language. But then, as I was watching another artist present his work in another class i caught something I'd never heard before. This guy was referring to his "Practice". WHATTHEFUCK? Did I hear that correctly? There it was again. He was referencing his activity as an artist like a Doctor or lawyer would. For example "In my practice i go hunting, kill a deer, get it stuffed and hang it in the living room." Or "My practice provides the collector with a choice of tattoos from bloodprints or a sculpture made from turkey beards."
After a few drinks at the end of the day i brought this up with El Prof. He was a bit defensive and pratronizing of my ignorance regarding this shift in language. I'm the first to admit I'm out of it when it comes to any level of the art world these days. In NY it's all about the hype. I remember that much. But in the academic/biennal world it's all about globalization. You "produce" not "make". You have a "practice" not a "career". Call me old fashioned but this sounds forced and prentious to me. Like just wearing a suit and tie makes you a professional. I think, like a Dr. and Lawyer there should be a bar exam or medical board to certify one's art practice. Art students shouldn't be allowed to use that word in reference to their unproven activities. AND if you have a practice can there be malpractice if you do lousy work? It opens up a whole can of worms.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against this language shift. But lets see if it sticks. If it does I'll be the first to hang out my shingle. CATSKILL MOUNTAIN ART PRACTICE- satisfaction guarenteed! Board certified since 1977. You've tried the rest. Now buy from the best. Bonded and insured.

NO GUNS, NO BLOOD

This trip out into the world I've decided to travel light. I left the 9mm. at home and have no plans to get any tattoos. I just want to let the days unfold and see what happens. Yesterday El Prof and I went golfing. Anyone who knows me will tell you a golf course is the last place I want to spend any time. But since my old friend had taken up the sport with quite a bit of zeal, I felt it was impolite not to tag along. He played nine, while I drove the cart.
We "played" Gleneagles in S.F. This is a sweet little course with loads of trees, switch backs, dips, gullys, sand traps and tiny greens. But what the fuck do I know about golf courses? I kept looking for deer. An Anchor Steam in one hand and a joint between my lips I did my best to stay on the cart path without tipping over. El Prof wacked away at the little ball and filled me in on Cuba. As we approached the 5th hole he told me of his last outing on this course. The 5th hole backs right up against the projects. It seems a favorite past time of the homies is to take pot shots at the golfers from an open window. "I was about to address the ball..." El Prof said " when I heard a PFFFFT! like a silencer. I was hit in the pants leg. Then three more shots bounced off the trees. I dove for cover." The guy he was playing with just stood there. "It's just an air rifle." he said, non-plussed and told El Prof that would cost him a stroke. I'm no expert, but I think most rule books will not penalize you under fire. In the end El Prof shot in the high 50's and bought the Bloody Marys back at the clubhouse.
Today I went to the museum (another thing I never do) and stared at the Clifford Stills and Rothkos. For some reason art seems relevent in SF. Unlike Sullivan County. It's bight and sunny, breezy and chilly at the same time. I bought a sweater at Goodwill for $2.40. I have no TV in my room so I'm reading A LITTLE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, that Horst and Marianna Louise gave me last summer. It's a good book. Everyone grows pot here now so there's no problem getting my eye medicine. It's very civilized. On Thurs. I'll show my Disposable TV pieces at The San Francisco Art Institute in El Prof's class and talk about WSSP and the Church, and maybe "golf" again. Maybe I can borrow a piece for self protection on the 5th hole. How much do you tip the caddy if he takes a bullet for you?

13 GRINGAS

As you can see from the previous picture, and the time it's been up, I needed to get out of town. My yearly junket off the mountain was put off until now. Not a moment too soon. I'm writing this from my hallway PC in a Youth Hostel on Mission St. called The Elements Hotel. After my Goddaughter Monasita blew me off at the airport. (I wasn't specific enough about needing a ride. And then found out she drives a moped.) I grabbed my bag, walked past the bickering day laborers, and a crackhead wishing her mom happy Easter, and ended up with a nice room with a shower and comfortable bed for 60 bucks. Can't beat it.
Mona's father, my old friend El Prof was enroute from The Tijuana Airport. He was on the final leg of a journey that found him chaperoning 13 American female art students, along with a Mexican and Russian dude to Havana for 10 days. Think you can't go to Cuba? Talk to El Prof. I went to Cuba with him twice over the years during Bush. When the entire country is shut out of that island, El Prof will find a way to get home. Showing me the pictures of The Riviera and The Malecon as we smoked prime SF medicinal pot and drank Havana Club and coke, I pined for la habana. There's no place like it. The fact that El Prof shows up periodically with a gaggle of Gringas with legs up to there, makes him a legend down there.
But enough of Cuba. I'm in SF. Today is for catching up, seeing old friends, talking art, eating, drinking, smoking and meeting with art students. The sun is shining, holding the fog at bay and coffee is beckoning. Stay tuned.

