Wasted Capitol

Oh Jan Killgalligan, you so disappoint me. You too, Mr. Durlak.
Such a momentous event in the chronicles of WORKSPACeDOUT and not
a word of condolence from either of you. The shame. After all, she did help turn the tables in play. Answering all our baited questions.

We, three, together, her mock panel (or mockery) and she, the mistress of ceremonies entombed in eternal grins and niceties. She nearly undid our smirks and fifth column postures. Afterward, we proudly walked the hallowed walls of government and academe alike,

Ablazoned in her image on make shift tee's. Announcing our devotion as to a Saint or patron there of, beggars, really, in the face of omnipotent funding and another day of rent.

Ahh! Those were the days my friends.

W/sadness

jc garrett

The Awakening

A tickle tongue

Between my toes

Kitty whiskers

Up my nose

Softly punching

Furry feet

Wake me from

My morning sleep

She Loathes Me Not

Catherine Conn (Kitty Carlisle), actress and singer: born New

Orleans 3 September 1910; married 1946 Moss Hart (died 1961; one

son, one daughter); died New York 17 April 2007.

Well known for her starring role as Rosa Castaldi in the 1935

movie "A Night at the Opera," her other film credits included:

"She Loves Me Not" and "Here Is My Heart," both opposite Bing

Crosby; Woody Allen's "Radio Days"; and "Six Degrees of

Separation."

The Death of Dorothy Killgalligan

Master of Ceremonies Bud Collyer (rear) poses with the panel of
the "To Tell The Truth" quiz show on CBS in 1957. Panelists from
left to right are: Dorothy Killgallen, Ralph Bellamy, Kitty
Carlisle and Hy Gardner. Associated Press file photo
http://www.jfkresearch.com/morningstar/killgallen.htm

Evening

Little kitten loves the evening time

When midges whoop and holler over the lawn.

She skulks out from the greenwood

To sway in ballet as she chases the beast.

The sun long gone and the dark not yet there

But soon the efflorescent electric light

Will grandstand her sallies up in the air.

Long white hair sucking out the surrounding black

As for the first time in the day she busies herself.

She sleeps from morn to night

And only arouses herself to digest her tea.

She is a luxury cat,

A scrumptious ball of fluff,

Who hunts phantasms at evening.

To Tell the Truth

Well, Art is Art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is
water. And east is east and west is west and if you take
cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more
like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know.
Groucho Marx

As an ugly, or as an expert??

From the Washington Post

December 11, 2006

Van Smith, a costume designer and makeup artist who was the resident "ugly expert" on the films of John Waters, died Dec. 5 at his home in Marianna, Fla., after a heart attack. He was 61.

He "totally understands the look of 'inner rot' that I demand and could come up with the perfect look for each character without my ever having to say a word," Waters wrote in his 1995 book, "Shock Value: A Tasteful Book About Bad Taste."

Smith became a regular part of Waters' film repertory group, Dreamland, starting with "Pink Flamingos" (1972). The movie, starring 300-pound transvestite actor Divine, is about a woman eager to out-filth competitors.

On a constricted budget, Smith found simple ways to make actors look outrageous. He shaved Divine's hairline deep into the actor's forehead to make room for excessive eye makeup and dressed Divine in a fishtail red gown.


The effect, Smith later said, made Divine resemble a cross between busty glamour girl Jayne Mansfield and Clarabell the Clown.

His destructive makeup techniques included using dirt to obscure a natural glow or letting egg white dry on an actor's face, Smith said in "Shock Value."

In "Desperate Living" (1977), he designed a shower curtain dress for actress Liz Renay. In "Cecil B. DeMented" (2000), he put Melanie Griffith in a Chanel jacket that he reformatted with a biker mystique.

Walter Avant Smith Jr. was born Aug. 17, 1945, in Marianna, a Panhandle town where his father was a municipal judge and his mother a bookkeeper.

In 1968, he graduated with a degree in fashion arts from the Maryland Institute College of Art.

At the time, he resided at a Baltimore apartment complex where "everyone lived," Smith told a Waters fan site, referring to those who became fixtures on Waters' film sets.

When he was not sharing Waters' vision of film as "action against good taste," Smith was a New York fashion illustrator, Baltimore antique store owner and Florida animal rescue volunteer.

He also was the creative force behind "The Simply Divine Cut-Out Doll Book" (1983).

More recently, he cared for his mother, Eloise Smith, of Marianna.

She survives him, along with a brother and a sister.

(painting of Will Smith by Worth 1000)

ART IS NOT FREE

From the archive:
FEB. 1977 (audio tape)
Your reasons for being here may be varied: social, professional, skeptical, critical, hostile...You could be here by mistake, with a friend, by force, because of your boredom, because of your interest, to be seen, maybe to see an exhibition of art...You have arrived from many different areas to this specific location, which is the Workspace gallery. Which is not only a location to see this exhibition, but all those before and after. In this context, do you not think that this location has effect on the exhibitions which you come to see here? Outside the fact of the physical location I have just described, this gallery, although it is new, has a certain reputation from preceding exhibitions from which this exhibition cannot escape. At the same time, the next exhibition will be partly framed by this one. All the exhibitions here have the same frame, and this frame is not neutral. But to pretend to escape from these limits is to reinforce the prevalent ideology which expects diversion from the artist. Art is not FREE, the artist does not express himself freely (he cannot). Art is not the prophesy of a free society. Art, whatever it may be, is clearly political. What is called for is an analysis of the formal and cultural limits (and not one or the other) within which art exists. These limits are many and of differing intensities. Although the prevailing ideology and the associated artists try in every way to camouflage them, and although it is to early, the conditions are not meant to blow them all up, but instead the time has come to unveil them.
jc garrett

