Tag Archives: art

The Premise

Project Scenewash has been heard to decree
the awful battleground where art and politics plea,
beat and battered each other up, none to agree,
and few are they who seemed the wiser...

Painting the fabric civilization vain
must wear to spare itself the critical pain
crude slavery unjust must follow
profane, the closed closet eye
torn against brash sky too soon
no rain, this wrecking ball
heart next to nix over noon
a vanishing dead stain,
the wretched call sign
of the blood red moon...

and that, of course,
is a course made plain,
fussy labors in vain no single man
can reign, by every account his plan
suffers the curse, his hopes lost too,
to the shallow gray range,
the eagle, the lion,
the bitter cold change.

Around The Rock That Ruined The School Of Diabolical Poets

poster-wall
DC Space Poster Wall
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SUE AND I PLAN on getting to the Saturday night show. Is that the rock show for you? I have Open Studios that day, and again the next day, and am on doctor's orders of no alcohol (not a problem these days), plus now my latest whack, my right knee is popping, is swollen, and is painful. And to think I am soon moving up to a studio with a third floor walkup...

This will be my last 9353 show, my favorite band of the local Yellow Years. My rocker friends can't pull themselves away from their own egos long enough to lolly over to mine, so it's time to prune the branches. Frankly, I'm forcing myself to attend this show because Norman (a la Martine) has come out to a show of mine. Wait a minute! I've already gone to see his band play. We're dead even by my count. But I will stumble over to this last show. Because I said I would. Club scenes require hard drinking in my vernacular, to combat the smoke, and general sense of uselessness, and I can't afford that particular luxury anymore. Those days are just about over for me, as you've no doubt understood me to say in print several times before.

Seriously. Bruce and Kathleen have each promised to swing by sometime, on the heels of numerous invitations. Eventually, the song and dance phase freezes over. We each are forced into bold choices. There's no animosity here, just cold hard decisions required by the frank limitations luciferian time presents us. And I'm really tight with the reciprocity angle, so out with the pruning shears. Time to face the lions...

Life outside the law of lions is a bucket of stones slowly crushed into sand by experiences that herd us into stereotypes we both embrace for their truth and despise for their inconvenience. Yes, so this is my Kaaba story, and I AM sticking to it. Watch us crowd together, flocking around the rock that ruined the school of diabolical poets, crisp, pentecostal, and undeliverable in thirty minutes or less.

Antagonist Show In NYC on September 6

agntagonistes
Gabriel Antagonistes
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Yes, that's right. Outsider art is antagonist art by default, on purpose, duly recognized, deliberately slammed, boorishly labeled, charmingly considered, who the gasp cares anymore, except word freaks, bibliophiliacs, lexicon compilers, and those of us humble enough to admit we need words and labels and art to describe nouns, persons, places, things, and activities just to make life a bit less boring, and I guess that includes me. To that end, the Antagonist Movement with its roots in the East Village and the 1980s Washington DC punk rock scene has invited me up to the Niagara Club for a one night group show on Thursday, September 6. I have accepted, and eagerly look forward to my first show in New York where I'll show five or six works. Ethan Minsker, one of the groups co-founders, found me on MySpace, and issued my invitation from there. Turns out local DC artists Matt Sesow and Marina Reiter have preceded me at the Antagonist show. That knowledge takes most of the risk out of the invitation, but I've accepted nevertheless.

Here is the Niagara info:
112 Ave A @corner of 7th St. East Village NYC
The gallery is downstairs past the bar.
Tele: 212-420-9517

Show opens at 9 PM. Hang all artwork half hour prior to show. All artwork hangs for the duration of the night until closing time at 2 AM. No exceptions.

WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THE ANTAGONIST ART MOVEMENT:

The Antagonist Movement creates venues around New York City, and plan to travel to Berlin, Germany next year to scout for venues there. Are you, or have you ever been an antagonista? If you have, or you know someone who has or should be, then check us out. Here are a few venues that may interest you:

  • Thursday night. One night showcases with live music.
  • Two month shows bases around a theme.
  • Public Access show. Tuesday nights on MNN 67 or RCN 110 at 11pm. The show covers the art shows. Its called Antagovision.
  • Writer's night. The first Sunday of every month.
  • Films. AAM has four films coming out, including two documentaries on the art shows. One narrative featuring punk rock icons from the lower east side, and a documentary that covers female bands in the mid 90s. All of the films have been selected and won a verity of film festivals. To find out more about the release date contact Troma.
  • Fanzines and books. AAM has published a fanzine called Psycho Moto Zine and a book called "Somewhere Between a Punch and A Hand Shake." Both feature AAM artists and writers.
  • Clothing line. Each year we feature new artists in the designs. All the money goes back into our projects.
  • Over seas art shows. Showing in Berlin October 18th to 26th.
  • Street art. Street Gallery. Sticker Art.
  • In the future AAM plans two books, more clothing lines, and another documentary on the art show in Berlin.
  • Premise #1 From The Fitzgerald Files

    damsel
    A New Development
    samplex

    I know artists and writers those latter-day Lorenzos ought to be supporting—if they knew what's good for them, and for their posterity. But they mostly don't. So they whip out the checkbooks for Harvard, for Yale, for Princeton, for "peace studies" and for "art" that isn't art, and for teachers of literature who do not teach literature but rather about the ethnic, racial, and religious background of authors, and so on.

    Usurpers.

    The preceding words of Hugh Fitzgerald, as idealized by this writer, are worth at least a dozen warm meals in harsh times, a triumphant song on an Olympic-sized sound stage, a fully loaded Glock 23 in a plastic picnic knife fight, a grain of sugar in a dirty ocean of whale screams. Don't mock. Just ask anyone who's not invested nostrils first in cherry pits and dark chocolate. Understanding what makes us each different is not just understanding the past but understanding the future each of us will achieve because motivation is always measured in personal steps. Civilizational performances, like the water and blood of life itself, is a snapshot of biophysical strategies—molecules in action—and we, the seventy year set, ebb and flow with or without the consent of our forebears or our neighbors, except to the degree we consent, bow or scrape, a mere pellet melting and mixing into the ocean of time. So according to some, why bother?

    My response. If these people claim to be your friends, they are imposters. Know them by the arc of their sucker punches.

    Literary Profilers And The Horses They Ride

    sunset
    Sun Setting On Arlington, VA
    samplex

    Gleaned from a online post published by Matthew Z:

    Reading is almost always an aesthetic preference, unless it[sic] has permission through certain jargon, both "legal" or "political" to engage in praxis. The politician assumes himself to be beyond art because he actually has the power at his fingertips to physically move his ideas around. The artist has no such power of course and is reduced into the realm of aesthetics—that motionless form of subjective preference.

    For starters, despite the strategic blandness of a general political attempt at writing, I think it might be useful to consider their words and actions as more along the lines of an aesthetic preference as well. The artist might gasp at this notion, stupidly assuming, through hand-me-down compartmentalizations, that the "brown bagging suit" is not worthy of being even considered in an aesthetic sense. [But, the politician]... is beyond aesthetics because he can actually make things move.

    Art is otherwise, happily motionless and heavily protective of its specialized terms in the name of priority and approbation of course, more than anything else really ("Pick me, pick me, I am the best aesthete in the room! This term belongs to me and me alone in order for me to be able to sell my persona, and if you try to apply to something else, my chances become lowered on this front.").

    From the first sentence forward, I detect poor writing, poorly constructed sentences, enough ugly grammar to frighten off all but the strangest bird, and a keen need to escape the mundane by driving straight through it with a Mac truck, but that is it's charm, and I jest, only because this first sentence is not true, but is often directed at me and anybody else who struggles to break out of the box of rote linguistics, or worse, profess literary interests for their own sake, with or without the harsh harness of originality further enslaving the urge to explore.

