Month: January 2017

Today I will Achieve 2 Pillars in Defiance of the Goons in Washington

“The Last Time Donald Was at a Punky Reggae Party He Dreamed of Destroying Everybody’s Happiness As An Old Man Confronting Mortality” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 11 x 14″

I certainly can’t make it to Mecca. Nor, do I think I would ever go into a country more brutal and cowardly than Saudi Arabia, for private reasons. But I will handle the other four, in solidarity with all of Islam. It’s easy. Centuries ago, elders made it easy—just declare there is only one God whose name begins with “A”, and you and your starving family won’t be taxed by the bosses. Boy, I wish it was that easy today! Praise Allah, and no pennies get extorted from me to fund big bombs and battleships? Bring him on! I can always say we’ll take that trip to the holy town, tomorrow, or the next day…

You can convert today too. Cat Stevens did it, and he was a spoiled rotten rock and roller. Here’s how:

Shahadah: sincerely reciting the Muslim profession of faith.
Salat: performing ritual prayers in the proper way five times each day.
Zakat: paying an alms (or charity) tax to benefit the poor and the needy.
Sawm: fasting during the month of Ramadan.
Hajj: pilgrimage to Mecca.

A couple footnotes:

• Luckily there are no judges besides Allah on that sincerity pledge.

• I do not make any money today or tomorrow to give alms, so consider this post my charity (which is 100% of my labor)

•You don’t really fast the whole month. Just no food or sex during the daylight hours. Also, it’s more than a half year away, so a day trip into Islam costs you one less pillar.

•And once again, there’s always tomorrow to enter crazy cake Arabia.

So for today I am a Muslim. Tomorrow I will return to my perpetual state of American confusion which I inherited from the last generation. We got so smart during the 20th century that we let religion fall by the wayside. Somewhere along Doubter Road we began to relinquish belief and fear in a higher power over to belief and fear in the human abstract power, like presidents and military police. Even religion and university living became hollow. Christian ministers and priests started to pray to their military leaders and vice-versa. While in college a local sorority hung a banner above their door that read ‘Nuke Iraq”. Surface ideas and fear gut reactions became the culture and the culture became ca-ca. Today self-glorifying smart people all over the land are mocking the litmus tests in the fake culture war. Unfortunately, I need them to preserve my sanity. One test that always makes me a good Muslim in spirit (Good Christian too, and Jew, Buddhist, Vedic reader and Zoroastrian): witnessing a 12 year old child whom you love get visually molested my a Nicki Minaj music video, and feeling mad. Really mad. Like “going religious” mad. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I’d rather be an orthodox Somalian Muslim than an overworked, unimaginative somnambulistic American idiot who ignores celebrity sex brainwashing of our children. It’s real. It’s everywhere. It’s happening now. It’s allowed. It is our culture. Yuck!

Both Nicki Minaj and Donald Trump are not anomalies. Both are very prominent American personalities that we let happen because our parents spoiled us and went to sleep making a living while keeping up with the Jone’s, while the myopic Jones’ thought nothing about the world beyond how it immediately affected the Jones’ personal wealth and success.

And, admit it, all of us despise the Jones’.

Live and let live philosophy (which is no philosophy at all. Rather a scaredy-cat reaction to what confuses irreligious folks like us), has imbibed in Americans the loathsome Fox TV fear-religion expressed by a stupid Donald Trump. Likewise, historically, the same must be said about all presidents of the past. Franklin Roosevelt imprisoned Americans at concentration camps like Manzanar—He did it with a snooty Harvard accent, which soothed the public confusion like a tonic. Your parents and grandparents were also fearful little wussies like Donald Trump and FDR. I live near the Safe Haven Museum, hallowed ground of the concentration camp where anti-semite FDR, via the persuasion of his wife Eleanor, finally allowed a ship of European (mostly Jewish) refugees to settle near the end of World War II. Why didn’t she divorce the warmongering xenophobic husband of supreme intolerance? Because she lived and let lived! It was the popular idea in 1942 to round up innocent kids, steal their parent’s homes, and lock whole families up in friendly desert prisons. Oh yes, and then annihilate some of their distant relatives with terrorist atomic weapons that were detonated by order of the next xenophobic and racist president, Harry Truman.

Come to think of it. Donald Trump is a legacy, not an anomaly.

But this does not make him more or less disgusting than any president of the past who assumed that his position in life gave him the power to rule over any man or woman. Scaredy-cats do that.