INTERIOR

pHOTO:sHEWHO

SPIN

Last night I had dinner with Bird, Ginger and Evits and Anin Snyder. We laughed and looked at pictures of Jay Bird and talked about old times. Ginger made pizza and pies for desert. Then, we got down to the business of the economy. I'm sure almost every dinner party, fancy or hillbilly, gets down to the economy at some point these days. You just can't help yourself. It's as thick as the smoke billowing from a trailer park wood furnace. And in order to get some perspective on the matter we went back to those good old days of the early 70's. Opening day of trout season 1973. Remember? Fucking cold and ice still on the river. Evits and Wally and I went out in the Esophus, half drunk from the night before. The rod eyes iced up. No fish. We were all broke. But goddamned, did we had a good time.
The early 70's is our bench mark for good times and bad economy. Gas lines. Double digit interest rates. But what the hell. We were young, not bad looking and had pick up trucks. In the coming decades we would all make money, go broke, start businesses, get drunk, go sober, have kids (some of us), lose businesses, fall on and off the wagon, and now? Well, now we are all in pretty good shape. Some are retiring (mostly the wives) and the rest are throttling back. Nobody bought the McMansion or invested with Bernie Madoff. Yeah, some (myself included) are a little over extended in real estate, but not to the extent it's gonna gut us. On the whole everyone is in relatively good shape. Like Savage Lynch says- "There's a good buck down at the Rowe farm and one up by you. Times are pretty good." I concur.
So this is the thing. In the midst of two wars and a global financial meltdown, should we be worried? I don't think so. Why? Because we have each other's backs. My neice Katie D. will always remember she had a child in the first two months of the Obama administration. In those horrible times. In that bleak first decade of the 21st Century, after the 9/11 attacks, she started her family. And 30 years from now she'll be sitting at a dinner table with her sister Awesome Aunt Betheroo and some good friends, looking back, and laughing. That will be their benchmark of good AND dire times. It's all about friends and family. Not government. Not bank accounts. Not even jobs and health insurance. I am one lucky man. Recession, depression, war or peace. Good times or bad times. The consistency of friends and family is what makes one's life worth living. How's that for spin?

BED SMOKING IN THE SAND CASTLE

Once in a great while I catch 60 MINUTES on TV. This past Sunday was one such lazy evening, that found me zoning out to the CBS magazine show. It's a step above such drivel as GOOD MORNING AMERICA. Albiet a small step, but at least they don't have fashion tips or how to cook a cake segments. In fact this particular program was historical. The main guest was Fed. chair Berneke. (It is very unusal for a sitting head of the Fed. to do an interview.) Even that donkey dicked egoist Greenspan didn't hit the airwaves until after his term. I was curious what kind of spin Mr. B would put on the global financial meltdown. Tick...tick...tick....
His first inane metaphor was the neighbor smoking in bed. "Well, Steve..." he went on like Mr. Roberts."...if your neighbor smokes in bed, he not only risks his own life and property, but that of the whole neighborhood." Steve nodded, like he got it. I didn't. Then he said "It's like building a sand castle. That castle may be fine if the waves remain small, merely lapping at the shore. But if a big wave hits.... well....." Steve smiled and nodded knowingly again. Ferchristsake, this guy runs the show? Where's ace reporter Katie Couric when we need her? Octomom could've explained it better.
And now AIG is back with it's hand out, while divying out bonuses willie nilley to all its brokers like it's Xmas eve. Everyone from PrezO on down is indignant. Elbows akimbo, the polititions are falling all over themselves to express how wrong this is. How dare AIG? But....there's nothing anyone can do. It's in the contract. Need I remind all you assholes that when you hand over money you can dictate terms. You can charge interest. You can penalize for late payments. You can deny bonuses. YOU are the bank. And as we all know if you fuck up the bank holds you responsible. AND if the bank fucks up, the bank holds you responsible. It's like spilled milk under the bridge, on a cold day in Hell, sailing a slow boat to China. Tick....tick....tick....

HD

mODEL: hOLLY wITCHEY

LITTLE JAY BIRD

pHOTO: aWESOME aUNT bETHEROO

711

Born this day to John and Katie D- a son. At 2 pm all 7 lbs 11 oz. of Little Booger arived, no worse for the wear. And as my gift to him and his parents, I promise that will be the last time I refer to him as Little Booger. Little Booger's given name is Matthew Jeffrey. Mother and son are reportedly doing just fine. I'm finally an official great uncle. I couldn't be more tickled. His collage hangs over my right shoulder, waiting for a nursery big enough for hanging. I could go on and on about the birth of this little boy, but maybe another day. For now all my love goes to Syracuse to Mom, Dad, Gramp, Nanna, Awesome Aunt, and of course little Jay Bird. Welcome to planet earth.