    The message, however, is on the money, and yet, one is left with the question of what's next? Most activist aesthetes eschew art in favor of radical politics, but what has radical politics done for us lately? Today's radicals don't seem to realize the frontier has been vanquished. There are few words, and fewer ideas which require our blood sport devotion. We have long since accepted that the golden ages of idealism have passed us by, and now we are left with little but the grunt work of making our lives count one by one, each to our own strengths of reason, inspiration, and passion to make it so. We have certainly been given fair warning.

    This call to action is what Matthew Z means by poetry being replaced or fulfilled by praxis, but like so many others before him, his plea falls not on deaf ears but upon cowardly spirits and the cacophony of competing interests. This is not a resolute failure but the patient and conservative spirit of Nature conferring to us its most preferred role. Time is not man's play toy.

    But will the poet of today accept this understanding of his own unspectacular clockwork, keen to the literary profilers and the horses they ride?

    GT

    Lost & Found Art Cannot Be Put Into Context

    lost-and-found
    Lost And Found Art
    samplex

    Allow me to explain my predicament. Up until March 29, 2003, I had carefully maintained, organized & archived my entire email history from 1993 when I first joined Prodigy, Compuserve, and AOL all within a few weeks of each other, having been instantly smitten with this new world of messaging and self-publication. I hail from a damned near illiterate background—from an alcohol-hardened household, from a band of brothers who somehow esteem reading and writing of little use above that required by law.

    This is not an indictment of them, but a tiny spotlight onto the struggles for my own sense of clarity, given my own poetic nature, and desire for pursuing and comprehending the incomprehensible. I had been fortunate that during my ten years of archiving, I had never lost anything I had ever emailed, or had received from someone. Except for obvious and useless SPAM, and lower tier business correspondence, I cherished and kept every bit of communication I had ever mustered.

    And I'd been fortunate to have met and sustained along the way a steady string of aspiring authors, so our email wasn't of the dull flat liner variety that would soon cloak the long silences of previous generations who had transitioned from sincere letter writing to the less literary and more immediate telephone call and special event card. Now we had access to a marvelous combination of the two, letter writing nearly extinct, and the telephone call, often as mundane and flawed for its archival challenges as the polaroid in the digital camera age.

    But then came the shock and awe of that March 29 data loss. Ten years of treasured exchanges gone in a keystroke! Ordinarily I kept a rather recent back-up of my work, but for reasons of brevity, let's just say I had little to rely upon that day, so in one terrible keystroke I lost my entire hard drive of personal information while visiting the terminal for my first and only peek at the guts of the operating system. After the week long stress, sweat and toil of data recovery magic, I found that I had recovered maybe two-thirds of my email data. I lost so much more other work, but it was my treasured email that mattered most to me at that point, and the process was too inadequate to worry about the rest of the loss. Now, of course, my email did not recover its former glory. So, instead of each individual mail stored away in personal boxes and folders, where I had immediate access to them in plain text, I now had over 22,000 individual files each named, starting at number 1, increasing in value one file at a time, like this:

    Email file (generic) 16784

    And since it seems as apropos as a summer shower on a blue heat afternoon, given a rather new MySpace friend’s recent smackdown of a type of Internet personality she called the Intellectual Predator, it’s a keeper; here’s yet another redux, circa 1993-4 from my AOL years (when I signed on there I was among a mere 250,000 subscribers. When I left, over 25 million. But I’ll leave that story to later.) Can’t wait to get more of these posted somewhere new. All I can do is work the process with ev’ry muscle I’ve still got in the game…
    And to make matters worse, each recovered file, no, did not include just a single piece of mail, but sometimes two, five, or three, point three emails. And these texts were not alone in their new miserable state. Now each file included huge chunks of header and other inexplicable strands of ASCII gibberish, cast off, decidedly boorish digital DNA that I would have to clear away like so many acres of undergrowth in order to isolate a long lost masterpiece from my friend Steve, or a stroll through Landryville with the wit and sarcasm of her spicy Cajun' upbringing, or merely a well-written communication from back in the day, those early days when so many people inside and outside the industry mocked the functionality, or inspirational value of email, while here we were composing masterpieces, detailing small everyday events of those days of our lives, marching to our exciting times with an eye on posterity.

