My Countrypeople of Stupid

sweetheart skull

Midwest Beauty Posing With Jap Skull Sent By Beaux in Philippines 2013. Acrylic on press cleaning sheet, 17 x 9″

Mainstream Democrats and Republicans are 30 weeks or days away from imitating the 1940’s Life Magazine photo spread of the sweetheart from Nebraska posing with her polished “Jap” skull sent by her beaux stationed in the Philippines. I have experienced this stupid before when trying to argue any point with teenaged potheads (I was a young philosopher-in-training among drug dealers in junior high). They just don’t have room in their brains for reason. Everyone is the enemy or everyone a friend, depending on the high, and if there’s a promise to pizza before bedtime.

Adult and lightly educated Americans are losing their tops over the existence of a billionaire ignoramus for president. In the process they are posturing themselves lower than the meanest celebrity politician to rise to power since Ronald Reagan. People who dreamed themselves representatives of “the left”, are acting more “right” than a paranoid J.Edgar Hoover. And the pretend “right” is acting left sometimes, if their rich owners tell them to, yet still remain just as upright and sociopath as yesterday’s “shock and awe” of light brown children.

The present day Republicans are many second generation bigoted Dixiecrat sympathizers who jumped ship in 1964 when civil rights legislation was just too much trouble for white people afraid of black people. They had no place to go but to the business party, else drown in a sea of obscurity, admitting the U.S. of nuclear insanity a facsimile of its Soviet lover’s one-party system.

At least the first generation owned its bigotry proudly via excellent TV footage of police dogs and fire hoses.

And ethnocentrism (a natural offshoot of prejudice in any weak brain) has come to be expected from these angry faux-Christians of Confederate longings. President Ike Eisenhower saw the great nasties of man war, which made him a powerful bigot. Kennedy was a super bigot too, but he looked attractive enough to let his wife adorn fashion magazines, so all was right with the world while the U.S. blockaded the Cuban people from pursuing freedom and happiness. “Blockade” is elite speak for the phrase “punish the poor and proud, to death if need be”.

I guess Democrats were idiots too 50 years ago. However, being the “opposition” party meant disguising true evil intentions with fine and polished “doublespeak”. Otherwise time would catch on that post nuclear America has since been a one party system, with fringes of sanity circling the periphery of Wall Street and Pentagon politics, plying a loose skepticism (built on obeyance and fear) among the general public. No matter that a few million Koreans, Cambodians, Vietnamese, El Salvadorans, Iraqis, Afghanis, Libyans, Syrians, Yemenis, and Somalians killed in the name of sirloin steak and warm cornbread for the “Commander of Death” in charge, even when the “kinder, gentler” boss was so sane a democrat Lyndon Johnson, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, and Barack “the deporter” Obama.

I am living in a time when Twitter® gives ordinary friends and parents of children a platform to practically beg their government to commit high crimes to innocent people of other nations (Russia sanctions). Who cares what economic sanctions look like when applied to vulnerable populations—their candidate lost and she must be vindicated! Else democracy is destroyed, even while the 20 richest people on earth continue their control of half the human population’s total wealth. Hurray! Extended genocide, and our candidate wins!

It’s living crazy, politics in America.

I’ll just keep painting and watch while my comrades lick the boots of the wealthy political classes. I have watched gentle people become quickly rabid when pressed by bad systems. Gentle, well fed people, don’t seem to know what to do with their boredom besides fear strangers in another nation enough to punish them their KGB king.

The simple truth is this: Extremists are killers with eyes wide open. Moderates are super-killers, afraid of losing their paychecks.

And people like me?

Moralists in a moral-less land.

Dust off the shelves for the foreign skulls, gentle bigot sweethearts of the next war. Make room for your own too! There’s no escape when the atom splits.



Dear Economists, I’d Like To Know How This Thing Got To Control All of Mankind’s Arbitrary Wealth


2015. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 21″

The greatest poindexters of money science cannot explain this phenomenon. Everyone is confused. Even the President of the Kansas City Fed can’t explain what the heck is going on. She knows Janet Yellen has a string of lunch dates scheduled each business day far into the new year, and in closed Fed circles, is known to screw up the 20% tip nearly every time.

