he really is 138

we are 138 is a great misfits song, if you didn't know or forgot or didn't care, isn't he the cutest little fiend. look at that little devil lock.

alphabet chair

i found the problem with these old paintings was that they were all just too large for any one's home, this thing is four foot square, painted on Masonite with oil paint, really washed out with turpentine, and graphite.

message in a bottle

one super low tide, Autumn day Chris O and i decided to hike around Hobuck point and see what was there, we'd seen waves out there all morning, we took the dogs and started walking, we found a hobo camp full of mussel shells, a TV, and this bottle, i have always wanted to find a message in a bottle, and here it is, i found it, right there on the rocks, mixed in with all the Asian drink bottles and twigs.

a day in the life of a surfer

i received this book for x-mas from Toby and Suzanne, it sat in the branches of our tree till x-mas day and when we opened it, wow, we were impressed, the book is tiny and illustrated and beautiful. Dashiell and i are drawn on page ten, playing ping pong, f-you beer pongers for ruining a straight edge domain, again, damn you drunks.
i especially like page seven's, drawing of some one putting on a wet suit in the door of a HiAce, how come everyone in the whole world gets to go surfing in a badass Toyota van, and we can't, we have to pretend its the eighties in our van, or a gas guzzling ford, and creep out all the kids.
oh, wait, i was reviewing this book, so good, so small, so efficient, i love art, this book should be framed.

thanks Toby, thank you Suzanne.

dead ender

i couldn't remember if i had read this book when i was a kid, and now it seems a little dated, being from '85, practically the seventies and all.
i guess i'm a little dated too then, so if i read this in the eighties i couldn't remember it. it's one of those books that have been around forever and i've picked up thousands of times.
and now i know why
it's a really great book
and a book that tricked me right up until the end, shit, just as Ender tricks everyone else in battles, the author does the same to us, so sweet, i almost cried.
starting out like a typical seventies book about a freaky super boy who is picked on, and who rises to power and personal empowerment, you really root for him, every scene, and he's vulnerable and wicked and smart, I want to be Ender. fight bullies and kill buggers, who maliciously attack our colonies, and buck military martial law.
if your an oldster go back and read it when your sixteen, if your sixteen, wait awhile.
Now i have to read all the other books Mr. card has written, man i ain't got that kind of time what with the modelling career and signing autographs and swimming laps with aquaman.

wasp car

this painting lives in St. Louis. there's a funny film of this painting being washed, out side the old Joe Felner compound. in the sun with a garden hose and sponge, i don't know how your supposed to wash an oil painting. 48"x48" that's a big painting. I have three missing paintings lost in Oregon somewhere, which i am trying to find, just like this only better. one of them is titled,
No allegiance but the applause
i love that painting, maybe some one boarded over their windows with them and sits in the darkness, on a couch eating potato chips and hating. or writing poetry about dust.
lets go for a road trip and find 'em.

the stinker

if you could take all the lyrics to all the original misfits songs and take out the music and add more unrealistic horror you could create novels like this.
and now i think i love Neal Asher novels, they are bloody and violent and full of monsters who are just invincible, true pulp as written in the fifties, they should never make hard cover versions of his work straight to yellowed trash i say, throw away wonders.
the shake and bake new novelist do this thing where they take way too many characters, way too many story lines, way too strong bad guys and throw them all together on an island, a planet , a. . . somewhere and they all start killing each other with gore and blood and greasy explosions. Frankenstein meets the aliens vs the AI controlled planet, oh wow, a talking spaceship.
oh wow a giant leech.
oh shit, supermen again. living gods who will always save the day, didn't see that coming, and so addictive, the book wouldn't leave my hand, my thoughts, my lap, and that is why i hate scifi and love it with a passion, and am so incredibly embarrassed to say this.

read all these novels. now.the brass man, gridlinked and cowl.