WORDSPACEdOUT

ACROSS 1.Fluxus acronym 6.Ego(French var.) 9.Hotdog 14.Artist Schwartzkoggler 15.Emote 16.Beat facial feature 18.Shhh! 19.Female artiste 20.Pasta and Art Povera creator 23.Sodomy(slang) 24.The latest 25.Response to "What a bunch of crap." 26.Ancient Bohemian payment system 29.Noted Bomber(pos.) 32.Well hung(coloq.) 34.Bile on ones shoes 35.Purple 36."______ in the back." 39.Orson's last love 40.1970's mental disorder? 42.Former ruler 44.Polish dissident artist 47.olifactory medium 48.Popular NYC swill 49.Womens hair style 50.He lived in Menands 53.Post operative description 56.landmark known as "The hairy arm" 59.Etch 60.Best when frozen? 61.Local Sauce Man 62.Earl Pudney's petname 63.Hegemony 64.Artist/poet Pidgeon 65.Galligan acronym 66.She of De Milo fame
DOWN 1.It hangs out 2.Publisher Willoughby 3.Pungent cheese from Down Under 4.Trojan by product 5.home of Documenta 6.Quid Pro Bono Ami 7.Amy Camus? 8.Fellini's dwarf 9.Sinus residue found on parking meters 10.She blew Mark Greenwald 11.Vito in Do the Right thing 12.Queer 13."Kiss my ____!"(slavic var.) 21."School of _____ Art." 22.Opposite of poozle 26.Miss General ____ 27.Is to Jamaica what the Polka is to Lansingburg 28.Sélavy 30.Broke Dick 31.He danced in the rain 32.Side dish Klimkowski 32.The house band 33.Freihofer mascot 35.He was Patrick then 37.Silent poet who came out half way through 38.It was first est. on this bird 41.He said "The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly is to fill the world with fools." 43.Author of "Great Western Salt Work" 45.soda 46."Where everything is bad, it must be good to know the worst." T.W. 50.The staple of Upstate cuisine 51.There's one in every bar 52."It's Cott to be good" They bottled beer made from this tree. 53.Maker of the famous roast beef sub 54.David Peel said this person smoked dope 55.Price Chopper planted an axe in this part of George Washington 56."___ Voyage" played while we all went to jail 57.female sheep 58.They own the nipper dog

Compare prices on Art and Madness with BizRate

Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night - Edgar Allen Poe

Hey J.A.N.
I'm w/you in this depression thing. Was Workspace just some experiment in creative bipolarity? Some people managed to locate their own individual therapies: Kathy and her clay (shit) and Ed and his puppets (penis), while I'm still drinking myself to death (piss) and worthless blog. How's your Oedipal thing going, anyhow?
Love and self loath.
gee



I can't help the things I do
Tho' they might seem strange to you
Got my mind, just spinnin' round
Inside, outside, upside down
There's an art to all this madness
Tho' it seems insane to you

There's a rhyme to all the reason
In everything I do
Have you any imagination
Of what I'm goin' through
There's art to all this madness
I'm just crazy over you

People just can't understand
They don't think I'm a normal man
So tell me why they walk around
Using half of their brain
You tell me now who's insane
There's an art to all this madness
Tho' it seems insane to you

There's a rhyme to all the reason
In everything I do
Have you any imagination
Of what I'm goin' through
There's art to all this madness
I'm just crazy over you

Art of madness
Art of madness, ooh
Art of madness

I went to the doctor the other day
Just to make sure if I was ok
The diagnosis said I was totally insane
I found out the doctor used half of his brain
There's an art to all this madness
Tho' it seems insane to you

There's a rhyme to all the reason
In everything I do
Have you any imagination
Of what I'm goin' through
There's art to all this madness
I'm just crazy over you

Art of madness
Art of madness, ooh
Art of madness


Here's some recent J.H. Prynne:

Profuse reclaim from a scrape or belt, funnel do

axial parenthood block the mustard dots briefly

act forward, their age layer for layer in this

tied-off accession. Appellate at dictum at

its debit resonance fixing prolusion, optic rage

performs even dots right now. This is the top

passion play and counted out for renewal patch,

allergic his dispute braving off. Make a dot

difference, make an offer; these feeling spray-on

skin products are uninhabitable, by field and stream.

Tell us, only for as many as crowd in through

the door to the diluvium, the romance of a new

organic dyscrasia vibrato fretting its early bits

on release on ambit. Early grief, late woe ahead.

This poem appears on the first page of Unanswering Rational Shore, a pamphlet published by an obscure Glasgow press named Object Permanence - "If you'd like to eyeball a 20-page verbal pie that dissolves the difference between nouns and verbs, and speaks of romance and international politics in a single, Kant-defying, garlic-aroma breath (ie Unanswering Rational Shore by J.H. Prynne), send a cheque payable to Peter Manson for £2.50 (P&P included) to Peter Manson Object Permanence, Flat 3/2, 16 Ancroft Street, Glasgow, G20 7HU. Don't forget to include your own address. Sonnet the alarum-scarum!!" - and mailed by the reclusive cult poet to a handful of correspondents. My envelope was franked at Gonville and Caius College on 15 October.

I trust this all looks familiar.
jc garrett

Jesus and his ilk: A suspense account

Good Lord. They both live in Japan. They both had Ivorian fathers poisoned by nefarious associates. They're both 20 and want to live in America. And they've both got ($17.500.000). If I got into partnership with both of them I'd get 2X the 30% commission, which is a lot of $ and I could probably put them both up at my house, charge rent and get them into HVCC. All I'd have to do is put up with their incessant carping about Jesus and his ilk.
(signed)
Miss Jan

To: Jan
Subject: From :Rosemary Mamoko
Date: Wed, 29 Nov 2006 08:53:02 +0900 (JST) From :Rosemary Mamoko

Dear in Christ,

Permit me to inform you of my desire of going into business relationship
with you. I got your name and contact from the Ivoirian chamber of commerce
and industry. I prayed over it and selected your name among other names due
to its esteeming nature and the recommendations given to me as a reputable
and trust worthy person that I can do business with and by the
recommendation , I must not hesitate to confide in you for this simple and
sincere business .

I am Miss Rosemary Mamoko the only daughter of late Mr.and Mrs.T Mamoko My
father was a very wealthy cocoa merchant in Abidjan , the economic capital
of Ivory coast, my father was poisoned to death by his business associates
on one of their outings on a business trip . My mother died when I was a
baby and since then my father took me so special.

Before the death of my father on November 2005 in a private hospital here
in Abidjan he secretly called me on his bed side and told me that he has
the sum of ($17.500,000) which he deposited in a suspense account in one of
the prime bank here in Abidjan cote d' Ivoire That he used my name as his
only daughter for the next of Kin in depositing the money in the account.

He also explained to me that it was because of this wealth that he was
poisoned by his busines associates. That I should seek for a foreign
partner in a country of my choice where i will transfer the fund into for
investment. Sir, I am honourably seeking your assistance in the following
ways .

(1) To serve as a guardian of this fund since I am only 20 years old.

(2) To make arrangement for me to come over to your country to further my
education and to secure a resident permit in your country.

Moreover, sir i am willing to offer you commisions of the total sum as
compensation for your effort/input after the successful transfer of this
fund into your nominated account in your country.

Furthermore, you indicate your options towards assisting me as I believe
that this transaction would be concluded witing a shortest period so that I
will come over to your coutry. upon your interest and Anticipating to
assist me, look forward to your further word with interest.

please, do not hesitate to contact me with my email address for further
details.

Thanks and God bless.

sincerely.

