Month: March 2017

Installment #3 of “Capillary Reaction” To Counter the Simple Sentences of Politicians

Panem_et_Circenses

“Panem et Circenses”

John Katko wants to frack New York State. It will not bring money to poor Republican voters more than it will bring sadness and sickness. It is said quite often that we deserve the government we have. Tell that to the German Jew in 1935. Good government will allow the cream to rise to the top. Bad government just stinks because it is spoiled. Unfortunately, in a civilized world, we can’t just poor old John down the proverbial drain. So, we have to vote his kind out, and for good.  My campaign manager quips that it’s all well and good to complain about fracking, but tell us Ron, what do YOU use to heat your house? He’s right! By virtue of a rich, bad government, I am a poor hypocrite.

Vote Throop in 2018, and that distinction will change very quickly for all of us poor hypocrites. I will vote “no” on any and all subsidies/favors to the gas and oil industry. Above all, I will vote to make it much more difficult for oligarchs to fossil fuel exhaust our atmosphere, and push into the public discourse reasonable options to renewable energy. And like the poor hypocrite President Jimmy Carter, I will persuade my constituents to wear sweaters and cozy bed caps in the wintertime.

The “Bread and Circuses” wine bar. 2013. An old secretary turned into a morality kiosk to display my politics and country wines. New York summers are a fruity lush paradise. The forager can feel all squire-like berry picking along the public road. With some vine yeast and modest initial investment in equipment, delicious, potent wines can be had by the time the four month lock down of a New York winter temporarily close all doors to hope, health and happiness.
Elderberry, dandelion, blueberry, and my personal favorite, blackberry. They are high proof, delusion of grandeur wines, aged just long enough to make the common man feel as powerful as any governor coached in the backseat of a black SUV.
I will now attempt to break down the story that is painted in the work above. First off, please note that it is an opinion piece. I am one of those rare modern fools who still preserves some 19th century, quirky human misfortunes. Especially in matters of life and death. Winter, by virtue of the wine, recharge my dreams of equality, and I convince myself that, beyond communal law, no person has authority over another. That is, the Golden Rule should be the only indicator applied to all community problems—local, state, national, private, and public. Of course no democratic or totalitarian regimes ever abide by this simple application of human justice. Anarchism, which is likely impossible, is a label word reserved for the young and dumb, who might actually believe that such a system applied would preserve texting and orange juice for lunch when desired. However, localism is a word to scare the designer underwear off any crooked piece of garbage humanoid, who would suffer most under its auspices. That is, representatives of the multimillion billion dollar corporations—puppets easily placed into positions of power and influence. Our present day governor being one such corporito empowered by a system at war with the Golden Rule.
I sincerely believe in the libertarian idea of nullification, but only if backed up by a local economy. There are 18 + million people living in this state. One man and two parties, made up of many corrupt lawyers do not represent even the tiniest fraction of our families. They support ideas, loud ones, that seldom come from the hearts and minds of the real men and women who vote in November. Manufactured debates, wedge issues, to line up one candidate against the other, when both are just nefarious party stooges snorting coke at private functions.
Which leads to one panel of the secretary with the following text: The Farmer-governor Teaches the Coke-sniffing Governor Empathy on a Stick. My ancestor Enos Throop was governor of New York State from 1829-1832. He was not re-elected because he was a farmer in a time when a farmer had to answer to each one of his farmer neighbors. His farmer neighbors did not want the governor to tax them so that the farmers of Hamilton, Binghamton and Utica could have the state build a canal (The Chenango) to enrich their farms. Hence the interior of the secretary where I have Enos water board our present day governor. Why not? The President declares that his minions at the CIA have that right. So my imagination can too.
Another panel depicts the water-born disease of cholera, so often epidemic in 19th century America. Enos had to deal with the outbreak during his governorship, through no fault of his own. He traveled to inflicted towns and cities to oversee the tragedy and spread the idea of calm leadership throughout the panic. Cholera ruled the streets before Mr. Snow put the new science into practice, locally, without multimillion dollar profit driven research by GlaxoSmithKline. The dandy choleras are out enjoying a Sunday evening stroll.
On the back is a rack for the country wines, and a homage to the famous old west U.S. Marshal entitled Leadership During the Time of the Cholera.
Individual homemade country wines bear the following labels:

Elderberry Heaven/Elderberry Hell/offer Mr. Cuomo/ a glass of HCL

Blackberry—Ready or Not/V2O5/Try to keep your kids alive

Dandelion toluene/a glass of golden sea/a cheap, if less efficient/lobotomy
Blueberry—Share this with a lover to woo/or a close friend to confide/ C5H8O2/or just glutaraldehyde

Finally the secretary’s legs are dressed up with a skeletal Cuomo gesticulating with the words: Andrew doth dance ’round the leukemic hole Jole.
And the Devil with, Satan cries a toluene tear.
There’s a human hand holding a salt loaf of bread, dried basil and tobacco strung around a piece of shale with a photograph of Cuomo and a painting of Throop pasted on a rock. I displayed the wine bar last spring and summer with an essay handout authored by yours truly, and an old speech by Governor Throop (that he wrote himself), explaining his position on the future construction of the Chenango Canal. Both are written by men bearing a conscience. A virtue that power brokers in the present day state of New York fear like rational people fear a family-shrinking infected water supply.
Come to the wine bar and we shall toast the nullification of corrupt human beings, which today means anyone seeking power as a representative in New York State.

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Installment #2 of “Capillary Reaction” For My Future Congressional Predecessor to Ponder

ArmageddonTumblr

“Armageddon Wine Bar” 2010. Mixed Media

2nd installment to essay book published in 2015. I am making an artist run for U.S. Congress in 2018, and am getting my name known to voters. My district’s current representative, John Katko (24th NY), wants to pump chemical water into the ground to extract natural gas. He must not understand how the process works, for if he were a true republican purporting property rights of individual, he would know how the process of fracking shoots its filth pressure across subterranean boundaries. Fred down the road doesn’t get paid for Bob’s dirty, leased trespass. Well, I am running as an independent who, if elected, will never allow a corporate lobbyist into my office. And I won’t answer the phone unless it’s a single caller representing a single person from my district. I bet most of them want clean water to drink, and hydrofracking benefits Texas corporations and senators and congresspeople seeking mafia money for reelection.

Paddle-To-Com-pla-cen-cy

2014. Acrylic on canvas, 54 x 42″

Paddle-To-Com-Pla-Cen-Cy

Divide and conquer. Offer a new John Deere to my namby-Bambi warrior neighbor and why should he care if a speculum was affixed to the mouths of every child outside his six acres, and toluene poured down their gullible gullets? He got his new tractor. That’s good enough for him. German Hans got to keep his assembly line job at the plant too back in ’44 as long as he didn’t complain about the chain gang of Polish slaves in the steel yard. Outside his sleepy village a smokestack exhaled overtime a peculiar smell that only rumor could define, but thought better left unsaid. Anyway Christmas was coming, and that kind of horror exposed would dampen the children’s spirits.
New York State is poised to allow massive injections of benzene into the subterranean world which encases our ground water. Sometimes art and politics must mix else we do nothing but order coffee, watch Netflix, and wait for the dirty urban trend-setters to inform us ignorant country mice on taste, ad nauseum.
The gas lobbyist knows this game well. Copied right out of the play book of the coal and oil magnates. Bring the local idiot a six-pack. After the second beer start praising his ignorance. Say something like deer hunting is a man thing to do and only sissies would think about the purity of their drinking water. Get him to laugh about prejudice or bigotry, pretend rage at the “liberals” in Washington who want to regulate progress, tell him how much you admire his countryman thinking and of course global warming can’t be true if it ever snows. Get out the contract. Tell him the money prize. Look how stern and concentrated his thoughts while signing his name with your leader’s golden pen.
Thank him toughly. Get into your rented F350. Drive over to the hotel holding your stack of signed contracts. Dress into your oxford shirt and BMW. Turn on satellite radio, and drive back home to wife and kids whom you love deeply.
Back home to any German town 1944.

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 36 x 36″

Without The Presence of a Justice Gene, Public Radio Will Have a Strong Corporate Bias
 