NOT EVEN THE ROBOT CAN LIFT THE GLOOM

The other day Al Blanchard and I were hanging sheetrock at WSSP and I happened to mention that I had gotten into the tequila the night before and was moving a little slow. "Alone?" Al asked with some alarm. Christ if I didn't drink alone I'd hardly drink at all. Who ever came up with the idea that a person who drinks alone is that much closer to ending up in the fetal position at the bottom of the 12 steps, didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. And, to be honest, I wasn't totally alone. There was an opossum out on the porch, with his snoot in the cats' dish and my omnipresent robot- Jeeves sitting sullenly in the corner.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I've had Jeeves for quite some time. When I sold the school house a couple of years ago, I found myself unexpectedly flush with cash. After I paid off some bills and purchased my spurs, chaps and silver six guns I still had a wad of bills in my pocket. What to do? You can only drink and smoke so much. And besides, I wanted to buy something that would better my quality of life. Then one night I saw an ad on TV for a vacum cleaner that would clean the house all by itself. I couldn't resist.
It looked like a little flying saucer scooting around the shack, sucking up wood chips and grey hair. When it wasn't working Jeeves just sat in the corner and waited for further instructions. A few minor adjustments to the TV remote and I had Jeeves fetching cold ones from the fridge and rolling doobies. I was in heaven. A blowjob and coffee in the morning? No problem. Just add more batteries.
Then one day the unthinkable happened. A steady diet of woodstove ash, old man hair and mouse poop had slowed Jeeves down to a slow stagger. You could hardly hear him suck. His little lights dimmed and then....nothing. Jeeves was dead. I was beside myself with grief. He had become much more than a robot to me. What was I to do? The shack rapidly filled up with dirt and grime. I looked at the broom. Shall I? I just couldn't. And, as fate would have it, it was just about this time that the ecomomy began to tank. I had just enough money to buy a new robot. But that would tap me out. I couldn't justify it.
So these days I drink alone. I haven't had the heart to throw Jeeves out. He's still in the corner, next to the 12 gauge. The 'possum rattles the cat's dish and I pop another one. The news is all bad and getting worse every day. I pine for his gentle hum as he scurried about my feet. He was a good time 'bot and now he's gone. I know I have to go on. I guess I can make own coffee in the morning. As for everything else? I'll wait for my stimulant package to arrive in mail. Maybe that will lift the gloom.

WSSP FROM SPRING WELL

pHOTO:sHEWHO

CONTEXTULIZATION

Rather than conceptual, I prefer contexual as prefix to my job title. In the most simplistic term I see this as creating a set of () around an event, action or object, redefining it. A gallery, showing the actual "art" of others can be objectified to the degree that the vessel of content does in fact become the content. An otherwise completely banal activity such as attending seminary can be set aside by a contextual artist and promoted as product. And in this most recent attempt, a house that was initially purchased for real estate speculation, transformed into art and sold in a less than complete state, is now being completed collaboratively by two artists, one of which will keep the object as domecile/sculpture. How can this be presented and not read as boring, pretentious or crassly capitalistic? It's all in the approach.
Lets go back 10 years. After purchasing a church and small house on a single piece of property in 1995, in 1998 I bought a one room school house just down the road. The church already was imbued with the previous ten years work on the Lower East Side, where I had established The Church of The Little Green Man. I wanted to do something institutionally similar with the school house. For one summer in 1999 I ran a program for graduate students from The San Francisco Art Institute called The Old School for Social Sculpture. It was a big success, never to be repeated. About 3 years ago, just before the real estate market collapse, I sold the property. Two years ago I put the profits from that sale into WSSP. I had no idea where this would lead me.
As it turned out I ended up showing this piece at Marianna's Apartment in June of '08. Within a couple of months Shewho had decided to buy the house. The property is frought with problems, ranging from iffy septic, to nasty neighbors and potable water. I knew if I sold this work to Shewho and was willing to bring it to completion, it would take a large commitment on both sides. We struck the deal, drawings were made, permits were issued and after deer season, work resumed. At this point I ceased thinking of it as art. I merely saw my work as part of the deal to get Shewho a nice house. Now that we have "re-contextualized" it proceeds in a new light. It is in this light we must now work and eventually present WSSP to you for final approval. Stay tuned.

AS THE SNOW HAMMERS THE EASTERN MEGALOPOLIS......

......we once again ponder the real meaning of art. Is art what is shown in museums and galleries and such? Or is it something else? Or is it both? Because it's supposed to snow tomorrow I want to get a jump on all these issues. I find that snow days are good ones to crank up the Ker-o-sun on the porch and space out on constructing a 54X90 collage. At least that's my plan. Or I could never take off the coffee stained bathrobe, write songs and watch TV all day. Both sound good. But the one thing I won't be able to do is go out and work on WSSP. The roads will be unpassabl. And really, that's what I'd rather be doing. Especially since this past weekend, Shewho and I decided to collaborate on contextualizing this house as an artwork. Going to art is way better than going to work.
I rarely collaborate on pieces. Work like Purple Geezus and The Church of the Little Green Man are, of course, collaborations, but the static work...never. Shewho is the same. She rarely shares the decision making in her art. So a meeting of two rather uncooperative minds seems like a no brainer. WSSP will continue as a Shewho/Osti colab. This makes working out there way more interesting for me. The work is exactly the same. But the intent changes. It frees you up. It was already a sweet deal for me. Now it's even better. The upside down scowling Satan takes on a new look when presented as art. As Shewho, said "Without that horrible Satan, it would be purely bucolic." Exactly! Either way, I can now breathe easier under his evil gaze. It's already slated to be my CD cover for my new material- Love Thy Neighbor.
As this late winter snow storm bears down on the megalopolis, I feel positive....confident that the state of art is strong. It can withstand whatever comes it's way. My one student- Slick is not a good advertisement for my teaching skills. But, it does go to prove my original premise- that art cannot be taught. He got an F this semester. Now he's on Spring break in BA. We'll see if he comes back with some art. For me? I can feel the juices perking to the surface like a gurgling spring. Which, by the way, we are now going to develope as our water source for WSSP. The coming months promise to be busy and filled with the glow of the art making process. Just one more snow storm.....