Join me and become Muslim for a day. Or, if you’re a really brave American middle class agent of continuous xenophobia, stop paying federal income tax. Or break something federal that equals the tax you pay. Disenfranchisement is just that. Ask whole populations from the 19th and 20th century American south (and north). You cannot vote disenfranchisement away. You have to suffer. I don’t want to be a Muslim, but I will suffer this one day in solidarity with those people who are still grossed out by a Niki Minaj, and those too who are irrationally fearful of a coward bully with a 3rd grade vocabulary. Who can say I am disingenuous? Only Allah.

And he knows all the fakers—both Muslim and infidel.






Grief is Productive Non-relief


“That’s a Lot of Paint For an Uneducated Elephant!” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″


“Robert Allen Mazza (b.11/7/1934—d.1/12/2017) Was Born and Raised in East Utica” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″


“Microbial Facebook Politics” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 10 x 8″


“I Don’t Think That Insects Care if People Love Them or Not” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″

Four Paintings This Morning While Mourning


“Robert Allen Mazza was Born on November 7, 1934 and Died on January 12, 2017” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″


“I Do Not Recommend Death” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″


“I Think Careerism is the Only Obstacle to Being Born Again” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″



“Rex Tillerson, the Highly Protected Sociopath, is Going to Kill a Lot of Stuff” 2017. acrylic on canvas board, 8 x 10″


And Flint?


Politically, We Are All Small Children of Flint 2017. Acrylic on panel board, 12 x 16″

Here is my marker for citizen non-compliance:

A glass of water and a hot shower in Flint, Michigan.

Any takers? And I don’t mean just one sip of one glass of water, like our outgoing President took last spring. I’m talkin’ a USDA 8 cups a day, day after day guzzle, and a few hot caustic showers a week to prove that, yes, our government has ample power to make municipal plumbing improvements in Flint.

Because I realize that, in Flint, neither of those life and hygiene necessities are good for my organs, I see that the United States and its state of Michigan are derelict. When governments are consistently derelict in duties to the people, they are unreliable, and unreliable in many cases equates to weak. Therefore, in reality, the superpowers seated in Washington and Lansing are rather ineffective and lame. I don’t know about you, but I tolerate them like little faraway cousins at a family reunion. They’re a pain in the arse when bouncing around me, but not of much importance in my every day life. In fact, not important at all.

And yet, the truly great American activist Michael Moore (and I mean this with high respect) is busying himself these days trying his darnedest to oust a President-elect with twitter, or making movies for profit, or whatever the hell he does with all that freakin’ money besides release it and revolt! He keeps using the old rusty master’s tools long after  Boeing raided the golden work shed to make slick homicide bombs for slimy old prostates to play “drop on a family” with. Michael, with all his people power and righteous influence, would better serve America if he planted his organization right down in central Flint, made daily broadcasts from there, practically non-stop, like a Jerry Lewis Telethon, until some of that delicious mafia arms dealing money is turned over to the people of that desperate city, at least so much so that by next Christmas kids can drink a god damn glass of water and remember how to multiply at the same time.

Weak and ineffective government.

I read yesterday that Obama’s progressive legacy among sending his kids to private school, keeping the Guantanamo Bay torture complex open 24-7, and deporting 2.5 million immigrants back to from where they came, also included an average of three bombs dropped every hour for eight years on tan and tanner people in other parts of the world who Americans never care about until they’re told to “care” about them. Which means, bomb them. Not to mention the BP oil disaster—oops! Just a little leak. 11 people dead. Billions of Gulf of Mexico things dead… What an unfortunate accident, and not one executive put on trial. But such a nasty fine! And this morning’s stock futures look to be on the rise…

Go Tar Sands!

Ineffective government.

I actually believe Trump’s inauguration will usher in some positive, progressive accomplishment—all these angry pretend liberals will roll over the pretend conservatives with an unmitigated onslaught of tweets releasing a massive silent war wave of he-said, she-saids. And by this time next year there will be just 800 homicides in Chicago. Not too bad. Actually, pretty darn good for Twitter, or MSNBC, or FOXTV, or where ever you plan to be Michael Moore, instead of in Flint, where real suffering is happening right now. All you’re doing today is riling up comfortable jackasses like me to be angry at something none of us has been able to change since money was invented. This finger-pointing game has made you quite a wealthy man. Stop reaching everywhere. Pick a battle and remain until the fat lady gets offed by some real nifty Boeing-designed and created metallic drone spray.