Sonny Tupaj of Raphael’s Restaurante, teenage chef and individual child hobo like myself, must have had an insight into the psyche of my future being when he would greet me every time with a fazed look and the spoken word, “why?” “Why Ron, why?” I guess it was my token expression among friends, my most used word during the discovery years of youth. Even my grandmother from her nursing home bed said I was an aspiring philosopher, and another friend, I forget who, called me Philosopher Ron. I remember getting punched in the cheek during a flash rumble and turning back to face my opponent to ask him, “Why, why did you just do that?”
My curiosity was most always human related. I certainly was not (am not) full of wonder, like a child asking, “What is the grass?” Unlike my practical teenage friends, I didn’t care to know how a car engine worked, or how to attach a door to its jamb. However, I was concerned about human behavior. Why did my friend Kyle kick me in the balls just to show off to an older kid he wanted to impress? Why did Rich, the neglected suburban child-poet, decide that dairy farming beheld a bright future? Why did I end up being such an underachieving hoodlum when I wanted to be a forest ranger and had such a healthy lust for sports? Etcetera.
As I grew older, I pushed further with the whys. My first “A” in college was a class in sociology, above a “D” in calculus, and a “C” in accounting. Regrettably, I remained a business major for two more years until my first history elective. I changed majors, truly excited was I to find the answers that history provided. No gray area in hindsight. Kennedy slept with lots of women while he determined the fate of earth with nuclear testings. Hoover was an incompetent bully buffoon who swore that MLK was a communist because, according to Hoover’s official federal psychosis, all black people who had cultural and political thoughts could only be communist.
Of course, reading history just inflamed the “whys”. I read literature, seeking more answers. Kurt Vonnegut was a “why” man. Slaughterhouse 5 would lose all of its charm (and sales), but not much of its meaning, if Vonnegut published the word “Why” on one page, and left it at that.
From literature, to psychology, and finally back to sociology. Stanley Milgram discovered more than an innate penchant for humanity to follow the leader. He unknowingly discovered the presence of a justice gene. That is my hypothesis anyway, and genetic research might not be too far off confirming it. For those not familiar with his work, Milgram ran tests at Yale in 1961 to determine how it was possible for thousands of ordinary Germans to carry out the holocaust. Read about his experiment. It alone has answered so many local and national “whys” for me. The potential of power and propaganda to shape public opinion is greater than the individual ability to think for oneself. All forty participants in his study put 300 volts (also labeled “Extreme Intensity Shock”) into an actor because he was failing a word game, and the man wearing the lab coat in the electrocution room told them to proceed. From the other room the actor was crying out that he had enough, stop the experiment. 26 of the 40 took this torture up to 450 volts (past “Danger: Severe Shock”), several jolts after the actor went silent in the next room.
I believe that had Milgram tested a thousand people instead of forty, at least one would have stopped the moment an “ouch” was heard from the adjoining room. The other 999 would match similar results from the original 40 tested. That unfortunate person would possess what I call “the justice gene”. I also surmise that testing teenagers would have skewed his results and shown more justice genes as a group; even more so among populations of Native Americans. I cannot imagine 26 out of 40 reservation Navajo juicing to death another Navajo because some goofy dude in a white coat told them to.
Anyway, to the painting.
I have that justice gene. It expressed itself as the ever present “why” when I was a boy. I know of it now while listening to National Propaganda Radio. The latter has contracted with America’s Natural Gas Alliance to promote its agenda in exchange for the minds of the last hold out Americans. Their campaign is called “Think About It”, and I believe its sole purpose is to normalize the potential disaster of hydrofracking among those who feel themselves sophisticated enough to listen to the man in the lab coat tell them how to think at any hour of the day. NPR and America’s Natural Gas Alliance know that the game will be won, that it’s just a matter of time. Every day I feel like the one in a thousand who wasn’t asked to participate in the Milgram obedience experiment. By this, I also believe that any employee of NPR, and by association, my local public radio station, daily administers an “Extreme Intensity Shock” to his or her neighbor. None of them have ever asked why. They wait to be told what to say, and they broadcast it over the airwaves to 100,000 people.
So Sonny Tupaj, upon meeting up again 30 years late, please ask me “Why… why Ron, why?”
Because I fear in my heart of hearts dear Sonny, that without the presence of a justice gene, you my old friend, would fry me in a chair if the radio, television or the President told you to. I know that the propagandists know exactly what they are doing. Media programming has one universal agenda, whether it be broadcast by Rupert Murdoch’s Fox TV, the New York Times, or geographically significant “little” WRVO, the public radio station. Their programming is meant to program you. Your thoughts are not your thoughts.
Or Sonny, today you may be a fan of pretend right wing talk radio. Say, Rush Limbaugh, who is NPR heavy as the latter is light on Limbaugh. He doesn’t like anti-frackers either. He wants jobs too. There is no talk of Clean Energy Acts on his show, nor the effects of benzene in the water, or mile long 1-inch thick cement casings that need to hold their structure forever, even after the hundred mini-earthquakes have rattled its integrity. You will never hear of paid for in-your-face media stories on the dangers of
hydrofracking. Both Rush and NPR forbid it. If you get any information, it will provide both side’s issues of a manufactured debate. Yet turn on the radio to hear a well engineer talk of the dangers of hydrofracking, or a scientific explanation of half-life testings of fracking chemicals, and leave it at that? Never. All those smart guys have been obediently electrocuted. Silenced by the man in the white lab coat.