now, i know the idea of these Brits, here it is, very straight forward.
rewrite the golden era of science fiction, right down to the human killing robots. Asimov be damned, there are no rules of conduct. men smoking pipes in spaceships. sexy alien ladies, xenophobic hordes, and rubber gods. pure pulp space opera, crappy gold. Jehoshaphat, i can't even look in the mirror anymore, what have i done with my life.

this, I'm going to rewrite the foundation series, starting , now. . . alright maybe after lunch.


this is one of the last paintings i painted in the old barn
back before anyone lived upstate in the woods with me
but the ghost.
back before i started painting small paintings in the kitchen
with knives.
when i used to paint every night, at eight for a few hours, in
the cold frozen winter with a fire and green tea, listening to
VKR on the radio.
with mice.
gunbath, 1997, 48"x48"

greatest sci-fi songs

I'm praying to the aliens Gary Newman

Oh!, all you pretty things David Bowie

starman David Bowie

walk among us the whole LP Misfits

teenage spaceship Smog

not of this earth Angry Samoans

we got the neutron bomb the Weirdos

i think that both David Bowie and Gary Newman, have spent their whole careers, performing sci-fi songs, they have surpassed all of us and have moved out into space. i especially like the part in Bowie's pretty things, where he thinks all his friends in their glam hot pants and skin tight blouses with make up and mullets dyed orange are going to take over because they are, homo Superior, beautiful, ninety pound aliens beating us with their hermaphrodite wieners, and new wave lip gloss, a scary, scary future, which i think we missed some how, damn.

not a complete list i know there are more, so let me know if you think of any, i think Jad Fair has a few goodies but i can't remember them.

surfing badge

this is what happens when little mee-mee takes off
too deep and too late and doesn't cover her head.
and we all had to drive her to the Fork's hospital and
have her stitched up. she was so brave, notice how i
wouldn't let her towel off the blood while i took the
the b/w photo is from Rialto on a beautiful summer day
with rain.

i'd like to thank all the little people

this is a fantastic show. i painted 123 little guys, all 4X8 or taller, very colorful

very sharp, clean lined little paintings.

hey gang, by the way you can now pass different stories along with the little mail icon at the bottom of the page.
folk singer, girl
child nazi
filthy bum
great toes
suit guy
sad muslim

the stranger

Dale Yarger was our neighbor when Jake was a little pup pup, at the Winston apts, he used to play on the deadly back deck, and Dale worried about him falling to his death, i think Dale was the art director at the stranger, before i moved to the country he offered me a cover spot, and i took it, was is a good cover? i can't tell, from here in the future. it seems very green, maybe too green, i didn't know the revolution was going to be an Islamic one.

black craft

is there a dark side to the craft movement?
is there a dark side to acupuncture?
could these beautiful people be controlling my actions through the thin silver line?
is there a dark side to chiropractic adjustment?
these are my thoughts while she, crushes my body with hers. and i scream and try not to grab her butt.
i'll walk soon and run and be able to surf again, if all the crafters of plush let me, free.
i don't want macrame' arm warmers.

or do i?

guns are not the problem part three.

that night-
i think i was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a tall glass of water-
at my sisters old 32street apartment, the lights off, wondering what this was-this dull thing my life had been.
when there's a knock on the door, loud.
Holy shit. i jump up and answer it.
i open the door and some maniac in a suit twenty years old sticks a .38 in my gut.
i need beer and cigarets. it's Hugh's brother-
with a gun in my stomach
how about a glass of water?
fuck that- laughing, he lowers the gun.
you coming in, or you going to shoot me from the hall?, i say, pretending i'm the thin man, or the continental op, while Johnny pretends he's going to kill me because i used to test peoples preferences, Coke or Pepsi, with his girl friend, when i was 16 and she was so beautiful and 19.
she used to drive me home thru the dark frosty forests away from malls, our fingers sticky with sugar- yellow shirts, straight hair, god she was gorgeous, and i was a freaking string bean-with tooth picks stuck out for arms, my pecker a small spot of fuzz. . .