I wish my friends and Michael Moore would get over this football game called Presidential politics. I wish they could judge our government how our government and its people judged the fascists of Italy and Germany during the late Depression just prior to World War II. I truly wish they could understand how just one, small by comparison, WMD invention of our industrial war designers gets displayed before the people on the wrong side of its manufacture. Just a little imagination please…

Americans are just so damn arrogant, blind, and numb-dumb. If you don’t like what you get for what you give, stop giving. Divorce these crooks in Washington. You will never-ever vote them out. Nazi Germany when victorious, had a lot of Germans eating good German bread and drinking good German beer. Americans see no correlation because the atomic bomb was invented, and then the military industrial complex got excited. The MIC meant to the people of the world outside of the U.S. that, had no atomic weapons been created, and these U.S. governments still carried on in the cutting up and control of masses of peoples all over the globe year after year, then arrogant America would have been overrun a long time ago, invaded and conquered, before the Beatles even, and the rest of the British invasion. Proliferation of military might is the only reason we are still an intact nation. If Nazis had 2000 nuclear weapons for 70 years after World War II, then Volkswagen would be top automaker even if it admitted to all and sundry that its cars were made out of Swiss cheese. Swiss people cheese.

My God, these jokers created a department with the word “Homeland” in it, and not one of us, even the most astute, jumped a little recognition jump of “Holy shit, they’re insane!”

That is impressive control! And from a weak and ineffective government.

Wake up Michael Moore. Help create a true resistance at a real place and time. Lay your money down, and go back to Flint. Let’s turn this broken sewer government into capable Hoover Dam plumbers once again.




Deconstructing Key Lime Pie


“The Cosmological Playoffs—Ascendance of Mankind: 1, The Rest of Respirating Life: 0” 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 20 x 24″

Deconstructing Key Lime Pie from Cookbook For The Poor

Rose and I can talk for an hour about deconstructing Key lime pie. The finished dessert is global and global is hastening doom. We can discuss karma, which I declare is “fate” with a few freewill choices. I believe fate and karma are inventions of the freakishly comfortable species man, so I say “impossible” until the raccoon is allowed to fall onto the spinning wheel of life and death. The skunk too needs to make his karmic choice. “To spray or not to spray this jerk crapping on my habitat?” Without all living things respected thus, fate and karma are superstitions of species-ism, collaborating with guilt, justifying the gruesome murder of anything, as long as it doesn’t affect our dessert.
From Key Lime Pie to karma, to power, corruption, evil… And from those one or two fleeting dreams of contentment NOW— which tend to put me (sometimes my loved ones) in a state of anonymous poverty, secure in a non-motorized hut, with a wood stove, gun, and a four-season garden with saved seed—from these clear and happy daydreams await the visions of what my species has given up for the constant decoration of key lime pie for dessert, biweekly trips to the super-duper market, a deep bitterness brought by a devotion to standard time, individuality, and the purchase of a thousand materials to cram inside a wooden box, dressed up pretty in vinyl strips pretending to be wooden strips.
We have forsaken clan devotion for the hate crimes of individuality.
The mechanized hyper-individual is a lone cancer cell. He is the beginning of the end of nature. Self congratulation, self pride, self-satisfaction are not only meaningless without clan approval, but infinitely depressing as harbingers of doom. If we are living and working on a global treadmill, and my specialty is Key Lime Pie, the wife dabbles in printing runs, Mom does garage sales, Dad knows black fly fungiciding, sister claims insurance claims, friends teach kids fifty miles away, or guard prisoners with a night stick in a sweat-stink, cement room, etc., and over time we cannot come to value each other’s specialization beyond how much it stratifies our class position, and nurtures our personal “comfort,” then nothing besides boredom and incompetence ballooning in the brain awaits the hopeless worm of modernity.
The mass of physically comfortable folks obliviously act out their dreams slowly torturing all the living things on earth.
Themselves included.
There are no more clans here.
There is no sharing or need of one another. Who has ever needed an insurance worker or a prison guard in the family?
The hyper-individual Carl Sandburg published a little poetic blurb not so long ago about Hungarians at a beer picnic. Group happiness. We need that now. Bonfires, wine sharing, poetry spoken from every mouth. Never again the written word!
We must have a group expectation of the dawn—not only for the sake of the new economy, but for our happiness too. Our extended families are in ruins. Thoreau was right about simplicity, but dead wrong on the individual. He was an excellent spokesperson for the dangerous hobbyist of the future, that is all.
It is inevitable that we will come to clans again. We shall need to build successful ones. Survival of the fittest is unnecessary at first. In western, that is, rich society, we can chant the mantra “survival of the happy” for now, and nurture our fledgling clans without immediate economic or natural disaster implications. It does necessitate group projects, however. Like corn planting, water gathering, and grand meals at siesta, finished on those easier days with some exotic, mouth-watering Key Lime Pie.
Cities will have to die out. Urban clans will soon discover that cabbage cannot grow on asphalt. Sadly, the hyper-individuals will annihilate 9/10 of the living planet long before the first clan boy or girl’s rite-of-passage ceremony. A one or two meter rise in ocean level will launch nuclear winter for sure, no matter what happy, hopeful, denial predictions the specialists spout. Clans in the wild are the future. Coastal urbanites, find yours on higher ground. Suburbanites, may I suggest bowling night, and many mead and shredded wheat parties?
Making a Key Lime Pie amidst the knowledge of dinosaur implications for thousands of species, including our own, is doom. Definitions are changing. Joy will be defined as “the feeling of clan nurturing.” Individual will be synonymous with “clan crime,” a future capital offense.