How has history led us to a cabal of black magic money manipulators? Especially in this age, when even small children know that our coinage is pretend. A couple nights ago I traded a painting for an electronic gizmo that can turn a banana into a keyboard space bar. I never once thought of the little, old magic lady in the painting allowing for me the opportunity to engage in trade. Where was she a 104 years ago? Geeze, Edison invented electric light, got rich, and touted American ingenuity without Fed Chair approval. America had factories, automobiles, airplanes, butternut squash, and children that still played with neighbor children on the street. Even lasagna was ready to become popular nationwide. Where the hell were these old bozos then bossing the earth around with interest rates and secret billion dollar loans? The text in the painting comes out of her high school yearbook. It appears she didn’t even like money. Psychology club, the editor of the school newspaper… What was the “Great White Father”? Scary stuff. Though certainly not money love.

The one glimpse of her future I ascertain from the yearbook accolades comes from her membership in psychology club. I have been studying social psychology of late, and read about a study performed on Nazi doctors who got to pick out those who would die for Hitler’s Final Solution. The author of the study found three types of doctor personalities which identified their acumen in a system that already institutionalized evil. There was the sadistic doctor who liked it a lot, a doctor who went “by the book”, following orders without a visible care, and finally the doctor who didn’t appreciate the process at all, but reluctantly agreed to appoint children to the gas stations because society told him that this was the thing to do to keep society in tact.

It is not difficult for a clown-around American like myself to understand how any single human being, once the editor of a school newspaper and member in the Minuteman club, rises to a station of life where all of earth’s trade more or less is directed by her liver-spotted hand. Not difficult at all, given its probable psychological reasons. We, that is, all homo sapiens of earth, are the Nazi doctors’ nurses, orderlies, and candy stripers performing an institutionalized evil with polished éclat. We don’t just look at the thing and declare, “This is wrong! This cannot be!”. No. We help carry out the financial evil by forces we like to think are under our control, but never ever are.

I just went to Ms. Yellen’s credential sheet on the Federal Reserve website telling us all is right with the world, so shut up, and go back to work, Mr. and Ms. Current Employment Statistic! Anyway, she has quite an impressive climb through the best institutions money can buy. Brown, Yale, Berkley… The Nazi doctors went to college too. They became doctors. And all of Germany helped them with the mass murder of their neighbors and friends.

Are there no economists out there to explain this phenomenon? So many colleges! So many economists! I believe the problem is one of status, and a majority wanting to look in a mirror and see Paul Krugman. Of course this is a very slow pathway to lessening  inequality. Those doctors in Nazi Germany got paychecks too, and all was fine and good until it wasn’t.

So once again, a challenge to economists everywhere. How does Janet Yellen and the Federal Reserve provide work for my wife, an education for my daughters, and a poorly kept basement studio for yours truly? Show the painter his monumental ignorance if it will make me nearly as money smart as the least one of you. I for one am thoroughly exhausted watching lessor men and women like Greenspan, Bernanke and Yellen achieve monumental human control because of Nazi doctors like yourselves.

Perhaps a Nuremburg awaits these kings and queens of finance, their multitude of sycophants, court jesters and ignorant congresses.

Probably not, as long as their smoke and mirrors keep our puppy bowls full of what is supposed to be yummy.

Seven Dingleberries Judging a Fool

2016. Acrylic on paper, 22 x 15″

From December, 2016.

I hate the word too. It makes me cringe. Certain words do that to me. Maybe I am grossly synesthesiac. I get a physical reaction to the utterance of some off color words. “Chunk” has the same effect. My muscles tighten. I visualize the word as a big square box and myself pushing it away. My sister and I made up a word when I was nine. “Balooka”. We were saying it all day long and that night my grandfather died. It was then I understood that words have power. A lot of power. A single word killed my grandfather. I imagined the awesome effect of whole phrases let loose on a population.

And day after day, all over the world, bad words are uttered carelessly. Innocent people suffer. Somalia could become a safe and happy land if wrong words were outlawed. “Boeing”, or “army” would be a start. Eliminate “general” from the vocabulary and local children will one day enjoy a worry-free ice cream cone on Secondo Lido Beach. Take out “warlord”, and not only do mothers look forward to motherhood, but some arrogant, ethnocentric English or American journalist gets his mouth washed out with soap.