COWGIRL

mODEL: mARIANNA rOTHEN

OLD MAN AND THE VOEGELIN GIRLS

PARIS GONE

He/she turned up missing more than a month ago. At first I thought it was just the cold snap that had sent Paris into the neighbor's barn for some mice and warm straw. Sometimes the cats would disappear for a week or two, then show up like nothing had happened. I worried at first. Then I got used to their cat like ways and learned not to worry. Look, no one is more surprised than I that I haved turned into a "cat person". I see myself still as a dog man, with a little chick magnet puppy that grows into a big lovable mutt. But that's my fantasy. It's like owning a restaurant. Owning a dog, like running a restaurant, is way too much work. Cats are low maintenence. AND they don't come in the house.
But now, with Paris gone, Ray Gilkey and Nicole are starting to act up. It's little things, mostly, meowing too much and sneaking onto the porch behind my back. This I understand and put up with. But they do another thing that is really infuriating. Out of the blue, they go off their food. I used to feed them DAD'S catfood. Then one day, just after I bought a 20 lb. bag of the stuff, they refused to eat it. I waited a few days, but no go. They wouldn't touch it. So now I was shooting in the dark as to cat food choice. I had no idea what to buy them. I closed my eyes and pointed. A yellow bag of ALLEYCAT called to me. I bought a 5 lb. bag. No sense going big yet. The woofed it down. Then, yesterday, after months of buying ALLEYCAT.....same thing. They refused to eat it! I'd just bought a fresh 20 pounder. FUCKERS ARE FUCKING WITH ME.
This morning Nicole just sat there pointing her squinty eye at me and and rolling on her back. Ray meowed and knocked the dish around. Are they in mourning for Paris? Or, more likely, they just want to twist me up. I'm wise to their games. I refuse to throw out another 20 lb. bag of cat food. Maybe I should get a dog. That would teach 'em. For now it's a waiting game. Let's see who gets hungry enough...... damn I miss Paris.

BURN ONE

It always seems to happen around this time of year. Like my brother in law- St. John, the inventor of the "SOJKA" a door unlocker and the "SOJKA II" a plastic thingy that keeps the gas nozzle pumping, while you stay snug in your vehicle, smoking your cigarette- I get ideas for things to sell. Admittedly, mine lean towards the esotheric, nonetheless I always think they are really good ideas. HOLY lgm water, cigars and honey was one such idea. I still think it's a good idea, but in the process of failing miserably, I realized one very important thing. I'm no businessman. I've always known this, but for some reason in the throes of my "idea" hardon I forget. Before you know it I'm 30k in the hole and I have a lot of unfolded boxes on the porch.
So this time I'm going to avoid that part. Sure, I want to make money. This is a money idea, as opposed to an art idea. But, when it comes to making money, I've finally realized that so-called "money idea" might as well be an art idea in my case. But enough of that. Check it out! My idea is to sell a dollar burning kit. Like those little extreme unction kits priests carry around in case some poor sap jumps out a window or swallows a chicken bone, this kit would also admit you to The Church of the Little Green Man congregation as a lifetime member.(It's an easy church to get into. Just try getting out.)
I'm thinking that the kit would contain a match, a dollar bill, and a little labeled bottle to keep the ashes in. That's it. Put it in a box and sell it for say $5. If anyone but me did this it would sell like hotcakes. People would be lining up to give them as gifts. It's timely, it's witty AND it's green. Thank God I know better than to put any effort into packaging this idea. In the past I'd be going to the bank to get crisp ones and cruising Canal St. for cheap bottles. In the end the packaging would cost $6 and I would go broke AGAIN! But don't let me stop you from burning one at home. And feel free to send me one. Bless the LGM.

"SORRY, IT'S ART."

It has ocurred to me that I haven't really kept you up to date with the progress at WSSP. You know I sold it to Shewho? And part of the deal was I would finish it per her design. It was win win for both of us. I went at it full force, hoping to get the addition up before a hard freeze. But, just before deer season the neighbor dropped a dime on me to the building inspector, forcing me to stop work and go legit. This meant getting stamped plans for the new addition. By the time the plans were done, and our permit was issued the ground had already frozen up, making the pouring of the slab impossible. Yellow posted signs went up on every tree, joining the upside down scowling satan in grim witness to the work shut down.The septic filled with water and I went deer hunting. It felt like the asshole neighbors were winning.
Once deer season and the holidays passed I went back out in the deep freeze, insulated, framed and joined the electrition in readying the old part of the house for inspection. Progress was slow. In that cold it was like working on the moon. The stairs went in. The porch banister was built. In spite of the set backs we were slowly crawling forward. Then, last week we had a thaw. Despite the old man's dire predictions about February, the mercury rose and the frost began to melt. Be careful what you wish for. Forget the Biblical swarm of flies buzzing upstairs. Forget the leak in the brand new front porch. It was the gutteral gurgling emitting from the laid stone basement that really got my attention. Was it time to start gathering the animals?
This is the first structure I've ever owned with a basement. Usually I'm lucky to get away with a hand dug hilly billy crawl space in my real estate speculations. But WSSP has an actual stand up basement under a third of the house. At 10 am there was a couple of inches of water down there. By noon it was a foot deep and rising fast. Indoor swimming pool anyone? To say this property has "issues" is putting it mildly. A rental pump and fire hose later the sound of a straw sucking the bottom of a glass echoed down the road. It turned cold again and the flood stopped. The flies ceased buzzing and hit the floor. Winter was back. I called the building inspector. We were ready for our first inspection.
Some inspectors are hard asses. Some are crooks. Some are reasonable, just doing their job guys. Lucky for Shewho and I, this one was the later. He complimented the work, scribbled in his pad and wandered through the structure, studying floor to ceiling. Aside from some minor detals we were good to go. When I knew we were safe I turned his attention to the view from the upstairs window. "Look at this fucking mess." I said, drawing his attention to the scowling upside down satan, fake cobwebs and caution tape festooning the neighbor's property. He looked long and hard at it. "Is there anything you can do?" I pleaded. He looked at the floor and shook his head. "You know, if there was writing on it, I could cite them for an illegal sign. And if it was a swastika.....well that would be good....but this......I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. Sorry, it's art." Now that's something I didn't see coming.