    Yes all this, BEFORE THE DELUGE OF SPAM. Before Internet porn. And for several years, before the WWW itself. Ah, yes, we were there, and we were writers, and yes, we could be bombastic or plain spoken. We could lie with dogs, or we could ride elephant ears. Those were the days where great plans ruled the great plains.

    Nostalgic, but that's merely the background noise of my original purpose in posting today. Now here's one of those recovered files I just opened this morning, randomly. I did not write this, it seems to be unsigned, but I did save it. And since it seems as apropos as a summer shower on a blue heat afternoon, given a rather new MySpace friend's recent smackdown of a type of Internet personality she called the Intellectual Predator, it's a keeper; here's yet another redux, circa 1993-4 from my AOL years (when I signed on there I was among a mere 250,000 subscribers. When I left, over 25 million. But I'll leave that story to later.) Can't wait to get more of these posted somewhere new. All I can do is work the process with ev'ry muscle I've still got in the game...

    The Writer's Block

    Transmogrification
    Transmogrification
    samplex

    Originally published on September 13, 1999

    KUBHLAI: Like me, he is markedly unimpressed with the intellectual sincerity of Man. Where he immediately impressed me was by identifying precisely that there is a distinct duality between *Worldview* (''weltanschauung'') and *Philosophy* or supposedly objective human reasonings in general. Now I have never clearly made this distinction between philosophizing and worldview—rather leaving it as an assumption I suppose, that thought (along with other attitudinal modes) is but the building bricks of the total Worldview. In Hulme however, they are at odds from the very start; philosophizing (by which is meant human thought and judgement in a wider sense) lays claim to the humanist value of ''Reason'', but all the while the Worldview, which is defined as the grand picture we have of where our "satisfaction" lies, is exerting a gravitational force tempting us to construct complex arguments which, by an amazing coincidence' as it were, arrive at a point which is ''satisfying'' , which provides an apparent justification for the often crude and simplistic desires which were there a priori.

    GABRIEL: Here is an interesting piece I found somewhere under a napkin not of my own choosing, a piece quaintly reviewing Kundera's TESTMENTS BETRAYED: "Kafka, Stravinsky, Rushdie—the modern artist confuses and often outrages critics looking for the clarity of orthodoxy. Kundera, whose talents as a literary and music critic almost match his formidable gifts as a novelist, defends the artist against obtuse or perverse critics, disciples, and allies. Thus he rescues Kafka the artist from the embrace of disciples who want to remake him into a thinker. Likewise, he brings the genius of Stravinsky out from under the shadow of the misguided criticism of a close friend. Similarly, Kundera reclaims Rushdie's Satanic Verses as an imaginative work from progressive intellectuals who have never read it but have claimed it as a political symbol of the need for a free press. Discipleship, friendship, and comradeship can all turn into betrayal. Against such betrayal, Kundera insists upon the creative autonomy of the novelist and the composer, whose works live in an ambiguous sphere outside of all history except the capricious history of human creativity. Though he offers keen insights into music and literature, it is in his celebration of humor in the European novel that Kundera's genial brilliance burns most brightly."

    The writer steps down from the podium.

    Greetings To The Dollhouse

    studio
    Landry's San Francisco
    samplex

    I like the dollhouse appellation for your house. Very appropo. Interesting analysis of Jack and his "can dish it out, but can't take it." It is something I am learning in our cohabitation. He's also very adept at making a good first impressions; then when you're hooked in, everything changes.

    There have been some rough spots, but for the most part, things are going pretty well between us. And, I can't blame any troubles all on Jack because I have my own baggage to deal with that doesn't make me the most pleasant person in the world. I can be negative and I stress out about EVERYTHING. I have been trying to let some things slide but it ain't easy. It's kinda tough, when for so long all I had to think about was me. If I didn't have money or if I fucked something up, it was me and only me I had to answer too. Now I have to deal with someone else fucking up or me fucking them up. It's a little tough. Plus, I had to adjust to living with someone else. When we were in DC, it still felt like Jack was just a houseguest. It was still my place. That ain't the story anymore. But, in spite of the little failings, it is still a good thing. I'm not anywhere near hanging in the towel yet. I'm sorta ready for the long term thing. I just don't know if I really get into the relationship thing. I mean, it sounds nice, and I like the concept, but the reality has always been a problem for me. It's a growing up thing.