Last night on the radio before Barack Obama spoke about why being a U.S. President is hard work killing people for the Pentagon, an NPR reporter named three nations’ governments: Russia, Iran, and then, with mention of Syria, spoke the word “regime” in place of “government”. Ah! There it is! Another word to make me cringe. I have been pushing that big box away ever since George W. Bush began his campaign to shrapnel embed every Iraqi child north of Basra that his toy night vision goggles could spy pleading for mercy.

Now “regime” is a perfectly normal word, unlike “dingleberry”. However I believe the press as well as the President know its cringing power over Americans. We have heard its negative connotation more times than the people of North Korea have heard their equally powerful word “leader” spoken of in the positive.

I believe for the majority of people, words, even bad words, spoken over and over, can eliminate the initial cringing effect over time. Hence North Korea, and the dribbling idiocy of its people. And also America, where HBO and Donald Trump have made the word “pussy” as commonplace as “shit”—two words that I believe should be kept under one’s breath while scolding your cat for having her “diarrhea” miss the litter box. Those words make me cringe. One is a cat. One is so obvious and therefore unnecessary to talk about, and the last, in my mind, reveals the image of U.S. Civil War prisoners in Andersonville lined up on a plank suffering their dysentery onto the Georgia sand.

Finally, this week I have heard the word “homeland” uttered twice on the radio. Our executive leader in Washington thinks Americans are losing faith in their government because of “partisanship”—another nasty word. Maybe for some. Especially the behavioral wanna-be North Koreans. Not for me though.  “Homeland” is the big white box I am pushing away and away. In it are all the foul-mouthed fascist lawyers pontificating an unlearned patriotism, agreeing on the common usage of more cringing words to aid an American regime in the further dissolution of a peaceful humankind.

NPR, my government radio station, likes to use the word “homeland”. Nazi radio used “Vaterland”. Both have already amounted to the same thing. Hitler and his foul-mouthed dingleberries used it to kill lots of people within old and new German borders. Likewise, our “homeland” dingleberries use it to kill lots of people outside United States borders, and set its own peoples intellectually against each other like starving rats in a cage.

Some words make me cringe. My modern Presidents, their “generals” and “intelligence” officers just don’t get it. They do not represent anyone at all. We have been disenfranchised. I did not want to vote for Hillary Clinton because as my senator, she voted to shrapnel embed other people’s children. Likewise, I did not want to vote for a New York City billionaire who is obviously so discombobulated as to not know how to behave around a naked cat.

You curve your arm and pet from the head downward. You’ll know by the top of the spine if she’ll let you continue down the tail and up.

Waxing Nostalgic On Time And Spirit


Wedding reception of David and Keitha, December 29, 1962

These are my parents, my mother Keitha 18, my father David 20 years old. His brother Bill and her sister Toni Marie. I won’t be born for five years, yet I already know this place very well in my future dreams. The Seneca Inn. It is the restaurant my grandparents own on route 5, before the time of the great atomization, and the construction of the corporate-friendly, human-hating thoroughfare called the New York State Thruway. The bride cleaned rental cottages since she was eleven. The groom would hitchhike across town to visit with her during courtship. She liked courtship. He liked cars and duck’s asses. My grandfather offered to buy Keitha a 1963 Jaguar if she would postpone marriage and go to Cazenovia College where she was accepted earlier in the year. She would take no part in that scheme! After a frozen honeymoon in Gettysburg (the groom’s bad idea), they set up housekeeping in a rented pink trailer a few hundred yards up the road.


The Seneca Inn today, for lease. And the window behind my parents in the photo, sided over.


I have been gorging myself on their memories my whole life, yet am unable to receive any digestive satisfaction. I am not born. I am only spirit of Christmases yet to come. In this future I have lived there exists a fullness like the unknown memory I have of this restaurant, the patrons, the staff, my grandfather who died before I am born to write this… Aunts and uncles will exodus—the two in the photo would be the first in the history of the world to leave Central New York for private and economic reasons. Before that, beyond the call of war, there was only localism. It was life, c’est la vie, and you made of it what you could where you were born. Family was slow and purposeful. Children met and fell in love in high school, and were married. Each could throw a rock to the family home of the other, and monstrosities like Ted Turner hadn’t a claim to a single living room in the county.