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Time to Serialize No Frack Book to Shame a Lawmaker

FrackImmaculata

“Frack Immaculata!” 2011. Acrylic on oak panel, 48 x 24″

Representative Throop would see oil and fracking industry lobbyists only if he could serve them hot urine beverages and hors d’oeuvres of body grease cheese from only God knows where. I wrote the following book for an anti-fracking exhibition I gave in Syracuse in April, 2015. If he had his druthers, representative Katko (24th NY district) would free up fracking and therefore toluene ingestion to every toddler in New York State. I now cyber publish the following book of no fracking essays to all and sundry in the hopes of gaining significant sanity momentum right up to election day.

Capillary Reaction: Hydrofracking and Irrevocable Loss

Freeflow Books
Copyright ©2015
ISBN: 978-1508871521
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: No!
All rights reserved.

Cover design by Rose Throop

I dedicate this volume to the many people who are much braver than I. Those who look down into the eyes of corrupt power, and spit.

Must Stop the Lower Order of Humanity

I need to get lots of these nature paintings finished before the final assault on the flora and fauna of Central New York. If you live in New York, Syracuse, Rochester, Albany, Buffalo, Binghamton or Utica cities, if you squat on a small backyard, or public park and have factory beef and chicken barbecues and raise babies where the urban veil often blinds you to the natural truth of things, yet still feel that pesky on-and-off pulse of sentiment for life outside of your bubble metropolita, please consider offering a fleeting several seconds of your busy day to the collective mind torture of the men who want to sell you natural gas.
Let’s mark a time. Say 3:24 p.m.?
Maybe strong dream justice is all we ever needed to achieve miracles.
Here we are at an infinitesimal point in earth’s infinity cycle when mind justice may be our only hope beyond the terror of some real bad collective practices warping out of control.
I am so tired of feeling powerless. Let’s sleep on this together.
And dream!

Frack Immaculata!