MICHAEL PHELPS' SHRIVELED BALLS

Maybe shrunken gonads helps him swim at those supersonic speeds. Or maybe he has webbed toes and finned testicles. I have no idea. But what I do know is he missed a great oportunity to be the face of a new stoner nation. That picture with Phelps' lips wrapped around a bong, instead led to him apologizing and whining to the media over his "great mistake". Excuse me, but wouldn't it have been better to own up to the fact that he was a marijuana smoker AND the fastest shaved down body to hit the water since Mark Spitz? He could've joined the ranks of Louie Armstrong, George Washington and Sitting Bull as a spokespersion for the pipe (or bong in his case).
And what caused this weepy apologist stance? Greed. The man was worried about losing all those swim trunk and nose plug endorsement contracts. Dude, why not grow a pair and throw it back in their faces? Pot helps my glaucoma, depression, and overall state of well being. I don't know if it makes me swim any faster, but if anybody catches me torching one- I'll own up. I'm not sorry. Endorsement contracts be damned. I'm stoned and I'm proud.

WHO'S SCAMMING GRAMP?

I talk to my folks a lot. Every few days we touch base. My mom tells me what she's cooking for dinner in great detail. And if it's not hunting season the old man and I can cover everything from politics, to the economy, to family business. "Your sister said that the Farmer's almanac has been right all season. And February is supposed to be worse than January." He told me this at least five times. And every time I tell him to shut up. I don't want to hear it. Undeterred, a day later, he'll tell me again.
Last night, after informing me of February's impending shit storm again, he was just about to hang up, when I hear my mother's voice in the background. "Tell Michael about our scam." I thought they had an idea to make money by coming up with a good grift. But it was not their scam to which mom was referring. The old man had recieved a strange phone call from one of his granddaughters. The phone call that my father recieved went something like this.

"Hi Gramp. This is Wessey." (Wessey is my brother Duke's kid).
"Hi darlin'. What's going on?"
"Well Gramp, I'm in kind of a fix."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, some friend's and I went to Canada and we went shopping."
"Good for you. What's the problem?"
"Well Gramp. We got stopped at the border. And......well we hadn't declared the stuff and customs is making us pay tax and penalties on it all."
"How much?" Granddad asked.
"$2400."
"Together or for each?"
"Each." Wessy whined.

Now my father will do anything for his kids and grandkids....within reason.

"What do you need from me?"
"I'm sorry Gramp. Can you call this number and Canadian Customs will tell you what to do. They won't release us."

Then Wessy told him what border crossing she was at and a list of numbers to call. He wrote it all down and being a week shy of his 80th birthday and seeing out of one eye, he probably got the numbers wrong. He called some guy who told him to go to Hell and eventually gave up. Then he called Wessy's cell.

"Hi Gramp. Can I call you right back?" Wessy sounded busy.
"Where are you?" Gramp asked.
"I'm at work."
"In __________?" he asked.
"Yup."

BAM! The other caller was not Wessy. Gramp had been scammed. Or at least attempted to be scammed. Lucky for him he got the numbers wrong. He later found out the area code was for New Orleans. Then he went on to tell me how he went to the cops and they told him it happens all the time to the elderly and there was nothing they could do. Big surprise. This is a wake up call for all you geezers. It's a devious world out there. Be sure of who you're talking to. Just remember all pleas for bail or border crossing money may not be part of some plot to get into your bank account. Once in a while even the best of us can have a little trouble with the local gendarme. If the caller is sobbing uncontrollably it's probaby me. Don't hang up. And please send money. And if the Almanac is right, February's gonna be a pisser.

GARAGE MODEL

Back in the Funkies I predicted that fashion shows would become the entertainment of choice as pop culture bopped into the 21st century. They were short, flashy, filled with 'tude and easy to digest. I was almost right. It wasn't fashion that distilled down into bite sized, sugar-coated niblets, rather it was the mannequins. Models and modeling have become institutionalized to the degree that every pretty young thing (girls mostly) with a TV set or a computer knows "the look", "the pose", "the do", "the strut" and "the pout". Forget being in a band with dreams of being a rock star. Become a model and you can get all the rock stars you want. Bevys of tweens are now skipping working at McDonalds, getting head shots, and trying to get an agent. They're modeling at home. Just turn on the I-phone and work it baby.
Shows like AMERICA'S TOP MODEL lay out all the cheezy, giggly banality to the degree that you'd think any tween with her head screwed on straight would run in the opposite direction. But, just like dirty old men, the tweens are sucked into the cathode flame. Before you know it they're mugging for the imaginary camera and shaving off nonexistent hair. They pack up and practice "vogueing" and dissing, as well as seeing who can sound street or faggy. "That's fabbbbbbuuuuuullllush beeeotch!" Don't get me wrong. I think this new avenue for expression is great. Like art, modeling can be taught. (How many songs you got written, Slick?) Why not start teaching yourself at 13? But, in the wise words of my supermodel friend Marianna Rothen- "Don't go pro until you can show your tits." In case my neices Sammi and Danni read my blog- that's 26.