Christmas shopping downtown at the Busy Corner and the Boston Store. Then the settling in of rock n’ roll, the village shoe store moves to the shopping center, and then to the mall. My generation born and raised without knowing the joys of liquid lunch, any sad stories of the traveling salesman, nor even the occasional solace of loneliness bolstered by the rock of community trust that welcomes all travelers back to their sense of place.


My painting of the Seneca Inn. 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 48 X 32″


Keitha dancing with Grandpa Rizzo

I am still a sojourner in life. I am not home even in this town where I have lived for thirty years, 75 miles from the Seneca Inn. I go back to New Hartford and Utica for a visit and wax nostalgic over a time that never was, but will come again, soon after the Industrial Revolution explodes its local Chinese and Vietnamese families into the oblivion of an improving economy. Our generation has been transitional, instructed to follow economy, to look up to it like some admired uncle, and even most diligently, to send the next generation (our children) away to the better paying jobs of our imagination. The best paying jobs will always rob your sons and daughters of a future. College became a hate crime after the existence of the North Atlantic Free Trade Agreement. And the Seneca Inn, of all it represents to me in my mind’s nostalgic lust, died the day Ray Kroc bewitched his first customer with a milkshake machine. I know and feel, most unfortunately, that without the Seneca Inn, over half the population of my town and yours suffer some form of chronic psychosis.

Don’t believe me? Just look at the arms of that waitress serving the cookies. She knows no joy but in the here today, here tomorrow.


Merry Christmas and a Kind Word


I Wonder if All That Money We Spend on Space Turns Out to be a Real Good Breakfast 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

This will be the last time before election day where I mention the present congress person’s name. It is John Katko, and I feel he must be a good man expressing what he believes are the best of his abilities.  In the spirit of Christmas and good will, I will never send another critical e-mail or social media burst to him. He and his Twitter feed are free of me forever. Hooray!

Now is the time to hone my platform to include as many people as possible, and abide by my initial strategy, which means, to be myself, passionate yet genial, and never let the schoolyard ugly in.

John is a good person. I know he cares deeply about family, friends, country, and world when lying down in bed at night, his pillow pressed flat with the weight of our nation’s problems. The waking day for any spotlight politician is a thick atmosphere of confusion, delusion, and illusion. And a night heaviness that must crush him at times.

Which is why I believe all congress people are vulnerable and weak. I was bullied in school. You were too at some point. Adjustments were made for the sake of social survival, and we all learned how to deal in a world gone wrong, push through a long life, collecting needful status points along the way, and never to make a stir among our social class. Mainly because it’s just not polite, too loud, and all the bully personalities come out of the woodwork if you dare…

So Mr. Katko, a firm handshake. Next year I shall run for federal service to our district as an Independent. I will use my own media to share my politics with Palmyra and East Syracuse. I wish to be the reform candidate, win the election, and turn Congress around by example. I am not tired by the “same ole, same ole”. On the contrary, I am energized by it. Inertia is for bullies, and I’m just not that young anymore to give a damn about the taller, meaner kids.

Here is one more anecdote to shed light on a dysfunctional federal government before I make merry for the holiday.

When I wasn’t getting filthy rich as a painter, I made ends meet as a line cook in a rinky-dink restaurant of fellow misfits and miscreants. After a busy night (or day and night, for double shifts were common), other cooks, waitresses, and dishwashers would head out to the bar where the boss supplied us with dollar drinks. Many nights we stayed right through until closing time, doffed our hats and stumbled out the door.

On such a night, back in July, 1995, I was heading through East Park on my way home when I noticed another weary (drunken) working man, walking in the opposite direction across the street. Suddenly he made an aggressive bee line for me. The fight or flight response should have kicked on, however, I discovered a new reaction to immediate fear and trembling.

Temporary insanity.

The moment our eyes met, I leaped into the air waving one arm and pointing to the sky with the other. “Look!” I howled. “Look at the mooooon!” I danced side to side, up and down yelling my head off, “Look at the moon! Look at the moon!”

The would-be mugger stopped on a dime, turned, and ran away from me.