I am taking art to the level it was meant to be. Presently I am documenting our last battle.
I am one man, one artist insane, crazy enough to place the entire hydro-fracking debate onto my shoulders. I have taken up a position, and now will give the only argument morally acceptable. I shall schlop onto canvas, paper, and hardboard the property rapists of my country in all the colors of their inside organs and respective juices. After viewing my show, all pro-fracking dreams will blow out of the state quicker than the greedy butt-crack stampede from Texas that brought them here.
I shall not take up a scientific argument on the process. Hydraulic fracturing of the Marcellus Shale has the potential of poisoning the groundwater for hundreds of thousands of people for many generations. A man need only hear this news once to react. Just using the logic of foraging black bears would measure some intelligent questions to follow. Who is to profit from these drilling ventures? Is it true that there are cases where tap water out west can be ignited from a faucet? What are the chemicals used in the process? Why doesn’t the industry have to disclose them publicly? Pushing millions of gallons of freshwater laced with up to a hundred chemicals (known and unknown) into the rock bed under high pressure to release mass quantities of methane just doesn’t sound that safe, does it? I mean, even to a moron, or an alcoholic, or wife beater. So why does the Governor of New York State allow this kind of Texas oilman trespass upon his constituents? True, the silent-majority of Americans are mostly short-sighted and selfish, always ready with an opinion on either side of the death debate.
Farmer Ted: “A hundred grand a lease? That’s powerful money. I don’t want government telling me who not to poison. Where do I sign?”
Governor Andrew: “Eight million to my super-fund? Screw New York infants!”
I am working on a painting to shame the governor out of his fine Italian suit. I have the bones of his grandmother, Immaculata, in a red dress, being shot from her Long Island grave by a geyser of liquid carcinogens. Some shore birds and other funny creatures are hanging out in the cemetery on a moonlit night. Words across the sky might read: “Hey Governor, We Sure Hope That Immaculata Isn’t Fracked Out of the Very Ground You Saturate With Poison”. We’ll see what kind of reaction I get from our state boss. I will put on a price tag of six thousand dollars. Maybe he will buy it to destroy it. Half of the proceeds will pay my tax to the Onondaga. The other half will go toward a bigger painting of shame until the Governor uses his overpaid trooper gang to escort Texas oil the hell off our land.
Laissez-faire capitalism was a grand party for the chosen few during the 19th century. And it ran like a top beside the presence of cholera and death-by-childbirth. Such frequent miseries kept all survival joys in check. A slave workforce made anyone not a slave much too busy to oversee the rich neighbor’s trespass. And the water was always dirty poop, for science had not yet escaped the confines of the Pentateuch. God took little Johnny because it was predestined to be. What matter that Grandma picked pole beans with fecal fingers? Or that they laid Johnny to rest with his lead toy soldier ten feet from the well-sweep? Suzy was next, and the family watched her every move with working dread.
Today we know better. We know a lot about the environment and the fragile balance that exists wherever man settles his toxic prejudice. Modern families don’t pour known carcinogens into their wells for a paycheck. Yet for some wicked reason the government by the people, and for the people, wants to persuade the people to consider this action as an economic opportunity. Poison our kids and we will reap wonderful financial benefits. Instant winnings for the well leasers. Trickle-down, cheap energy for everyone else. A few, maybe even thirty dead kids, but all iPhones still humming at Cafe des Artistes on the Upper West Side.
Politics have officially warped into a vile adjunct of corporate power. The Governor knows hydrofracking has the potential to make all life around it sick and dying. He knows that the majority of his lunch friends are corrupt, negligent, and possibly homicidal in their dealings with the red-faced Texans and their high greed agenda. Yet he still touts childhood cancer as a regretful, albeit necessary result of hydraulic fracturing.
We who matter should have our legs sawed off for being such cowards. Why is my call for immediate arrest of the Governor ignored? He should be unkindly imprisoned for life for perpetuating this phony debate endangering the better health of our friends and families.
Another angle to consider is this: New York State government has no authority to offer these carpetbagging cheese faces high bid rights to our land. The chemical water shoots over boundaries, and seeps across roads.
It’s a vote of no-confidence folks. Take a walk in the woods to reflect upon who has power over your family and friends. I shall start paying my tax to the true nation-state where throughout this life I rest my travel bones. The Onondaga base their policy decisions on how the seventh generation will be affected. Oh that is wise. And strong. The Governor could use a real father-chief to slap him down in shame before the rest of the tribe.
The dumb among us will take all of their neighbors to the justice of the Onondaga quicker than a frack-gush up the proverbial coke nose of avarice
We are so poisoned in the brain by this government we prop up by virtue of a coddled economy.
Here’s a take from a long dead Atlantic traveler on how man has become a somewhat useful pawn of the present state:

After having thus successively taken each member of the community in its powerful grasp and fashioned him at will, the supreme power then extends its arm over the whole community. It covers the surface of society with a network of small complicated rules, minute and uniform, through which the most original minds and the most energetic characters cannot penetrate, to rise above the crowd. The will of man is not shattered, but softened, bent, and guided; men are seldom forced by it to act, but they are constantly restrained from acting. Such a power does not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, but it compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, till each nation is reduced to nothing better than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd.
—de Tocqueville

Those local clans still bearing a conscience need to organize a mob. The land men want your land. The companies they represent want to see your babies get sick for a profit. A super biggie profit. A hot dangy-dong-diddle-dee-doo kind of big fat Texas goo profit.  A glass of cool, fresh indian water and not-so-indian carcinogenic compounds to quench a summer thirst. A Saturday night bath and a red rash tattoo for little coughing Tom and coffin Sue. What’s it worth to you, shale squatters of the present moment? A temporary new smell in a shiny red pick-up? A pole barn envy? The NFL Sunday ticket?
They desire a hot ejaculation of benzene and phenol into your village groundwater. The Governor hovers above in a trooper chopper, rubbing his hands together in a show of fiendish glee. He longs to see all of you rurals heaped onto a pile. Your pathetic firehouse vote is laughable to the millions of Manahattas sucking the earth out from under your feet. A hundred grand to sicken my family for life? Really? That much, eh?
Okay, I’m in. Wait till they see my loaded Deere at the Grange. That hog Harold Hoenow will be green from envy, or that Vanadium cocktail he shared on the porch with Ruth.
No, I have to hope there is still a slurry of indigenous righteousness left swirling in our guts. Please good people temporarily living atop the ancient beds of shale, be kind and hospitable to the landmen at your door. A smile and a kind word is all anybody needs. And on a hot summer’s day, a cold glass of lemon-lime aid sweetened with antifreeze wouldn’t hurt either. It might teach these raunchy carpetbaggers to prey on their own kind back in the dumbed-down, drought-dried southlands.
They’re coming to a door near you. Get ‘em.