Key Lime Pie

Lime filling

4 teaspoons grated zest, plus a ½ cup juice from about 4 limes
4 large egg yolks
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
Graham cracker crust

11 full size graham crackers, bludgeoned to fine crumbs (1¼ cups)
3 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

Whipped cream topping

¾ cup heavy cream, chilled
¼ cup confectioners’ sugar
½ lime, sliced paper thin and dipped in sugar (for decoration)

For the filling:

Whisk zest and yolks in a medium bowl until light green color, about two minutes.
Beat in the milk and then the juice. Set aside at room temperature to thicken.

For the crust:

Preheat oven to 325º.
Mix crumbs and sugar in a medium bowl. Add butter and stir with a fork until well blended. Scrape mixture into 9-inch pie pan and with a measuring cup, press crumbs over bottom and up sides of pie pan to form an even crust.
Bake until lightly brown and fragrant, about 15 minutes. Transfer pan to wire rack and let cool for twenty minutes.
Pour lime filling into the crust.
Bake until center is set, yet wiggly when jiggled, 15-20 minutes. Return pie to wire rack. Cool to room temperature and then refrigerate for at least three hours.

For the whipped cream:

Before serving, whip cream in a medium bowl to very soft peaks. Add confectioners’ sugar 1 tablespoon at a time and continue whipping until just-stiff peaks. Spoon on to pie slices and top withsugared limes.
Yum. Think on future bonfires with your clan.

Facebook is Not My Brain Anymore


“Democrans and Rebublicrats Restrict Reality to What They Read in Newspapers” Acrylic on panel, 12 x 16″

That’s a bear atop the Burlington Electric Department up in Vermont, where it is cold, like Siberia. This huge Russian bear empties an old honey jug of hydrochloric acid all over the electric grid in order to infiltrate American homes with fake news and pro Donald Trump propaganda. He is also a consummate hypnotist and can manipulate any mind away from reason and rationale into a devoted post neo-con loving, Confederate flag waving, Rudy Giuliani, gaudily over-dressed in endangered animal skins.

This most recent fake news story came from the powerhouse news corporation, The Washington Post. Coupled with the almost declassified intelligence report on election hacking by Russia, it had a huge impact on worldwide media opinion and turned many in my nation, (who by virtue of what I have learned through social psychological research, were already very North Korea lite and vulnerable to government propaganda), into Facebook political hacks. Even some of my intelligent Facebook friends couldn’t leave it alone. “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” Chicken Littles with very little, or at best, woefully forgotten historical education. It seems the only political triumph sought is the removal, by impeachment or volunteer abdication, of the most recent president-elect. No ideologies are being expressed. No anti-war protest, or reminders of rapid environmental deterioration—all of the bad in the world, many of these Facebookers decree, can only be fixed by the removal of this one man and his sinister lair of cabinet appointees. He is the sole road block to every potential good mankind can promote or achieve. If we rise up collectively to Facebook and Twitter troll him day and night, then surely we can oust him from power, and then all will be right with the world. Our government will cease to be the number one arms dealer to Earth, Inc. The U.S. will immediately sever all connections with insane states of insanity like Saudi Arabia—and we shall get back to the clear-minded and reasonable policies of Barack Obama, and continue where his administration left off, pushing for a trillion dollar nuclear upgrade, bombing the be-Jesus out of poor oil path nations, charging the poor for health insurance, watching helplessly while BP or its equivalent, churns another Gulf of Mexico into a thick crude oil shake.

I am witnessing people use social media to right the world order, when they have never known a right world order, nor are even able to dream of one unless their political enemies are defeated. They can’t or rather, won’t do it themselves. That kind of thinking is crazy, forgetting all the while that both Hitler and Gandhi were small, rather insignificant “themselves” at one time.