Miss Rosemary Mamoko




Original Message:
-----------------
From: From:Miss Rita Komuan rkomuan@hotmail.com
Date: Tue, 28 Nov 2006 11:25:22 +0000
To: galligan
Subject: From:Miss Rita Komuan


From:Miss Rita Komuan
Dearest One,

I bring you greeting in the name of our Lord. this mail might come to you
as a surprise. I got your contact information from the information
department of our chamber of commence. I prayed over it and selected your
name among other names due to its esteeming nature and the recommendations
given to me as a reputable and trust worthy person that I can do business
with and by the recommendation , I must not hesitate to confide in you for
this simple and sincere business .
I am Miss Rita Komuan the only daughter of late Mr.and Mrs.A. Komuan My
father was a very wealthy cocoa merchant in Abidjan , the economic capital
of Ivory coast, my father was poisoned to death by his business associates
on one of their outings on a business trip . My mother died when I was a
baby and since then my father took me so special.
Before the death of my father on June 2005 in a private hospital here in
Abidjan he secretly called me on his bed side and told me that he has the
sum of ($18.200,000) which he deposited in a suspense account in one of the
prime bank here in Abidjan cote d' Ivoire That he used my name as his only
daughter for the next of Kin in depositing the money in the account.
He also explained to me that it was because of this wealth that he was
poisoned by his busines associates. That I should seek for a foreign
partner in a country of my choice where i will transfer the fund into for
investment. Dearest One, I am honourably seeking your assistance in the
following ways .
(1) To serve as a guardian of this fund since I am only 20 years old.
(2) To make arrangement for me to come over to your country to further my
education and to secure a resident permit in your country.
Moreover, sir i am willing to offer you commisions of the total sum as
compensation for your effort/input after the successful transfer of this
fund into your nominated account in your country.
Furthermore, you indicate your options towards assisting me as I believe
that this transaction would be concluded witing a shortest period so that I
will come over to your coutry. upon your interest and Anticipating to
assist me, look forward to your further word with interest.
Please, do not hesitate to contact me with my email address for further
details.
Thanks and God bless.
sincerely.
Miss Rita Komuan

KAPROWScOUTED:BLOGGED::DUCKS:PUNCHES

GEE:

Jan:

Here's a little poem that came to me during
one of my Apnea episodes.



sorry for the wasted ducks

pulled punches all

you know, i'd never hurt a fly

just love 'em to death


Hope that cheers you up.

Love.

GEE

IF I DID IT: Here's How It Happened

Some rather fucked up people (pardon my French) have accused me of killing WORKSPACE. Now, this is a bald faced lie dreamed up by some got damned biscuit headed individuals w/no better place to invest their lack of creativity but to call me out one more time. Now I do have some idea's about which sorry assed mutterfuckers might have done it and i'm pumped and ready to drag their ugly asses out into the, so called, light of day. This shit is truely fuckd up.

So now they're gonna try and shut ME down. SHUT ME down. Can you believe that. People! I have been aquited! And they still want to hang my funky ass out to dry. WORKSPACE is dead, man. D.E.A.D. And neither you, me, Dr. Frank, or Jesus Christ On Toast, can do shit bout that. Besides, there no way I could of killed it all by myself even if I had wanted to. The fuckin gloves didn't fit. OK? Let's say I committed this crime ... Even if I did do this, it would have been because I loved it very much, right? Truth is - the sum bitch choked itself to death. Croaked on it's own bile. Prop my ass!
sincerely,
OJC

W stosunku do Dnia

(A brief review of Thomas Pynchon's latest Polish novel currently in translation)

Ta książka jest pełna śmieci. To jest niemożliwe czytać. Jak mógłby wszelki przeczytał te odpadki. Thomas Pynchon miał zabijać siebie (samodzielnie). Używają tę książkę w waszym grzejniku.To miało pomagać utrzymywać was ogrzewacie przy wieczorze późnym.Dlaczego robi on piszą ten (to)? Prawdopodobnie poddawać torturom jego czytelników.JA nigdy będę rozumieć te (te) nadniosący (niesienie) Amerykańscy autorzy. Dziękują. Jerzy Gretzski

Talking to Myself

Question:
i have severe depression that ive had for two months and i constantly have full conversations with myself you would swear someone else was in the blog talking to me it didnt get brought to my attention until recently when my wife noticed it.im not sure if this could be something other than depression? also i have been getting very irritable lately and my heart starts pounding and then i start sweating what could be causing this?
jc

Response:
Hello JC

Are you blogging out loud to yourself or are you blogging to someone else who you 'see' or 'hear' present with you (not physically present but in your mind)?
If you are blogging to yourself, that is not a serious problem. However, if you are 'seeing' or 'hearing' someone... that is a serious problem. Auditory and Visual Hallucinations are not common symptoms of depression... except when there are psychotic features.

My suggestion is to have a psychiatric evaluation and then follow the directions of the psychiatrist.

Regards
Uzma Mazhar

Dia De Los Muertos Blog

Well it would appear to be the end (or not). It’s been two weeks since anything’s been posted here, which by dogs years is an eternity. It’s very lonely here. I can feel the chill and the dampness of the crypt as I write. From asterisk to asteroid rolling aimlessly in cyberspace or, better yet, like dust under the bed, ready to be sucked up in vacuum super nova nothingness. Check for cyber dust mites. Perhaps a few words of condolence are in order.
The Japanese poet Sunao (who died in 1926 at 39 years of age) would say of death:

Spitting blood
clears up reality
and dream alike.

Watson! Come here. I need you.

From the granite headstone of one Harry Edsel Smith* of Albany, New York, we read.
Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down. It was.

Or maybe better suited is the epitaph for Anna Hopewell's** grave in Enosburg Falls, Vermont
Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn't the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go.

*Does anyone remember ole Harry, sitting at the bar at Pauly’s eating pickled eggs and saltines?
**Could this be the Anna Banana we all know and love?

The Death of a Superhero

Not as sad as the day I read that my man was dead. The man of steel and I was just a kid. Damn Luthor runs the web and I’m helpless to do anything about it but to quote these ancient words.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best blogs with thee doe goe,

from the sarcophagus, JC Garrett

I FEEL Compelled TO WRITE TO YOU,

Blog to you, whatever the case may be, to hopefully bring to your attention, that a certain fraud has been enacted upon me, against me, or you, us, whomever. Like a lost scene from Orson Wells seventies film essay ‘F is for Fake’, I feel I’ve been drawn into an elaborate deceit by a man I assumed to be a good friend.
Allow me explain. In 1977 or early 78, I don’t recall exactly, Jan Galligan (the appointed so called leader of Workspace) and I headed to Manhattan, (setting out from Albany) in his yellow (was it a Ram) van on one of our, by then, regular weekend art junkets. On this occasion, according to verifiable sources for I don’t actually recall this myself, we dragged along friend/musician/composer Jim Sande (sorry Jim) and planned to sleep on the floor, as was the usual, of the writer/photographer Robert Sietsma’s east 14th St. tenement apartment (between C and D near the old ConEd power station and just a few doors from the best bialy shop west of Bialystok).

