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....