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I Have One Suit, Paint Stains Splatter My Best Shirts, and Issue #2 for Congressional Campaign 2018

jersey

“Quarterback Jersey Used by Earth and Hungry Mexican Kids to Deal Final Asphyxiation to Fake Capitalism” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

Like communism, capitalism weighs very little on the U.S. political scale. On the micro-economic level, my existence as a painter has been influenced mostly by the anti-capitalism that exists on every level of government. I began my working life and private passion as a cook and aspiring chef in a local restaurant. In a truly capitalistic environment, I would have continued a career in the culinary arts/service industry right straight through to retirement. The natural progression of my talent through practice, the skills and knowledge gained, set me on a course to acquiring my own restaurant and competing with other food industry entrepreneurs on a local level. A true capitalism would have offered no barriers beyond my abilities to taking the small risk of maintaining a 33% and under food cost, and practicing good kitchen habits to prevent food born disease to my customers. I would have begun serving sandwiches and hot soups to passersby on days off out in the front yard of the first apartment I rented after college. I would save my profits, and expand my business at every opportunity to one day afford a building to rent that had decent plumbing and electricity.

I was a very good cook once—self-taught, like all successful love must be, with true dedication in learning and practice. Before the Internet, I visited the library often to take out cookbooks, dreamed preparations at night for restaurant specials the next day, and at the time, also had a dabbler’s interest in Zen Buddhism, easily weaving the latter into the story of the cook’s life I was writing.

But because of other, real existing political philosophies used in practice, the risks to restaurant entrepreneurship were too great to delve into without an exorbitant upfront investment provided by a bank or wealthy investor. A capitalism of and by the rich to steer the poor away from self-sufficiency.

America’s anti-capitalism, as it exists towards the lower financial classes, prevented a start-up that could have been a family-supporting success. There were and are just too many barriers to private investment in the food industry. The most obvious are local codes set up to create commercial zoning, which inflates commercial rents and realty to points out of reach for most start-ups. So, at an earlier age, I was prevented by non-capitalistic codes for a fair shot at failure or success. My bootstraps didn’t even get the chance to be laced, let alone pulled up.

So incremental risks I could have made were denied by the political and economic powers in place, which are never true capitalism, more than it is a business of the rich for the more well-off socialists, at least as it pertains to local economies today.

Therefore, my career story lies on a path of least resistance. Paints, word processing software, and an Internet connection are affordable, whereas an investment in a commercial district restaurant enterprise is not. Pretend capitalists would say that I was just avoiding risk. A $200,000.00 loan to a man who has $3,000.00 saved and a self-taught plan to serve French sauces to the community is a ludicrous risk which no pretend capitalist would ever take. The poor cook would be laughed out of any bank in the land. True risk begins on a fair playing field, and rewards those who outshine competition over time. I am probably not the best painter and writer in my county. But I was one of the best potential restauranteurs. Today the restaurants in my community, save a couple family treasures (begun in the mid-20th century) are downright horrible. Yet even where the family restaurants shine (service and acceptable ambiance), the food is mostly bad.

Which leads to another issue to consider for my independent run for New York’s 24th district Congressional seat…

Advocate to our state government a capitalism-socialism for all new business! Any one should be able to start a passion money-maker, yet must be required to follow all local, state and federal health, safety, and environmental guidelines, not pertaining to physical existence zoning). Neighborhood mom and pop grocery stores, doctor and dentist offices, plumbers, electricians, schools, and of course, restaurants, all developing and thriving in residential neighborhoods.

The crowding of retail and restaurant chains like Walmart and McDonalds is not born from a rugged individualistic kind of capitalism—they are put into place by outside oligarchal pathogens infecting local communities. Last Saturday I got into a discussion with a kind woman at the art association about a debate going on in the small village where she resides. There is a faction of townspeople protesting the arrival of a new Dollar General dollar store chain. She claims that the poor need it, and the rich don’t want it for all of its unsightliness. (It shows the town’s poor acting poor). I tried to explain to her that if the village would allow for residential businesses to be created, then even the poor could take their chances at local financial autonomy by going into business, and at the same time voice their own shunning of the big box China crap house chains popping up all over the U.S. making a profit on despair. Both her and I agreed on the business model—big chain moves in, makes a ten-year long profit on a initial 1/4 million dollar investment (oftentimes tax-free for ten years by local government looking to wage-slave their constituents), and the town gets cheap, mostly unnecessary goods for a decade and then an empty cement box that can’t be filled.