    We don't have much in ways of furniture. We are finally at a financial peak where we have paid off the move costs and we are collecting our full paychecks, so we are ready to shop the yard sales of the SF queens. Those gay guys throw away or sell cheap some really nice stuff.

    That reminds me, I was concerned about Jack's homophobia and somewhat racist attitude and how it was going to connect with this oh so PC city. But, he seems to be doing fine. The only people I knew living here are gay—two gay guys named Michael and Celso and one lesbian named Booooooo (has to be seven ohs). I think he is one of those people that only takes people on an individual basis. He seems to warm up to people pretty quick without making any judgment on them; yet he can't seem to work it out in his head that the stereotypes he believes to be true are a lot of times not.

    I find too that the work environment is much more civilized here. People have a sense of humor about themselves and don't stomp around thinking they make the world go around. And, I don't have to listen to conservative assholes like at my last job. Here, I probably sound like Rush Limbaugh to some of these granola heads.
    We do live in a somewhat "brotherly" neighborhood. A lot of guys like to walk by around 2 or 3am blasting their radios they have slung over their shoulders—I thought that big radio thing had gone out of fashion, guess not. They yell at each other in the streets a lot too. Some things are universal.

    San Francisco is a frontier town in a lot of ways. It's like things on the east coast just didn't make it out here. Too far. Sorry, we don't have that here. I still like the town because of the more relaxed atmosphere and all that, but I appreciate DC a lot more. DC actually has a really active art culture that I just took for granted. And, in spite of the Nazis that have their grips on the taxes and government and stuff, DC is pretty hip and loose. However, I will never pine for another winter like the last one. The weather is fabulous, and I don't ever want to experience uncomfortable heat or cold again. I find that people don't get into much intellectual talk here, either. I miss that. Perhaps I just haven't found the niche yet. After all, those Beat Poets were here a long time ago. People seem to like mundane music, movies, etc. I don't understand it. There is more to life than just being laid back. There has to be some brain stimulil. I liked being able to get into it with my fellow DC-ers. I also miss the friends I left.

    But, I am making more money and I paid off most of my debts, so I am now in the position to take some art classes and stuff and perhaps take some trips. I find too that the work environment is much more civilized here. People have a sense of humor about themselves and don't stomp around thinking they make the world go around. And, I don't have to listen to conservative assholes like at my last job. Here, I probably sound like Rush Limbaugh to some of these granola heads.

    Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Write much. I'll read. I'll respond.

    Landry

    Every Four Years A String Of Would Be Presidents

    nightport
    Shop Steward
    samplex

    Date: Wed Mar 6, 1996 4:09:33 PM America/New_York

    ...stimulate the economy, flush the media with money and boxcover mythologies, and expect us to deny something's not quite right with this picture. The waste of tearjerked capital over the fight for ideas is enough to clear the nostrils. But to those who come to expect these juggernaut cash hits every four years with this patriotic blood & cash flinging contest, while a joke to millions and a militant and righteous duty to millions more, the process is absolutely vital to Media's economic persona and the length and strength of its self-serving pursestrings and panache among the governed.

    Having risen now to the same powers of mirroring the level of big business, as the Church once held over feudal Europe, and with Ross Perot in '92 and Steve Forbes this time around pumping so much of his stash into those same industries the Media will have developed a taste for this level of spending and will dig in to keep the game at this level of trade in the future and what does that spell? I don't think it is relief.

    Nothing when compared to need is discharged into the New Enterprise Zones for Urban or Human Renewal as the actors in the gentleman suits keep promising new ways and new means every four years while delivering themselves like clockwork rolled in festive dollar bills at a jet's pace for an obligatory plaque onto a hallway wall somewhere, while thousands more are perverted daily. Yet the ravages of a country still too uncivilized to help itself out of its own gutters when there is plenty of good reason so do so, and plenty more not to delay, continue unabated, and we dare rejoice.