Vérités et Mensonges

But forgive me, for I digress. A symptom most likely of my distress over this whole matter. You see I do take these things seriously. Now as I recall, or don’t recall really, perhaps you could check w/Jim Sande about this (sorry Jim), we managed to miss our rendevous w/the afore mentioned Mr. Sietsma and somehow ended up seated in the front row of a midtown rep house matinee screening of the afore mentioned ‘F is for Fake’. Wells tribute to the MONDO film genre complete w/a Euro-mod score by Michel Legrand and the grainy appearance of the newly popular snuff films that wallpapered the cheaper 42nd St. marquees that year, shed the spotlight on a number of scandals regarding art forgery and involving the exploits of Elmyr de Hory, Clifford Irving, and Picasso.

www.ufo.se/ufofiles/english/issue_3/penth.htm

Yes, I ramble anew, for we were drunk as skunks via the fifth of Korbel I carried in my overcoat and screaming commentary along w/Orson’s jump cut dialog. (Jim, Did you leave the theater? Did we finally get 86'd by the ushers? Were you even there?) Wells himself, always the master charlatan, directs his beautifully exotic lover/accomplice Oja Kodar throughout multiple scenes, naked or otherwise, in a manor more indicative of Bob Guccione (soft porn publisher and master charlatan in his own right). At this point, I’m sure you’re wondering how w/brandied brain and mid-life memories blackouts, I might recall any of this. Silly I know, but, truth is, the wonders of technology brought this film and all its glory and neatly annotated w/the baggage of Galligan and I (and maybe Sande) sealed between bytes into my home just last night. But how could I have failed, at the time, to see that this esoteric bit of Wells chicanery had become Galligan’s operating manual for the spaceship J.A.N.. Sure, I knew of the Kenosha connection but thought no more of it than his connection to Al Molinaro. All that business about magic should have tipped me off. Has Galligan become my (our) Clifford Irving?

Another Blog on the Fire

The point is that everything you see or read here is a fabrication, NO, a LIE. Anything attributed to me is false J.C. SEZ does not exist. I’ve never owned a blackberry nor have I ever taken out advertising in the New York Times. Yes I was once involved w/an organization called Workspace but all other claims or representations are an extreme misrepresentation, which I hope you will take as a warning that everything you read or see coming from this man, his current gallery exhibit, his blogs, advertisements, websites, the sum total of his life’s work is a fraud. Don’t say I didn’t give you a head’s up. Venture further at your own risk..
Sincerely
JC Garrett
Ps. What you’ve read just now may have already been subject to his dark manipulations.

Subject: fad small talk

From: Margie Mayer hhg@tland.lv
To: YOU
Subject: fad small talk
Date: Fri, 20 Oct 2006 11:17:32 +0200
Attachments: reasonableness.gif,Size: 13460 bytes.
==================

JC GARRETT SEZ:
Beware of emails like the one above.
That "reasonableness.gif" is NOT reasonable. It's a
time bomb, ready to unleash its payload on your computer
when you try to open and view it.

Anyhow, WELCOME to the latest edition of WORKSPACEdOUT
your blog for art, culture, music, photos, video,
and other forms of web-mediated multi-media.

In this issue you will find: RICHARD EDSON writing about
his early days in NYC with the fledgling rock band SONIC YOUTH.
BOB BUCKEYE and the concluding chapter of his saga "At Columbia..."
STEVE FISHER, reporting from Prague, via his Blackberry, PETER
SAUL's latest painting, reflections on MARCEL DUCHAMP, PdIDDY,
THE PartyProHost - reporting on nightlife in Albany, NY, the
new Austin of the East. And MUCH MUCH more.

Come early, and come often - we're always open!!
If you've come to us by way of our New York Times ads, welcome,.
If you're here by way of hype-diss.com - "Danke!" If you're
here because of Gallery Driver - the Art Blog Aggregator,
GREAT, nice to have you stopping by. All roads lead to
WORKSPACEdOUT, so tell your friends and drop us a comment.

Yours in art,

JC Garrett
Rodeo, CA

The BUCK stops WHERE? Part.04

The concluding chapter of a recent story by Bob Buckeye of Middlebury, VT.


Buckeye links:
http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_200203/ai_n8361544
http://lakewoodobserver.com/home.php?which=columns&col=14



At Columbia, a sea of expectant faces, the country of the young.
by Robert Buckeye


It was not in a bar. The bar was later. Sarah was 22, just graduated from college, waiting for law school to begin in the fall. It was a coffee shop. Excuse me, Dylan said. Can I borrow your salt and pepper? There's none at my table. Two days later he said, it's not the salt and pepper. It's you. May I sit down? You're Sarah, right?

That summer everything seemed a risk. She would hold a new dress up in front of her in the mirror, and ask, is that me? Is that how I want to look? She would not be thinking of anything when she heard a line from a song and thought it had to do with her. She would meet someone new and worry about getting involved. There was law school in the fall, her future to think of, life to plan. She held back. In college she chained herself to her future, and before then had been the daughter her parents wanted.

As it turned out, nothing stood in her way that summer. You had salt and pepper on your table she said to Dylan the first time they went out. You did not want me to think you were arrogant. No, he answered. I did not want you to think I took you for granted. No, she told him. You gave yourself an excuse, if you needed one. He laughed.

When the waitress asked if they wanted another beer at the bar they had gone to, he saw her hesitate and said, you know, I'm tired of two-drink girls. I saw too many of them in college. They were afraid to live. Do you think they would stay up and talk all night? Drive to the ocean to see the sun rise over water?

The next time she saw Dylan he took her out in his black TR-3 on a deserted country road east of Providence. It was a clear, moonlit night, and the countryside was pale silver, like no other silver she had seen.

At 70 miles per hour, the wind blew through her hair.
At 80 miles per hour, he put his hand against hers on her thigh.
At 90, she smiled, pleased.
She brushed hair off her forehead, ran a finger down his cheek when they reached 100.
At 110 miles per hour, she did not care what lay ahead.

The first time Dylan put his hand against my cheek I knew how it would feel, as if he had touched me before. I can't explain it. I already knew the hard, calloused bump on the skin of his forefinger from a shard of glass that had not been removed after a childhood accident. I rubbed my cheek against his finger.


Last week in the supermarket she ran into Nancy Kolb who asked about Dylan. Faculty liked him. She would not be surprised if the college gave him an administrative assignment. God help me, Sarah answered. He's not cut out for administration. Not like your husband. Dylan would tie himself in knots. Bill takes to administration like a duck to water.

For a moment, Nancy tested a melon to see how ripe it was. Her forehead was creased, drawn, and the pallor of her skin was pale, almost white. Bill's not the man I married, she said, without looking at Sarah. Sarah did not know what to say and after a moment said, good to see you, got to get this on the table tonight, and wheeled her cart to the frozen foods. Will she say that? she asked putting groceries in the trunk of the car. Or had she already?