I want to change this paradigm by nationally advocating for a more rugged (and safely regulated) localism. A true capitalism-socialism blend for the middle class and poor that could make for closer, more socially responsible communities—responsible to each other as cohabitating human beings.

With unexpected success in the 2018 election, I may still get the chance someday to serve sandwiches and soups out of my garage…

 

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Candidate Throop Think Out Loud #1 and 1st Blurry Issue to Contemplate

RTAlamein

My Grandfather Ronald, the Eisenhower Republican, Supported His Family as a Socialist” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15″

I have been reading over my father’s mini-autobiography this week with many questions about the validity of his observations. He is very nostalgic throughout, yearning for a past that he swears by all accounts truly happened. And I believe his memory, though question his interpretations of it. Contrary to his purer thoughts on matrimony, women did get pregnant out of wedlock in 1961. The term “shotgun wedding” was not invented by my generation, nor by millennials downloading the next fab app that will drive them to “interestingness” come hell or cool board game. And his assumptions about how happy women were to aspire to home economics for a god damn lifetime while their husbands flirted with secretaries, hunted slow pheasants and spouted 5th grade newspaper opinions, is downright insulting to millions and billions of daughters we raise today to be free of misogynist child-men who only desire their wives as lifelong pillowcases. My Dad does admit throughout that the old always rebel against the younger generation (rather than the other way around), and I find that introspective to an honorable degree. However, the political labeling of his family while growing up in the 40’s and 50’s is not only questionable, but provides keen insight into today’s mass delusion.

My Dad claims in all seriousness that his dad (my grandfather Ronald) was an Eisenhower Republican, leaning politically toward a new hopeful age of liberty. After WWII, Grandpa Ronald raised his two boys (with the buffer of a completely satisfied woman whose brain was second in command to the high man brain in the family), to be self-sufficient, like he, in every possible endeavor. Being Depression era children, in spring, Grandpa Ronald planted an acre vegetable garden in a residential neighborhood of peers who would rather acquire all produce magically at the new supermarkets, and Grandma Evelyn stocked a basement full of canned preserves in the autumn. They pinched pennies, darned socks, and ate potatoes, while saving an enormous amount of money in their lifetime. Enough to provide all five grandchildren with an undergraduate education, and relative comfort to my dear grandmother who outlived Grandpa Ronald by 22 years.

But here is the rub, and it’s eerily Mao Zedong-ish…

Grandpa Ronald lived his entire adult life dependent on socialism. Sure, he could call himself whatever he wanted—an Eisenhower Republican, lover of freedom and citizen-champion of man’s liberation from tyranny, potato farmer… We can pretend whatever we want to be. But whichever way you look at it, as it pertained to how he acquired a regular income, Grandpa Ronald was a socialist, through and through. Just out of engineering school at Cornell in 1936, he took a job working in the shipyards of the U.S. Navy. From 1941-1945, was cut a paycheck by the U.S. Army working as a field lieutenant under General George Patton, and for the rest of his life he worked as an engineer and planner for the New York State Highway department. Every job he had out of college was subsidized by federal and state taxpayers. That is microeconomic socialism in a nutshell. Every damn seed packet-purchased pea my Dad ate was provided to him by his neighbors, whether they wanted to help, or not. Even good ole Eisenhower, the mass killer turned President, got paid by the good graces of national neighbors. Socialist!

Anyway, I talked to my wife much of the weekend about this realization. It’s quite profound in a political sense. Since I am running for U.S. Congress in 2018, I need to account for my income, which comes solely from my wife’s hard work outside the home. She is employed by the State of New York, therefore all we have accumulated in material treasure, the roof over our heads, the food on our plates, and also the fuel to our furnace, has been subsidized by the good people of New York State. I want to thank you all for this socialism. Our family depends on you.

I have an old friend who works as a corrections officer for the New York State prison authority. Lately he’s been leaning right in his politics. Nope. Unless he quits by this afternoon, he is also a socialist pinko, and a hypocrite to boot.