If Facebook is to work as a tool for positive change, it needs to replace it’s “Like” thumb with a meet-up link. That is, if you like Jimmy’s post about a beer he drank in Harvard Square, you can arrange for a place to connect with Jimmy (perhaps a pub) and discuss the virtues of that beer and maybe more of its kind. Or, if Jimmy is a staunch, flag-waving Democran or Republicrat, you can forgo the cute little thumb’s up, or the deafening silence of the dreaded “no-thumb” disapproval, or worse yet, the tell-tale non-plussed reaction expressed in comment mocking of your politics, and actually spend an hour or two peacefully assembling with others of like-hope in Jimmy’s house, if he ever can let go of his many internal fears, and actually invite you over sometimes. Nope. Let’s Facebook our politics instead. That is how we can tell revolution is just around the corner. Or, wait a second… Check out this adorable puppy licking that parrot’s eyeball!

Otherwise, and I believe this to be the more likely scenario, Facebook will remain just a cyber hangout for some very nice people, but also quite a few impotent trolls as well, discussing the vices and much less often, the virtues, of each other’s ranky-dank under bridge hideout.

Finally, I’d like to finish with a popular story out of the annals of social psychology research describing the “bystander effect”…

In 1964, a young woman named Catherine Genovese was raped and killed in two separate attacks in Queens, N.Y. After investigation police noted that 38 people had either witnessed the violence or heard Genovese scream, but at no time did anyone make an effort to scare off the attacker, and just one woman called the police. There are many situations like this happening every day. They used to call it cowardice before PC made everyone equally special so long as they possessed a router in their home.

Facebook is by and far the greatest promoter of the bystander effect. And it works a kind of magic on our brain’s sensitive clan approval cortex. Nobody does anything of substance anymore. Or, at least it appears that way. The completion of a published book is liked as well as the latest video of a cat stuffing itself into a flower vase. This summer, thanks to Facebook Live®, I even got to witness with my own eyes an actual murder on the side of the road. I didn’t like it one bit. I left my angry face emoticon for all and sundry to contemplate. I was so mad. I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich.

Zuckerberg bets we don’t do a damn thing with our minds and bodies besides twiddle our thumbs and continue to debate news stories we read or see on TV. I think he likes it when some nonconformist fool tips the moderate scales just a wee little bit with a comment about world peace. You should see the bystanders rise up and… comment like the world is about to end. But then Jeopardy is on at 7:00 PM, and the victim probably deserved exactly what she got anyway.

Facebook is a place for mind and do rot.

One last quote, and then Facebook is a closed book for the rest of my life.

I have named the destroyers of nations: comfort, plenty, and security—out of which grow a bored and slothful cynicism, in which rebellion against the world as it is, and myself as I am, are submerged in listless self-satisfaction.

—John Steinbeck (famous non-Facebooker)


Two Humanly Paintings To Express One Afternoon of Exasperation and the Power of Propaganda


I Am So Not Ready For This Title 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16″


Spy On My Daughters You Fat Dripping Government Goon and I’ll Go All Hannibal Lecter On Your Pancreas, Dig? 2013. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

The first painting I made yesterday in an outpouring of emotion while dreaming of the inevitable end to all whom we love. Whether they go first or we go first, we all go in the end. Not profound, still, sometimes overwhelming when contemplated for too long.

Then soon after, I got over my innocent and love overflowing daydream and drove out to the grocery store for ingredients to a dinner that would show my appreciation to the humble family I share stories with every night. NPR talked about Russian hackers, spies, brutal autocrats, near dead and very rich U.S. Senators, the President-elect and his nonchalance over Russian hacking, spying, sneaking around peeping into other people’s e-mails… Then they quoted CIA directors past and present—the ones who spy, hack, peep into American’s e-mails, phone logs, underwear drawers, etc., etc, etc., and my mood got progressively more sour over the next hour while perusing ingredients for my love feast.

Fortunately I purchased my foodstuffs before I got so low and ornery as to simmer gruel in a pot for the night and leave it at that.

I am supposed to trust with my nation’s tenuous future disgusting men who access my children’s whereabouts, online habits, or perhaps even sweetheart texts sent in dreaming of their own future love-giving scenarios? These filthy, dirty men peeking in on my toilet… I am supposed to trust them—knowing their wildly perverted intentions—to tell the truth when they lied to Congress when asked to tell the truth?

No. I do not trust them. They are Stasi-in-training. They are the enemy of the people. My people. The ones who I love and could learn to love because they are not rotten propagandists in collusion with any entity that attempts to prevent me from being the kind-hearted, sensitive creature I was born to become. NPR is CIA is FBI is Homeland Security is KGB.

I’ll make something nice today to dissolve these sordid agencies into the fine dust of oblivion. A painting. A meal. My greatest achievement this week will be to go a full day with the propaganda turned off. It is a confusion machine. And it is everywhere.