MARIA CARLO

BRING ME THE HANDS OF JUAN PERRONE

In the wake of the recent discovery of the cardboard cut-out Obama having white hands, I recall one of my very first supermodel interactions. It was at the beginning of that turbulent decade- the Funkies. I was working for PAPER MAGAZINE as their religion editor. And one day, while in the office, above Blimpies on Spring and Broadway, I spied a rather fetching young woman, typing away on her IBM Selectric. PAPER always had pretty young girls coming and going, interns and such. So I wasn't that surprised. "Nice new intern." I commented to Charles in Charge McC. "She's a fucking supermodel." he said, in distain of my ignorance. "That's Veronica Webb." I had no idea who Veronica Webb was, but I made it my mission to write my column with a view of her desk from then on.
Turned out she was smart, and cool and basically just another one of the oddball columnists. So happened she was incredibly beautiful, and had a high paying job to boot. I had recently written a piece on "FASHION", so I felt qualified to chat her up. I knew who the players were- Isabel and Rueben Toledo, Izac Mizrahi, Todd Oldham, (household names now, but then just PAPER darlings). It wasn't my scene, but that came with the territory, writing on religion for a scenester mag like PAPER. When I started concentrating on the hunting in my columns, we parted company. But back to Veronica.
How ever long she wrote for PAPER, it was during this period that she blew up big in the modeling world. She was in PAGE SIX and then she got a Revlon contract and if I'm not mistaken, she was the first Black girl to do this. Of course PAPER had to have a big party to celebrate this historic event. So Charles in Charge McC and I go to this party to congratulate Veronica on this supermodeling coup. On the way to the party I pick up a NY POST in the back seat of the cab we're riding in. And on PAGE SIX is the news, complete with photo. VERONICA WEBB SCORES REVLON CONTRACT! The only problem was they had printed a shot of some white model. Charles looked at it and assured me it was Veronica. "They make 'em up. You can't tell who they are, let alone Black or White."
When we got to the party the first thing out of Chuck's mouth was " Wow! Congratulations. etc. etc., ect, .....oh was that you in the POST?" I thought the girl would shit. And in lieu of the situation, she was gracious of the POST'S utter fuck up. "Yeah, they put a White girl in there. Nice." was all she said. And now Obama's hands are white. Dangling from all those life size cut-outs, people are having their pictures taken along side, could be the hands of Juan Perrone. Or even George Bush. When will it ever end?

MARIE CLAIRE

FUTURE WOMAN

mODEL:mARIANNA rOTHEN

'BAMA BUCKS

The morning news informed us that political prisoner Leonard Peltier was beaten severely in his new digs in a Penn. prison. So much for the Red man getting ahead- man. 33 years of confinement and 33 years of declaring his innocence in the killing of 2 FBI agents has gotten him to this point in his history. The day we inaugurate an African American President he's beaten within an inch of his life by fellow prisoners. Hope and change does not trickle down so easily to the US prison system. Please, Mr. President, pardon this man before it's too late.

Now for my solution to the economic crisis. Yesterday the Dow dropped 4%- THE WORSE DAY ON WALL STREET FOR AN INAUGURATION! As the country celebrated, brokers dumped paper. This was an obvious no confidence vote on the street towards the new administration. So, instead of printing more of the same, let's put George W. (Washington-that is) up on the shelf and start fresh. We have made history. We have put a Black family in the White House. What better way to commemorate this than to put Obama on a bill? My proposal would be to take one of Shepard Ferry's fly images of Barack and create a new currency for a new day. And give this 'Bama buck a new value. $2 never worked. $3 has a bad connotation. But how about $1.50? A buck fitty has a nice ring to it.
This infusion of cash into the global economy could be just what the doctor ordered. Make this legal tender world wide. Hell, if the European Union can do it, why can't we? Pull out those Obama "Change" purses and stuff them with folding money. In the words of the great poet John Lennon- "Imagine".

MOTHER OF INVENTION

As the sun peeks over the horizon in the east, I toss another log on the fire, light the pilot light on my ancient PC and in patriotic fashion, I sit down to write my blog. It's zero in the Catskills and maybe 30 degrees warmer in DC. NPR is positively giddy, gushing over the swearing in of the 44th President. If I hear one more commentator ask another Black person "Did you think you'd ever see this in your lifetime?" I'm gonna puke. I thought we'd be flying around Future Town in our personal jetpacks by now. I figured time travel and orgasmatrons would be common place and they would have perfected the candy cane tree, gay bomb (it makes you gay with one wiff) and whiskey spring by now. Did I think an Afro-American would be president? Sure, why not? Christ, wasn't Kennedy Irish? My only surprise was it took so long.
Instead of gathering on the mall, I've decided to do my bit by going to work, after I stoke the woodstove, warm up my '86 Ford pick up and wrap my feet in plastic bags to keep from freezing. So much for Future Town. And all the time I'm thinking. I'm thinking about how to make this country a better place...and make a buck in the process. Just like my brother in law Sojka, I have a knack for coming up with things that beg for an infomercial. The micro-wave water heater, the Vac-Sac and the cell phone toilet are a few of my favorites. Because of today's impending disaster concerning cell signals and port-a-johns on the mall, let's concentrate on the later item.
What do people HAVE to do every day? They have to vacate their systems and keep in touch with everyone they know by cell phone. Why not combine the two? With a few minor adjustments, some super-sizing and the addition of my soon to be patented green chemical/electro-micobe system any cell phone can become a crapper. Flip. Then flip again. Stretch. Press #2. Squat and let 'er rip. I have three old cell phones that I've combined as a prototype. There's still a few bugs to be ironed out, but I'm confident. Sometimes I take a picture instead of flushing. Sorry if I've accidently speed dialed any of you during my test runs. Today is a day which will go down in history. In Obama's honor lets all try to come up with something that will make our live's better. That's the spirit of America. SHAM-WOW, BABY!