I know you are afraid of hotheads John. I am too. For the rest of this campaign, I will never say a critical or unkind word. The golden rule of human life must cover also the inhumane arena of federal politics. To keep socially sane, most kids would rather pee their pants in class than run for U.S. Congress.

Only crazy people and bullies ever meet on that road.

Today, I level our playing field and imagine that you’re just crazy like me.

To you and yours. Happy holidays counselor!


I Am Not Qualified to Represent an Anthill and the Funniest Alternative Ending to “It’s a Wonderful Life”


I Guess I’ll Retire Here We Nurtured Two Exceptional Human Beings 2017. Acrylic on ten year old cotton bed sheet, 4 x 4.5′

[Hi visitors to Tam and Friends. I recently set up another WordPress site for my candidacy to represent New York’s 24th District. I post there nearly every day to keep all and sundry updated on progress. It is getting lonely in an effort to reach out to the 650,000 people of our district. As of this writing (December 21, 2017), I have one Twitter follower, and I think he lives in Colorado.

I will try to copy posts here, because I think I might be at the prime of my creative ability, and this makes me feel like a wind up clock, and every tick is another thought or painting expressed that must happen, or else, tock—Ah! I stopped! I hope you can make it over to Throop for Congress 2018 from time to time to—oh my God, the time, the time—gotta run!

Remember, the painter is keen for 2018!]

I’m really just a quiet man. Shy, unobtrusive. I am the worst idea of a candidate for Congress. 90% of the House of Representatives must be sociopath. My congress person doesn’t return my critical tweets (anti-social), and displays an incredible lack of conscience (“yes” on bill allowing Arkansas yahoos to carry concealed in an upstate New York Price Chopper). Something is very wrong with anyone who, with a straight face, can lie straight-faced about credentials that qualify leadership on a federal level. 650,000 constituents is just too many people under one roof. Still, our congressional leader refuses to visit his own office in Oswego on Wednesday afternoons, where nice people carrying signs wait to talk with him about his voting record. He must fear them because some might have a different opinion about potable water and elder health care. Or, he is an impudent snob. Or, he is a sociopath.

So although I too am wary of people who don’t share my political philosophy (AKA: everyone), I would never abandon a sincere query to outline my opinion, especially if that was my job, and I was getting paid 14 times the federal poverty level to responsibly advocate for my constituents.

I have mentioned before in writing how I wish to engage with the public (from the homepage where I lay out my issues plain as day):

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

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

This means I will talk to any constituent who wants to know what I know about the circus in Washington and my involvement in it. There will be no “undisclosed locations,” no “national security hush-hush”. If the local media wants to stop by our office in Oswego on a December afternoon, then I will be there freely explaining why I did this or did not do that. I’ll even spend an hour every morning answering Tweets, e-mails, and letters in the exact order they arrive. Makes no difference if Johnny republican or Suzy democrat petition my conscience for a detailed explanation. Geeze, if they can break away from their every day to care about their families’ place in the world, then I owe them my best effort at the very least. Local reporters can ask me about anything under the sun—anything at all. From why the Pentagon is trying to get us to believe in UFO’s, to what color underwear I have on that day. But just the local media, no national news ever.

Anyway, Happy Solstice to my future pagan constituents. Thank heavens tomorrow will be longer! Even though no one has asked, I was baptized Presbyterian, but I lean these days more toward a Golden Rule theology. Short and sweet, and a fictional George Bailey is my role model. Republicrats and Demicrans of the 24th District, please watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” again and again during the holiday season. Good for politics. Its anti-sociopath medicine. It’s talking to your neighbors when they disagree with your veritable worship of Mr. Potter, and his abhorrent disdain of good intentions.

Oops, let’s be careful congress. Uncle Billy knows who stole the money!

(I apologize for the host site’s lack of design taste in the following video. NBC is encumbered with too many ads to achieve a decent load time.)



Thank You for Coming Out to Little House of Big Stuckism

Another week ending dining room gallery exhibition of painting output, which I have produced to add flavor and sweet to a bitter winter on the way. Please join me as I talk about my work with too much commentary. Thank you!

P.S. There is mention of latest art news (not ARTnews) of ongoing and upcoming events in my area of unpower and no control.