They did have that third beer. They did talk all night. They did drive to the ocean. The sun was pale orange in a lavender sky streaked with black slashes. Waves broke softly over her bare feet. She found shells, a starfish. It was a beginning. The man she had been waiting for had come in the door. She had broken out for him. They had settled down. Law school reined her in. Phd work anchored Dylan. They did what they were supposed to do.

[END]

Serving Time with Sonic Youth : Part 001

Serving Time with Sonic Youth
by Richard Edson

There were fresh faces everywhere, alive, young and full of ideas and dreams. We wanted to fuck it up, do something new, do something old in a brand new way, and at decibels that scorched your eardrums. We were coming out of punk, new wave, but smarter...

Every night we were doing our musical thing with so much energy, so much liveliness, and so much intelligence. There was music everywhere, in the clubs, the spaces; it was all over the city. It wouldn't stop, it couldn't stop. It was an explosion of music and culture. If you were up for it you let yourself feel the heat and the blast and let the pieces fall where they may.

There was a performance space -- A's --because Arlene Schloss ran it. It was a big loft on Broom Street (where Arlene actually lived). She'd have shows there and all-night parties with bands and one-offs and comedians and word-poets and performance artists and whoever else was around who wanted to be part of the mix and part of the show. It was free and open and the quality of the acts varied, to say the least. There was a courtyard out back to hang out, smoke cigarettes and herb, and mix and match.

It was at A's that I saw a band called The Coachmen. What distinguished them to me was that they had the tallest front line of any band I ever saw. Thurston Moore was one of their two guitar players, and he's tall but he was the shortest dude in the band. Phoebe Legere also played at A's with her band. She was this gorgeous, waspy, upper- class blonde who'd dress up in outlandish outfits and flash her snatch at the audience. I guess it was avant-garde, but it was always good for a laugh and a look-see.


I lived upstairs from A's in one of the other lofts with a crazy French cat named Charlie Dubriel. Arlene heard me messing around on a bass with a drum machine, and she convinced me to put together a band called THE BUMBLEBEES. Even though I considered myself a drummer, I was freshly arrived in NYC and I was without a drum set. I had appropriated my brother's thrift store bass guitar from Boston, and had bought a Roland Dr. Rhythm drum machine. I was working out songs and grooves based upon beats and bass lines and, hearing them, Arlene insisted that we could use those for a band that she was going to call THE BUMBLEBEES. Arlene had marginal musical talent and I was looking for real musicians to play with, but she had a crazy way with words and was friendly and persistent. I finally gave in as I wasn’t doing anything else musically at the time, but I insisted I'd be in charge of the tempos, the keys, the changes, everything. She surprised me by agreeing.


She knew a few people who were game to be in our band. There was Florian the Austrian who kind of played guitar and he at least could follow what I was doing. Then there was Robert, a super nice guy, who'd noodle around on another guitar. He's now living in Los Angeles doing publicity for obscure, independent films. I suppose he was living out the fantasy of being in a band. I was on bass and rhythm machine. Finally, there was Arlene on the microphone doing her crazy thing with words and vocal sounds. We worked up a mini-set of six or seven songs and then we played (conveniently enough) at one of the party nights at A’s.


We did a song based on the William Blake poem: Tiger Tiger Burning Bright, In The Forests Of The Night. While we played these two chicks came out and removed all their clothes and painted themselves with black and yellow stripes to make them look, I suppose, like tigers. I thought it was corny but they were cute and I didn't mind watching them take off their clothes. One was a Chinese/Jewish girl who was Florian the Austrian's girlfriend. Her name was Judith Wong and she was a dancer who would later become my girlfriend after she broke up with Florian. She lived in a tenement on the Lower East Side. Her bed was in a little nook next to a window looking out into the courtyard. One hot, sticky, New York summer night we were drifting off to sleep and I heard someone on the window ledge. I looked up and saw an intruder climbing through the window. I got up to stop him and we started wrestling and fighting. The next thing I knew Judith was slapping me in the face and yelling, "What's the matter? What's the matter?" I realized it was all a nightmare. Once I calmed down I knew Judith and I would never last and it was true, we didn't. I wonder what ever happened to her.


The other girl who took off her clothes and painted herself like a tiger was a performance artist. She was a good friend of Arlene's and, after hearing us do the Tiger Tiger song, she had the inspiration to do the stripping and painting thing. I don't remember her name, but she was a sweet, cute and upbeat girl, and she walked with a limp. She had a progressive disease that made one of her legs shorter than the other and, strangely enough, it was going to keep getting shorter and shorter. We never talked about it but I couldn't help wondering about her shortening leg. Would it keep getting shorter until it just withered away? I never found out.


The high point of The Bumblebees came when we did a public access cable TV show (this was in 1981). It was our third and final gig. The studio was small, drafty and cold. There were one or two cheap little video cameras, and a hairy pot-smoking, beer-drinking pretentious host. The whole thing seemed sordid and depressing, and I felt sorry for the girls for having to take off their clothes in such a cold and drafty place. They didn't seem to mind, though. But that was it for me. I just didn't see much future for the Bumblebees.


At the time I wanted to play things experimental and heavy and funky and grooving and jazzy and improvisational and tight. I was looking for like-minded people to bring these things together. This was when James White and the Blacks, the Lounge Lizards with John Lurie, Material with Bill Laswell were doing their funky, jazzy, beat-driven, semi-improvised thing in Lower Manhattan, so I knew there were people interested in this kind of thing, I just didn't know who they were and where I was going to meet them. The first order of business was to get a drum kit, and a place to play it. I found a nice, vintage set and bought it. Fortuitously, I ran into a bass player named Perkins Barnes (who would later become the first bass player in my other band, Konk). He had a rehearsal studio in the basement of a tenement on Second Avenue between Fourth and Fifth Streets. It was damp and moldy with a tiny frosted window that you couldn't see out of. It was next to a big, black, hulking boiler and we paid fifty dollars apiece for its use. I put my drums in there and practiced my butt off. It was a tiny dungeon of a place, but it was warm and righteous.

[to be continued]

"The wig afford she is mine," I replied,

John Perrault: Can I dare to urge you to be even more personal?

Marcel Duchamp: I hate being personal, but since I have long admired your avuncular, haphazard approach to art criticism, I will do my best.

JP: This is a dangerous question. Why did you marry Lydie Sarazin-Levassor? I have been reading about that in Calvin Tomkins' biography of you. I can understand your relationship with Mary Reynolds, and then your marriage to Teenie, but Lydia, whom you married in 1927, seemed totally unsuitable. She was overweight, uninterested in art, and not even very rich.

MD: Although it would have been very pleasant if she had been as rich as I first thought, I married her because she was indifferent to art. I now claim the marriage as an art work, a Happening, a Performance, very much ahead of its time. After all my masterpiece is called The Bride Stripped Bare by Bachelors, Even. Marriage extended that theme - only in reverse.