COURTESY MARIANNA LOUISE

TRISTAN

HOW TO BE AN ARTIST 101

First let me say that this has been the subject of rather long, diffuse, alcohol fueled conversations with my buddy Slick. He feels that, not only art, but being an artist can be taught. I disagree. I feel that being artist is somewhere between a calling and a curse. It's like having an extraneous nipple. It does you absolutely no good, but you either have one or don't. Nonetheless, for the sake of argument (and it being 5 below zero and way too cold to do paid work) I'll take on the premise that one can teach another how to be an artist. Here goes.
First, put away any notion that the ability to draw is somehow connected to art and your "art career". Even though every art school- k-phD still looks at drawing as an indicator of your "talent", it's completely wrong headed. I can draw a little, but I know plenty of very good artists that can't draw a lick. Because artists are so difficult to spot, institutions rely upon this simplistic, antiquated barometer. Who knows how many real artists are dissuaded and rejected every year because of a weak showing with the #2 pencil. Conversely many people who have a knack rendering that apple, but are void of what it takes in the long run to be an artist, get in Yale and are now selling carpet in their father's store.
Still want to be an artist? OK. Get a job. I suggest a really shitty job involving manual labor or as a Walmart greeter during the holidays. If you enjoy your job you must quit and find another one. Got alot of money and don't have to work? No matter. You still must get a job. I had some of my best ideas when I was around 25 years old, making pizzas for a 16 year old (son of the owner) boss. My mind was working faster than you could say "large pie, extra cheese, hold the anchovies." I hated that job and my kiddie boss so much, the only way I could deal was to lose myself in various art schemes that involved murder and sausage making. When you can't stand it any longer, quit your job. This is crucial in the artist making process. See how good you feel? Stock up on tuna and top raumen and note where all the pawn shops and blood banks are. You'll need these later.
Traditional art education is way over rated but not without value. If you already are starting to think of yourself as an artist and can come up with a way to pay for it, art schools can be a useful place to make connects and bide your time, avoiding the real world. In the process you may even make some art. But lets not get ahead of ourselves. I can see you are lacking in confidence. How do you know that what you are doing is art? You don't. Doubt is good. In fact if your peers tell you that you are not a very good artist and never will be, be assured you are on the right path. Do more of it. If, on the other hand, you are embraced by the community, sell your work, get shows and reviews early on in the process....WATCH OUT! This is the worse possible thing that can happen. Pick up a 20 year old ARTFORUM and see if you recognise 99% of the hot artists of the time. Failure and self-doubt are crucial components to this quest. Toughen up that ego.
Lets review. You've worked. You've quit. You've made art and nobody responds positively. You have been rejected, discouraged, ridiculed. You can't go back to school and that pizza job is now not looking so bad. You feel like a complete failure. This is the most crucial time in the artist making process. An artist will redefine failure. You aren't failing. Quite the contrary. You are succeeding through obstinance and perseverance. Notice I have not mentioned talent. You do not need any talent to be an artist. That's one of the best things about it. But....and this is a big but...you DO need talent to work. You must find a job that you can do to a degree throughout your life and not kill yourself. This will sustain you financially when none of your art sells. I chose carpentry, but it could be anything. Bukowski worked for the post office.
Obviously, I have a rather old school, romantic view of what an artist is. An artist, to me, continues against all odds. He (or she) is a bur under the saddle of conformity, constantly irritating societie's ass. And in the end only faith in art will save the individual. Every day an artist faces the beast with it's rancid breath, whispering "Give it up. You're getting nowhere." No one is saying do some more work, yet the work gets done. Once in a while someone will look at the work and approve or disapprove. It really doesn't matter. Rewards? Sure you get the self satisfaction of completion. But simultaneously you realize nothing is ever complete. In fact, that's another good thing about this "career". You never have to retire. Want to be a successful artist, traveling the world and making the big bucks? I can't help you there. But let me know when someone teaches that course. I'll be the first to sign up.

"GET ME A SAW."