okay so this is a Mee Mee and Jake when they were both little, standing in front of the original 1000 paintings when i had just finished it and had to hang it up, because i had never seen it before, it was just too large to view, or take pictures of, but you get the idea. this is it, 1000 paintings.

the roadies

the road by Cormac McCarthy
i finished this novel, novella, about two weeks ago and haven't been able to formulate, exactly what it means to me and the world, having three boys changes your perspective on post apocalyptic worlds, especially young boys, who need to be carried and held, how could you possibly survive, find food and avoid monsters with a seven year old on your hand. daring you to finish the novel, when it would be easier to give up.
read the novel in one sitting, about six hours maybe less, consumed it, very engrossing, and a little terrifying.

this is our version of Mad Maxx, Road Warrior, this is the American modern emo vision of what the end will look like, not the eighties glam dance we all loved and could watch forever. this world is bleak, grey cold dead, hungry, suicidal, asking if you could do it, making you want to just shoot yourself and end this struggle, to give up, to know the world can't be saved, to know that tomorrow you will be hungrier, filthy and soaked with rain, with out hope or home, finally a realist view of the holocaust. Just what we asked for.

the book is one long sentence. about a gun with two bullets, and the father constantly walking away from his obligation to kill himself and his helpless son, so they walk and push a shopping cart across American suburbs, filled with maniacs, and emptiness, and rain.

a very good book about a very sad future, or what Cormac really thinks of us and our society, maybe we are all walking away from our decisions and our complicity in the destruction of this earth and our own children.


the arrow whispering across the road, near the end is wonderful. hopeful and hopeless at the same time, shit, i give up.

temporary tatoo

free art. free art. free.
it is not that i have been ignoring the ping pong aspect of my life it is just that, ping pong is incredibly hard to write about. what do you say, i lost track of the score, all the balls are under the floor, the table top is dusty, i keep getting greedy, Cyrus and i play for cash, it's the only way he'll really put his heart into it, but the studio is so cold, it's hard to get out side and play. but the studio has a sick stereo, with 8-track and AM.
that's radio, son.
come on over we'll play a game.
you can watch me freeze to death in bikinis.
tomorrow. . . more, guns are not the problem

blue crab painting

does anyone remember this painting from the nineties, wow, man, wow, talk about an old painting, hope you enjoy.
this painting was painted in the Winston apartment in the summer of 91, i think, i had a ledger of all these paintings with dimensions and dates and thoughts, but they were all destroyed in the fire. when i first moved to Seattle i didn't work, i just looked out the window and wrote really long letters to Steve Werner, and read books and painted things that looked like this.
or did i paint this painting in the old basement studio, i shared with boat girl{Kelly S}. who cares really, this painting is in Saint Louis. I should go pick it up.
these old paintings are all 48x48 inches, huge. if you own a museum and need some art, give me a call.

they really tried to kill me

the second year we entered the Orange county fair demolition derby, we had five cars all in my drive way and we stayed up late painting them, with the kids in the summer time heat, the next morning we all drove to Middletown and destroyed cars, with girls in red white and blue bikinis and guys in tiny cut off jeans and 'stashes.
If you have never been in a derby let me tell you something you may not know.
the other drivers don't want to just win, they really want to kill you.
they will go out of their way to crash a steel bumper into your face, full speed, they want your car to explode, they want an ambulance to pull you off the track, they really want to kill me.
i knew as i drove around the track beeping my horn, and you know what?
I really wanted to kill them.
I did, i can't say take it back or lie to myself, i wanted to kill everyone i had ever encountered behind the wheel, anyone, everyone, you.
but i didn't, and my car became trapped in a pile up, while i slammed it from reverse to forward helplessly, laughing with a full tank of gas, fifteen gallons, which i had forgotten to siphon, the crowd cheering, the lights, the heat of gasoline engines, the deafening roar of unmuffled exhaust, death, shit, and enlightenment.

walking across the track, completely covered with sweat, holding my orange glitter helmet over my head, defeated, everything behind me destroyed, i was reborn.
exactly the same.
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