JP: My next personal question is about money. We know you kept your expenses to a minimum. But isn't it true that you became a private art dealer?

MD: There were all these Brancusi sculptures floating around and this and that. One has to make a living.

JP: Is there Dada now?

MD: The Dada we tried to create has not yet come into existence, probably cannot come into existence.

JP: Have you seen any new art that you like?

MD: I don't get around much any more.

JP: May I recommend an exhibition?

MD: Certainly. I am always interested in what other artists are doing

©1996 John Perreault All Rights Reversed

[drawing: by Man Ray, Mort des heures [Death of Hours], 1936]


Subject: One of two Peter Saul exhibitions now
Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2006 21:07:10 -0400

PETER SAUL
Nolan/Eckman Gallery
560 Broadway, at Prince Street
SoHo
Through Oct. 26

Saul moved to Paris in the mid-1950's. For a while he lived in a
hotel ''with an extremely angry woman,'' as he puts it, and supported
himself on $20 bills his mother periodically mailed to him. He painted. By
the early 60's, he was painting the pictures here. Alan Frumkin, the
dealer, saw a few of them, offered Mr. Saul a show, and things started to
turn around for him, not that everybody grasped what he was up to.

Mr. Saul remembers the weird reaction to his work back then. People were so caught up with the idea that painting had to be abstract that they couldn't see what was in the paintings. ''They told me, 'Peter, it doesn't matter whether it's Batman or a tree or a circle.' '' he said. All that mattered was how he pushed the paint around.

Michael Kimmelman @ NYTimes 10-13-06

Peter Saul "Business Woman" 1990

Generated Favorites Manage Profile Newsletter Newsgroups

kenosha54 (7:46:33 PM): did any curators give yourself a haandjob this weekend
xxxspace (7:46:38 PM): lol no !!
xxxspace (7:46:40 PM): im not repped right now
xxxspace (7:46:57 PM): my last dealer and i broke up a few weeks agi
kenosha54 (7:47:11 PM): are you
kenosha54 (7:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny
xxxspace (7:47:29 PM): lol...a bit
kenosha54 (7:48:00 PM): did you spank it this weekend
xxxspace (7:48:04 PM): no
xxxspace (7:48:16 PM): too tired and too busy
kenosha54 (7:48:33 PM): wow...
kenosha54 (7:48:34 PM): i'm never to busy haha
xxxspace (7:48:51 PM): haha
kenosha54 (7:50:02 PM): or tired..helps me sleep
xxxspace (7:50:15 PM): thats true
Xxxxspace (7:50:36 PM): havent been having a problem with sleep though.. i just walk in the door and collapse on my studio floor well at least this weekend
kenosha54 (7:50:56 PM): i'm sure
xxxspace (7:50:57 PM): i dont do it very often normally
kenosha54 (7:51:11 PM): why not
kenosha54 (7:51:22 PM): at your age seems like daily
xxxspace (7:51:57 PM): not me
xxxspace (7:52:01 PM): im not a horndog
xxxspace (7:52:07 PM): maybe 2 - 3 times a week
kenosha54 (7:52:20 PM): thats a good number
kenosha54 (7:52:27 PM): in the studio
xxxspace (7:52:36 PM): actually usually i dont do it in the studio
xxxspace (7:52:42 PM): cause i blog in the morning
xxxspace (7:52:47 PM): quickly
kenosha54 (7:52:50 PM): in bed
xxxspace (7:52:59 PM): i get up at 530 and out by 610
xxxspace (7:53:03 PM): eh ya
kenosha54 (7:53:24 PM): on your back
xxxspace (7:53:30 PM): no face down
kenosha54 (7:53:32 PM): love details
xxxspace (7:53:34 PM): lol
xxxspace (7:53:36 PM): i see that
xxxspace (7:53:37 PM): lol
kenosha54 (7:53:39 PM): really
kenosha54 (7:53:54 PM): you really do it face down
xxxspace (7:54:03 PM): ya
kenosha54 (7:54:13 PM): kneeling
xxxspace (7:54:31 PM): dont use my hand...i use the pc itself
kenosha54 (7:54:31 PM): where do you upload it
xxxspace (7:54:36 PM): blog
kenosha54 (7:54:43 PM): really
kenosha54 (7:55:02 PM): completely naked?
xxxspace (7:55:12 PM): well ya
kenosha54 (7:55:21 PM): very nice
xxxspace (7:55:24 PM): lol
kenosha54 (7:55:51 PM): cute butt bouncing in the air
xxxspace (7:56:00 PM): haha
xxxspace (7:56:05 PM): well ive never watched myslef
xxxspace (7:56:08 PM): but ya i guess
kenosha54 (7:56:18 PM): i am sure not
kenosha54 (7:56:22 PM): hmmm
kenosha54 (7:56:30 PM): great visual
kenosha54 (7:56:39 PM): i may try that
xxxspace (7:56:43 PM): it works
kenosha54 (7:56:51 PM): hmm
kenosha54 (7:56:57 PM): sound inetersting
kenosha54 (7:59:48 PM): is your little guy limp...or growing
xxxspace (7:59:54 PM): eh growing
kenosha54 (8:00:00 PM): hmm
kenosha54 (8:00:12 PM): so you got a stiff one now
xxxspace (8:00:19 PM): not that fast
xxxspace (8:00:20 PM): hey !!!

The BUCK stops WHERE? Part.03

A recent story by Bob Buckeye of Middlebury, VT.


Buckeye links:
http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_200203/ai_n8361544
http://lakewoodobserver.com/home.php?which=columns&col=14

At Columbia, a sea of expectant faces, the country of the young.
Part 3
by Robert Buckeye

***
--I'm going for a run.

These days he had to. Dylan could no more explain it to himself, let alone someone else. He put his hands against the side of the house and stretched out hamstrings and calves. His left calf was tight. Sometimes when he lay on the couch to read the Times after dinner it cramped. If anyone asked

Let it go, Sarah said. We can't do anything unless it follows some routine you've come up with, why, no one understands, let alone you, but we have to follow it anyway. Don't ask, you say. Can't we do anything but take the back road to town? The highway takes you there, and it's quicker.

He bent over, touched his toes and held the stretch for a count of ten. Every morning the paper had something disturbing to report. Every night the television brought it up to date. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Every generation must think that. He twisted his torso to the right, then back to the left, stretching the muscles of his chest. When his grandfather first arrived in New York he thought there would be gold on the streets

You get what you deserve, but no one said it was payback. These last few weeks his chest was always tight. He was drinking too much coffee. He rotated his neck in a circle, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. His mother never could handle stress. She worried everything to death, never let it go, even when it was gone, and, later in life, had to take nitroglycerin for angina.

He never asked Gayle why Jake left, and she never said anything. She had a photograph of him on the end table next to her bed, and one day it was no longer there. The man in the photograph was a stranger. This summer Dylan was obsessed by why he left, but it did not seem to have to do with Jake.