    Actually, I like the election process. While still flawed, it beats the competition.

    Have they made the queen a taxpaying pauper yet? The American presidential process? It makes me feel—in some flowing black and white 1940s ripening years pox Americana way—truly American in a period of my life when sometimes very little else does, despite what I wrote in the paragraphs above.

    The attacks on freedoms and speeches, canned images, and radical philosophies, lifelong experiments, existentialist liabilities and the gamut of ownership theories practiced and reviled, all in the name of freedom are numbing and yet our cities and towns, villages and highways, headjukes and shrines are crime infested pestilences. No longer free to walk the streets outside one's own shelter is one without accusation, or violation. Snapping turtles and foxtrotters line the sidewalks of cities in despair. This is indeed an America with a rich and harried past, and it's catching up to yet another generation of babbling believe-it-or-nots. Nothing is changing. Science of observation is the interpolating ether of our age and is busy simply unmasking the obvious. Time to move on.

    Shop Steward? Impressive! Ballbreaking or nervekilling. Sounds like you're taking on the latter effect. I have an old highschool pal at the GE plant in Jacksonville, FL who's in a similar role. Last I heard from him, the major issue among many was GE thinking of killing 150 jobs by closing forever the north Florida plant. He, of course, was fighting for the jobs. Said he was coming to Washington, but I never heard from him if or when he was here.
    Space, yeah, you described precisely the bio-electrical pain I suffer. Plus I have that tingling down into the elbows & fingers on both arms in daily nearly fulltime direct current. Psychostress and repetitive stress syndrome, along the lines of carpo-tunnel have me under arrest. Totally unrelated but accumulative are my feet and leg muscle cramping limitations. It's a wonder I am still kicking around, but I am putting best hope forward that this is a busy body spring and summer. Log-in time plus time wellspent reconditioning whatever's left of my body. Some good food, not too much, a light alcohol season, miles of smiles from BABY, and I figure I'll fall back to winter again a little better off than I am right now, and expect that while fate continually aims to choke my aptitude for resurfacing the future with my own stale image, I'll get enough done to please the chef.

    My ailments I suppose are dangerous, but what kind of man am I but to continue pushing in the directions in which I push? Give it all up? I love being busy, but I really dig the accomplishing of a job well-done. That's where my artistic career is life-threatening. Give what all up? To live what kind of life, THEN?

    That HMO pulled-near-randomly-off-a-list-doctor I went to last fall just laughed at me, or perhaps with me, who knows or whatever, but THAT was the end of it. Guess I gave him the impression I already had all the answers, and well, of course I knew why & more the reasons I hurt, knew also many perfunctory near-cures, but a neurotic like myself lives in devoted ruin a tragic guest of this state. And so how many choices do I really have? And what would I be giving up to try one, or even a few of them?

    Shop Steward? Impressive! Ballbreaking or nervekilling. Sounds like you're taking on the latter effect. I have an old highschool pal at the GE plant in Jacksonville, FL who's in a similar role. Last I heard from him, the major issue among many was GE thinking of killing 150 jobs by closing forever the north Florida plant. He, of course, was fighting for the jobs. Said he was coming to Washington, but I never heard from him if or when he was here.

    I downloaded last year's AL & NL stats offline somewhere but I haven't studied the calculus to form my own team projection yet, but I might put that on my shortlist of plans for this weekend. Get juiced as field general again, check out who's available. Money's tight right now, especially as tax day approaches, so coughing up to Prodigy is a major decision. We always owe Uncle Sam BIG. She always handles it near deadline. I simply sign my name. The joys of bookkeeping are hers, so I gave that task up years ago.

    We've spent a lot of money recently (actually two different friends have lent her money which she is paying back at a steep monthly short term) on another Macintosh, a Performa 525, (last November) and she just jacked it up to 36 Megabytes of RAM (three weeks ago). Although she's already okayed the $200 to suit up IF THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO DO, I am aware of the pinch. Her motto is, "Baby, you know I can't deny you anything."