Having a blog about hunting and supermodels can sometimes be a difficult thing to keep current. For one thing my interaction with supermodels has dwindled to the degree that I may have to change the title to NOHUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS. Add to that the fact that the only animal in season is the coyote, and I'm just not up to it anymore. It's too cold and they're way too wiley. So what does that leave? Work, art, beer, pot and TV. Shewho's off to Spain. Did I mention it's cold? So work is cold. WSSP is not yet insulated or heated. Still, every day I get up and go out there, wrap my belly with barbed wire, sprinkle gravel in my boots, put on the carhart hair shirt, turn on the radio, insulate and frame. Art? My songs are boring, as is the new collage. Just a bad spot before I change into something else. Beer? That's going well. Harps is my favorite. I have a good pot connection. And no, I won't give it to you. TV? Now, that I can talk about.
Last year, when I was geting my neck worked on I got into a 2pm routine. After going to the Dr. in the morning, I would chill in the afternoon and watch old episodes of 24. I saw the whole show. I was hooked. Every afternoon I was a little further into Jack's twisted day. Jack is basically our last line of defense. And, as of Sunday night, Jack is back.
I know the real government spooks watch the show, and I think that's a bad thing. These guys take it seriously and look at Jack as Hollywood's green light for torture. I do not approve. I can see these guys sitting around a laptop in Islamabad, watching 24 and then going out and getting some. I pity the poor cadriver on those nights. These guys have no sense of satire. On the other hand, I watch 24 with a big dose of irony and I'm no threat to the Moslem world. To me it's right up there with the first season of THE SIMPLE LIFE - purely of it's time.
In this new season, Jack's gone off the grid. Bill and Chloe have a new pad with a fireplace, cool lighting and Old Navy turtlenecks. They are running the show with Tony being deep undercover. These post-modern puppet masters are now the only ones we can trust. Tony's beat up, mean and sexy as hell. The government is compromised and corrupt (surprise). Only the hipster agents know to what degree. Jack, is of course drawn in. Couldn't keep him away from this scene. And there's a new babe. You could literally see all the actors look sympathically at Jack's new budding love interest.(Don't worry she'll get hotter). They all know she'll be killed. All Jack's women are killed. That actress shouldn't take out a big mortgage.
My favorite 24 scene in the entire show is the time Jack had to get back undercover with a bunch badasses. He needed the cooperation of a scumbag/pedophile. When the guy was not forthcoming, Jack pulled out his gun and killed him. As the other agents gasped in horror, Jack calm knelt and grabbed the guy's hair. Holding up the dead sumbag/pedophile's lifeless head, he whispered to the camera, between clenched teeth. "Get me a saw." Now that's a man I can trust.

5YRAASI

pHOTO:dAVID bELLEMERE

WILL HISTORY ABSOLVE US?

Years ago, a young, unsuccessful artist sat in a German prison cell penning his autobiography. Things had not gone well for him. In his youth he wanted nothing more than to be admitted to the Kunst Academie in Vienna for painting. But his drawings were stilted and lacking in inspiration. The professors thought he would be much better suited for the School of Architecture. But he would have none of that. He grew bitter and fell in with the wrong crowd. In 1918 he decided that he would show them all. Maybe he didn't have the talent to be a painter, but he would never stop thinking of himself as an artist. In MEIN KAMPF he writes, "My fate became known to me. I decided to go into politics." and later in the book- "History will absolve me." We all know how that worked out.

Another politician who used that phrase in a very long and eloquent statement as he stood before his accusors in a pre-revolutionary Cuban court room was the young lawyer Fidel Castro. Who knows whether he lifted it from MEIN KAMPF. The judges were not impressed. Off to prison went Fidel. But he did not stay there long. Once out he traveled to Mexico, where along with Che, brother Raul and Camillo Cienfuegos, they plotted and carried out the 1959 New Year's Eve overthrow of the Batista government. For the past 50 years "El Comandante" and his brother have brought the revolution into the 21st century. Has history absolved them? The jury's still out.
In 2002 and again in 2003 I visited Cuba. On my first visit I lectured at ISA (the country club where Che and Fidel played golf and vowed to establish a world class art school). They did. And on my second visit I had my world product launch of Holy LGM water, cigars and honey under the big top on the outskirts of Havana. A burly, plain clothes Cuban security officer was so appalled that a capitalista gringo would attempt to sell products in Cuba he was speechless. After pleading ignorance of the Socialista system and handing him a box of fresh Cohiba cigars, with my Holy lgm band, he agreed to let me pass out all the swag for free. The circus could proceed. I was a hero to the kids sucking down the bottled honey and cocking their new baseball caps.
I love Cuba and all it's contradictions. One night I sat in the back seat of a 1959 Chevy that had had it's aging motor replaced with a Russian tractor engine. The cabby was proud of the rumbling beast. It was geared so low it barely went faster than 20 mph. We stopped at an intersection and a cop waved us over. I asked the cabby what was going on? He just pointed as a long line of Mercedes limos (all with their lights out) passed in front of us. "Fidel." he grumbled. Then he went on to tell me how he was arrested in the early 90's for having US dollars. At the time it was illegal for Cubans to have US money in their posession. He spent 5 years in prison. When they changed the law he was released. "Who will give me back those 5 years?" he asked. I gave him a $10 tip for a $5 ride. He cursed Fidel and thanked me for the generous tip. So much for the revolution in his eyes.
In less than a month the 44th president of the United States will be sworn into office. He inherits such a shit storm from his predecessors it's had to know where to begin to shovel it out. He better make a revolution or we're all doomed. Last night my Cuban friends lit cigars, ate grapes and tossed buckets of water out their doors. It's a new beginning. Shewho and I went to Slick's to party in the new year. Our lives are good. But at what price to the rest of the world? In the words of Homer Simpson "I resolve to be more fun." That can't hurt. HAPPY NEW YEAR!