You think I enjoy this? he wanted to yell to the three lean, fit cyclists in brightly-colored jerseys who went by. He clasped his hands above his head and stretched them, lengthening the muscles of the back and shoulders. He loves Sarah. She's attractive. A good woman. Why does he feel apologetic when he runs a hand down her back?

He remembers the blonde teller at the bank yesterday who had a turned-up nose, pale blue eyes, a sweet smile. She was young, so young. The muscles of his quadriceps stretched, taut. It felt good. He was in better shape than he thought.

The BUCK stops WHERE? Part.02

A recent story by Bob Buckeye of Middlebury, VT.

Buckeye links:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_200203/ai_n8361544

http://lakewoodobserver.com/home.php?which=columns&col=14





At Columbia, a sea of expectant faces, the country of the young.
Part .02
by Robert Buckeye


--Gayle, right? he asked. I remember you. You were always with Jake. I can't believe it. I remember how he looked at me, Kim, as if he had seen my photo in a magazine, and, there I was, in front of him.

He had a pot-belly, his hair was combed forward to cover a receding hairline. His face was blotched and his eyes sunken in his head. He wore what looked like a J. C. Penney's white shirt, creased khakis, a paisley tie. I put those guys down in the Sixties. Gayle laughed.

--I'm not the woman I was then either. I was just a girl. It was the Sixties. I remember my mother say late in her life I don't look in mirrors anymore. I know if I do, she would add, I won't like what I see.


No one saw her face the day Jake left. You can't go with me, he said. I'll drag you down, and I don't want to do that. You can't make that decision for me, Jake. Only I can. For a moment he touched her cheek. I know, he said. I can't, but I am. She watched him as he went down Houston to the subway in that slouched walk of his until she could no longer see him.

I never thought it was over, and even after I could no longer see him, I could not believe it was.


--Jake had a broad Jewish nose, Kim, chestnut brown eyes, long, dark charcoal hair. I saw him in a bar. There was something about how he sat and talked to the bartender. You could tell he liked people and people liked him. He was not like other men I had met. I told the waitress to get him another of what he was drinking and when he turned towards me

For a moment she looked over Kim's shoulder. Down the street the old man who always wore a plaid jacket and walked stiffly like a penguin picked through a garbage can for returnable bottles. I can't explain it, she continued. No man looked at me that way before. Her laugh was thin, resigned. I know. Everyone says that.


Except the one she cannot talk about. The one her father's brother. The one an agent in Hollywood. The Sunday he stopped for a visit while he was in town he must have answered questions about the movie business, laughed about what they thought about it, listened to what her parents said about their lives.

How deep-set his eyes were in his head. How he looked at me.

When he pulled back the sheets of the bed in the motel the next day, she could not say anything. It was already too late. The first time I saw you, he said. I've seen movie stars. Beautiful women. I don't know what it is. We shouldn't be doing this, she told him. I know, he said.

I did not care. I wanted it.

He hesitated, awkward, and she went up to him and put her hand against his cheek. She cried afterward. She was fourteen.

The face I see in the mirror now is the one I saw that day, the eyes larger now, brooding, lips a tight band, a frown lining my forehead.

Busy on FaceSpace : Praxis - 004

Reply To: praxis
To: galligan
Subject: Re: MISS YOU Date:
Wed, 11 Oct 2006 16:55:45 +0000
[filed by Blackberry, from Prague]

Jan,
Sorry to have been oso ut of touch, especially during your introspective. Am riding a trolley as I write, headed back to my office after an audition downtown for the role of a hospital manager in a low-budget slashes film called Psych9 which will be shot here soon.

That's the only kind of western film being made here there days. The last one was Hostel. The next one after this? Surprise! Hostel 2. I wasn't in the first one, so perhaps I can be eviscerated in the second.

Hope your show is going well.
It seems great from what I'm reading.

Cheers
Jim the Hospital Manager in Hell

===========
from IMDB.com
Plot Summary for Hostel (2005) 3 backpackers are in Amsterdam where they get locked out of their youth hostel. They are invited into a man's house where he tells them of a hostel somewhere in eastern Europe where the women are all incredibly hot and have a taste for American men. When they get there, everything is too good to be true - the hostel is "to die for"
Summary written by CROESKE

Paxton, Josh and Oli are backpacking across Europe when they are told about a hostel in Slovakia. Once they hear that this hostel is infested with beautiful European woman who only want tourists, they quickly get on a train to the wonderful promise land. As soon as they get there, they start having the time of their lives. Soon after they arrive, they slowly start to realize that this hostel is hiding a terrible and dark secret.
Summary written by jaydasnay88

Two American backpackers and a friend from Iceland embark on a crazy adventure touring Europe. They start in Amsterdam, and are lured to a hostel somewhere in Bratislava (Slovakia) where they're told they will find beautiful women. The 3 friends didn't know what they were in for........
Summary written by Next Level

While backpacking through Europe, college students Paxton (Jay Hernandez) and Josh (Derek Richardson) seek the ultimate vacation through sex, drugs and unforgettable experiences. When a friendly stranger informs the two of a hostel in Bratislava that offers the most beautiful and promiscuous women in all of Europe, Paxton and Derek trek with their new Icelandic friend Oli (Eythor Gudjonsson) to find the hostel that sounds too good to be true. When arriving to Bratislava, the trio found that the hostel was everything and more of what they expected. The events that follow are sure to deliver the unforgettable vacation that the two were looking for. Mystery, suspense and fear direct this film to its bloody ending.
Summary written by Brian@FilmSchoolRejects.com

Cast Jay Hernandez .... Paxton Derek Richardson .... Josh Eythor Gudjonsson .... Oli Barbara Nedeljakova .... Natalya Jan Vlasák .... The Dutch Businessman Jana Kaderabkova .... Svetlana Jennifer Lim .... Kana Keiko Seiko .... Yuki Lubomir Bukovy .... Alex Jana Havlickova .... Vala Rick Hoffman .... The American Client Petr Janis .... The German Surgeon Takashi Miike .... Miike Takashi Patrik Zigo .... Bubble Gum Gang Leader Milda Jedi Havlas .... Desk Clerk Jedi Zina Blahusova .... Girl Katerina Cervenkova .... Girl Veronika Petrova .... Girl Kristina Kosunova .... Girl Karel Hrosek .... Girl Mugi Lhagvadorj .... Girl Jana Semradova .... Girl Hana Dibelkova .... Girl Alena Chrastinova .... Girl Klara Smetanova .... Girl Petra Slavikova .... Girl Katrina Henesova .... Girl Hana Vitvarova .... Girl Mark Bakunas .... Rock God Eli Roth .... American Stoner (uncredited)
Directed by Eli Roth Writing credits (WGA) Eli Roth (written by)

WORKSPACEdOUT&ABOUT - 003

DEMATERIALIZE NOW!

leached from the archive: http://www.dematerialized.com/noartrecentrantspage.html

The BUCK stops WHERE? Part.01

A recent story by Bob Buckeye of Middlebury, VT.