    A swell perspective, but sometimes I still think she needs a psychological or biophysical kickstart to really bring a zest for living back into her world. We admittedly inhabit and by nature maintain different pleasure zones, however clumsily, and so one or the other of us is always to some mood altering degree, and against our notions of goodwill, psycho-gritting along the edges of the other's nerves. Too much of this and life seems gray and petty. Achieving a level of zestful giving is definitely a renewal energy.

    This may be the finest thing my wife loves in me while recognizing it is also my fatal flaw. And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.
    I LOVE Sue like none other and in my sorry state I should be quite content, but then a person like me is NEVER content, not even for an instant longer than it takes to think of something, someplace, someone else I'd rather be, or in a fit of traditionalism, be with, or finally, be against. And yet to prove I am truly a liar, I will readily suggest that I am par five happy, and except for the persnicketyness and general nitpicking paranoia my will to live insists I wear out in public like a bad leisure suit joke, I would ask for nothing but the next line of genius to flow from Sue to me and in turn from me to her. I guess I still can't explain the level, or perhaps species of co-dependency we practice but we both abide by it. It's not altogether healthy for either of us to live with each other somewhat crippled by our innate differences, or in a bitter reality bite admit that we are simply unwilling to change or mimic in roleplaying the rich complexities we would seek in each other rather than settle for what's here right now, point blank, boring apples, but then we know this arrangement is buckets better than the chaos of the chattering masses who would tear us apart by thinking themselves one or the other of our saviors, insulters, or both.

    Organizations of all stripe are quick on the mark to stomp in with some gospel. Friends and family of every tradition might find fault, as we ourselves find fault, but at least we are willing to stand clean against those who don't even have a clue what it's all about. Our knot is all about the committment to friendship. In places where I usually hear the flaunting of the word love I usually also find a passive absence of true friendship. Lots of feigning and folly, but little substance to plant in the ground to await the grace and immediacy of claims bound to a fuller replenishment than the passing romance of what passes for love in this culture.

    And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.
    We in our sometimes buffooning example fill that void, noting that true friendship exhales love, and suffers love its egotisms, its frailties. Erotic passion is intuitively another gig. Rarely do the two coexist in a lengthy run. The fictional Gomez and Morticia Addams may be the first to riot in both lanes I can think of, but there are probably many examples in an educated psyche of the best of both worlds. Sure, as a kid I often dreamed that I had risen to this level of living but frankly I must rest pat on this mediocre hand as the one that will take me through to the full of its season.

    I haven't completely given up on Eros. I simply resort to the tricks of the exceptional or the unexceptional flipside, the unstable. I invent or create new worlds where I plan and imagine, where I am able to explore the whims of erotica through the visceral angst Sartre repeatedly dubbed Genet as possessing, and in fact I approach any fascinating study with this free reign with my wife as co-conspirator because she listens to me in my madness, and finds it all very enchanting if not somewhat redundant after all these years. This may be the finest thing my wife loves in me while recognizing it is also my fatal flaw. And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.

    Meanwhile, back to the chores. Do let me know when somebody takes the lead in getting Nuthouse 96 under way.

    Fats

    Numbers Said Bob Make Mention Of Me

    Bob Said
    Bob Said
    samplex

    Date: Fri Dec 1, 1995 15:10:12 AM

    Well, yes, Bob. This would be your very own FREE web page. You were among the "HTML sophisticated ones" I included in that batch. Several others across the country are either newcomers to the online world, or simply stuck in the past with old slow modems, or whatever, having never surfed at all. I have recently created three pages you might find if not interesting, then perhaps best described as friendly fire. Steve Taylor has compelled me into authoring HTML, and low & behold I'm just frantic with anticipation for others to join the ride. After all, this Geopages crowd out in Beverly Hills, CA is offering this opportunity to any and all takers as long as you have a valid E-mail address. They have their very own HTML emulator that you can use to create your page right there in a forms format. Just enter pertinent info in the fields, and presto! you've just created a home page. I did one that way, but soon learned enough used HTML to create them FTP the appropriate files over to the server.