John Katko, who I believe I’ll be running against for office in 2018, is also so very, very socialist. It cost a heap of taxpayer money to supply his salary and pension, and likewise to put all those feet into army “boots on the ground”, one of his favorite public expressions.

And all you good soldiers at Fort Drum, I have to say, are also tried and true socialists. You could join a non-profit militia if finding the need to keep your politics clean, however, I don’t think meals will be as regular, and you might accidentally hurt innocent people.

The janitors and groundskeepers of local schools, and county and state institutions all over my district, some fireman, every police man or woman, my assemblyman and state senator—all are rank and file socialists!

And that is just how they depend on their living. Like me, they could not pretend their present and future politics without the blessing of a populace that has chosen to shelter, heat, feed, and clothe them for a lifetime.

So, as your future congress person, I would now like to declare a first issue of mine (and I hope yours too!):  I admit that I am a reluctant socialist who would advocate to allocate the money out of the U.S. Treasury into securing dignity in old age to our fathers and mothers. Medicaid for all who need it, and the end of for profit nursing care.

Money to dignity, not demagoguery!

Throop for Congress 2018!

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The Painter U.S. Congressional Representative

katko

“Dear Parents in the United States, Is Your Congressperson as Weak and Ineffectual as Mine?” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

I want Medicare for all. I want this, and can have it because I do not want another aircraft carrier with a Taco Bell® catering subsidized careers to high school underachievers. Drones are cheaper and can pick off innocent people, or cumbersome dictators thousands of miles away. My government tests them out of Syracuse, N.Y. Some pimply little brat from x-box school pretends suburbs like Mattydale and Liverpool are hostile insurgent camps and he aims its sights on a Syracuse school bus from an air-conditioned cubicle in Reno, Nevada. Drones are very affordable as they are immoral, however, as a replacement to the Lockheed Martin and Boeing dinosaurs, they potentially free up billions of dollars for prenatal care to expectant mothers, and a college education promised to their newborns approximately 18 years after delivery.

I know that the national treasury can afford these things because I can find out the cost of an obsolete fighter jet online. So can you. I declare this morning that during my 2018 independent run for New York’s 24th district congressional seat, I will do my best to refrain from spouting statistics to back up an argument. Americans pay a federal tax, the numbers add up to a very large sum, and from that sum funds are distributed by Congress back to government and its many bureaucratic functions. Paying what we pay now in federal tax, and foregoing 20th century investment in aircraft carriers and airbases in Afghanistan and Okinawa, I know our nation can afford health care for all, make significant payments on the national debt, and offer top notch education to our children.

Here are some campaign promises. I can offer nothing more or less. I will not debate another candidate. I will not speak of qualifications, nor defend my past. The constitution has qualified me. I am over 25. I have been a citizen of the United States and lived in New York State for 491/2 years, and my children love me. That’s enough.

1.  I will serve only one term.

2. I will take the salary for the two years I am representative, and donate half to a one time meritorious scholarship opportunity for one boy and one girl in my district.

3. I will not take a pension in any form.

4. I will hire only one staff secretary.

5. I will only vote on bills that I am able to read in full, given the time allotted to read them. I will only vote in a manner ascribed by the United States Constitution. That is, read it yourself. If you like it enough to vote for me, then please do.

6. I will make no appearances in public outside my office, the steps of U.S. Congress, or on my way to the mailbox.

7. I will openly advocate for an amendment decrying term limits on Congress.

8. I will not have any contact with lobbyists. Only individual constituents representing themselves or local non-profits.

Finally, and this may come as a surprise to both established parties, I very much intend to win, or lose, depending on how seriously I am taken. Still, I believe if given a sober third choice, that only an ignoramus would cast a vote for a same ole republicrat, or same ole democran, knowing what he or she knows now about our corrupt institutions.

I think I have a pretty good chance.

Or not.

My Psyche Went to Florida But All I Got Was This Used 3rd Century Hair Shirt

Mockingbird

“Of Itself So” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

hawk

“Back Home, the Hawk Got Windowed by a Cat” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

carryon

“Carry On Regardless” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 11″(plein air)

useful

“I Am a Useful Fiction” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

homeless

“The Homeless Man Gets Mocked by his Own Sky” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

capitalists

“After the Capitalists Leave South Florida” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 11″

trees

“The Lackluster Tornado Run Through the Tree of Cities” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 11 x 14″

Bonita

“There are Too Many Waste Pipes Connected in Bonita Springs” 2017. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 11″ (plein air)