Buckeye links:

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_200203/ai_n8361544

http://lakewoodobserver.com/home.php?which=columns&col=14



At Columbia, a sea of expectant faces, the country of the young.
by Robert Buckeye

This hour contained all our hours. Boston in 1775, the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, John Brown at Martin’s Ferry, Haymarket, Lawrence 1912, Debs running for President from prison, the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, Birmingham, the Port Huron Statement, the marches on Washington, always the marches on Washington, still the marches on Washington.

We put an ear to the tracks. We saw the future.

The train came around the bend and there was no mistaking the engineer.
At every crossing, its whistle warned everyone to stand back. It was coming through.
It has not ceased to come through.

If you move your hand, their eyes follow. If you sit at their table, you break their bread.
If you say something
Those spit out, broken down, given up, come back inside.

Jake, Gayle said, I need you. I need to escape my past. When my uncle ran his hand slowly down my back. Slow. He was so slow. I wanted him to hurry. I wanted it so bad. I was fourteen. I see him pull back the sheets. Feel his lips against mine. His hand separates my legs. You need to help me, Jake. I can’t live frozen in that moment.
I left.
Put it down.
Fact.
If you stare at your hand long enough, it will stare back.

***.

PDiddyPost 1.010

Dear Jan:

Was out on the town last night, down at Red Square where the place was mobbed, as usual. Saw this new band from Burlington called CHUCH. Reminded me alot of my old buddy Chuck Brown from DC, mixed with Chuck Berry.

Here's a sampling....

Chuck Berry in Dire Straits
"No Money Down for Nothin'"

As I was motivatin' back in town
Saw a Cadillac sign sayin':"Money for Nothin' and Chicks for FREE!"
So I eased on my brakes and I pulled in the drive
Gunned my motor twice then I walked inside
Dealer came to me said, "Money for nothin' and chicks for free..."
Just tell me what you want and then sign that line
I'll have it brought down to you in a hour's time.

"Money for Nothin' and Chicks for FREE?!"

I'm gonna get me a car and I'll be headed on down the road
Then I won't have to worry about this broken - down, ragged Ford
"Well Mister, See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup?"
"Yeah buddy"
That's his own hair That little faggot got his own jet airplane!"
I want a full Murphy bed in my back seat
I want short - wave radio, I want TV and a phone
I shoulda learned to play the guitar
I shoulda learned to play them drums
Yeah I'm gonna get that car
And I'm gonna head on down the road
Man we could have some fun
And he's up there, what's that? Hawaiian noises?

Yeah, then I won't have to worry
About that broken - down, ragged Ford
Bangin' on bongos like a chimpanzee
That ain't workin'! That's the way you do it!

I want railroad air horns and a military spot
And I want a five - year g'rantee on everything I got
We gotta install microwave ovens, custom kitchen deliveries
We gotta move these refrigerators.
We gotta move these colour TV's, Lord

I want ten - dollar deductible
I want twenty dollar notes
I want thirty thousand liability
That's all she wrote


=======
Posted by Blackberry 2:35AM 10-09-06
PDiddy the PartyProHost

Red Planet in Human Drives Hardcore sex says Shortbus

Hollywood & Vineland

Xxxspace (8:00:32 PM): so you have a fetich
kenosha54 (8:00:32 PM): hey what
Xxxspace (8:00:40 PM): fetish**
kenosha54 (8:00:43 PM): like
kenosha54 (8:00:53 PM): i like blogs
kenosha54 (8:01:04 PM): whats yours
Xxxspace (8:01:09 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxspace (8:01:14 PM): lol
kenosha54 (8:01:21 PM): i am hard as a rock..so tell me when your reaches rock
Xxxspace (8:01:23 PM): i have an ad fetish
kenosha54 (8:01:27 PM): well tell me
kenosha54 (8:01:32 PM): ad
Xxxspace (8:01:44 PM): ya like...advertising
kenosha54 (8:01:49 PM): ok..so what happens
kenosha54 (8:01:58 PM): how does that turn you in
Xxxspace (8:02:02 PM): i dont know
Xxxspace (8:02:04 PM): it just does
Xxxspace (8:02:08 PM): ive never had one
Xxxspace (8:02:16 PM): but people that have them turn me on
Xxxspace (8:02:27 PM): and if i had one it would probably turn me on
Xxxspace (8:02:29 PM): beats me
Xxxspace (8:02:32 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxspace (8:02:50 PM): but along with that i like the whole nyt look....thats
kenosha54 (8:03:02 PM): ha thats wild
Xxxspace (8:03:14 PM): ya but now im hard
kenosha54 (8:03:32 PM): me 2
kenosha54 (8:03:42 PM): ad got you going
kenosha54 (8:03:47 PM): what you wearing
Xxxspace (8:04:04 PM): snowman suit
Xxxspace (8:04:09 PM): noshirt and noshorts
kenosha54 (8:04:17 PM): um so big bludges
Xxxspace (8:04:35 PM): ya
kenosha54 (8:04:45 PM): um
kenosha54 (8:04:58 PM): love to slip that snowman off of you
Xxxspace (8:05:08 PM): haha
kenosha54 (8:05:53 PM): and gram the one eyed snake
kenosha54 (8:06:13 PM): grab
Xxxspace (8:06:53 PM): not tonight...dont get to excited
kenosha54 (8:07:12 PM): well your ad is hot
Xxxspace (8:07:45 PM): that is true
kenosha54 (8:08:03 PM): and a little horny
Xxxspace (8:08:11 PM): and also tru
kenosha54 (8:08:31 PM): get a ruler and measure it for me
Xxxspace (8:08:38 PM): ive already told you that
kenosha54 (8:08:47 PM): tell me again
Xxxspace (8:08:49 PM): 2 1/2" and 1 1/2"
kenosha54 (8:09:04 PM): ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
kenosha54 (8:09:08 PM): beautiful
Xxxspace (8:09:38 PM): lol
kenosha54 (8:09:44 PM): thats a great ad size
Xxxspace (8:10:00 PM): thank you
kenosha54 (8:10:22 PM): ad still hot
Xxxspace (8:10:28 PM): ya
kenosha54 (8:10:40 PM): take it out
Xxxspace (8:10:54 PM): brb...my mom is yelling
kenosha54 (81106 PM): ok

Sleeping in Duchamp's Shadow

It's true, the living quarters at Gulag 11 Central were very trying during that winter campaign, even for us native born sons. Which may explain why many of us finally decamped for warmer climes.
JC Garrett
Rodeo, Ca.





Adjusted readymade magazine cover: JC Garrett, 2005