    One page took 24 hours to spring up, and the other only took an hour or so to pop up for general access. Just imagine. I only opened a PPP account a couple of weeks ago, and now I'm shadowboxing in the HTML badlands! Go figure!

    Just checked out your HP, and as usual your comments ring a deafening bell tone in the bell curve of my own desires to be and not to be, to flee and not to flee, or simply, in the words of Piss Factory, to pee or not to pee. As little as self-indulgence seems to mean in your neck of the woods, and rotten poetry the futile clearing of your storm, art clichés are more a commodity for the heavily flavored than a sustaining power for the weakly favored, and frankly, I wish you would cut it out!

    My heart, my fart, whichever you prefer. If these be the flames of betrayal and the aims of messianic denial, I'd say we are just about even. Meanwhile as both our neuroticisms and superiority complexes merge into one foul mood, I wish to comment on your prediction of the next wave of child prophets (rockers) being that of the clean cut Mormon rank. I agree, and I would also suggest the END is near for it is written that this generation of clean sheets following in the wake of the Devil's wordslayers will be the last, of course until the path of righteousness begins all over again in heated argument over the meaning of some ivy-spined love surrogate's last scream. Feast or famine? Lean years, fat years? Is there much difference beyond a few zeroes and maybe a decimel point or two? Thinking is a lie. Art is nothing but a glimmer of hope, and an economy few will ever afford without loss of the quenched thirst. One geek's self-indulgence is another geek's training ground for sainthood in a spreading pool of blood-soaked antics. There is nothing left for puppy dogs and perverts of inner circle design but paradox weaned, lion and lamb divined, fashion and fraud skewed, better halved than quartered alone. That sir, we cannot change, but since you asked in muted prayer, I'll change my ways for you, if you'll change yours for me because bad poetry is the ONLY art save THOU ART. Look around you. Even Milton was a liar. Stupidity and rigidity reign. The beautiful live forever. The ugly perish until they finally learn to absorb the laughter of the jackals.

    And by suffering them you must also suffer me...

    Just a refresher on those arguments you made here in the Dollhouse one afternoon I think not long ago. Of prospects and promises, uh, which one do you prefer, Bob? No, I saw it first. No, I did dammit...the hole in the ground was the whole of it, said Gabriel, in the old days before the advent of Styx and the completion of the proper post-punk cycle, suggested the leper who said thank you, the kid who scissored you to make a point in twelves, or slightly more, but not more and more and more and more until it all made the entire Joan Jett crew vomit, probably still stuffed on the hog heaven carpetbagger's special sea of beads they gobbled before the Bayou show full of suburban derby queens and BCR mullets. Scanning the packed crowd my own sharp black & orange mohawk posh caught her dangerous eye several times, but the hour the music died, without fanfare, we shuffled back to the SAMPLEX cave with Bennett & Lauren to stir the kettle twice the card. I'd be so shook up with chaos and blame, trick numbers in an off-alphabet game, knowing both Little Miss Jett and Monster Jeep ad sworn off the other like plague blankets in an earthquake, that I'd lamely end up settling for half-measure 3.5 inch head flat on my back, Lauren systematically snarking the red rag excuse, plainly playing for boa feathers instead of the usual black hearts flush of dick tag. VR snip? Bennett and Sue, sitting on opposing sides of us kept to themselves, not to each other. Their beautiful and knew it foo-foo Samoyed, Max, and our "hump anything this side of the Mississippi algorithm" Lab-shepherd mix, named Nickel Dog were caught and duped apart during the act of slapping, smacking and fellating each other, accounting for more drippy innuendo than any of the four tepid punk rockers in this stack managed that night. It'd be another six or seven years before I would gaze at Lauren naked again.

    Wanna borrow the weed whacker, just show up at the door. You know you are the only person in the city I can say that to during these friendship wars. Well, maybe Len Bracken.

    I dreamed I saw Saint Augustine,
    alive as you or me...

    GT

    aka Fats, Kidscissor...