congress

I Made an Anger Painting Without Hurting Anyone

it

kentucky1

“A Kentucky Senator With A Dynamite Auger Drilled Through His Neurocranium” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 8 x 10″

Not too long ago at a poker night excuse to drink beer I was stuck in argument with an economist friend of mine about the U.S. tax system. At the time I knew a young man, just a year out of high school, who, upon graduation landed a job in a local factory making shoe boxes. It was the first year he had to pay federal taxes and Uncle Sam was expecting 17% of his income (it already took a big piece bi-weekly, but wanted more to make up the difference). My friend the economist thought that 17% actually might not be enough and suggested that maybe this young dude shouldn’t complain so much.

I was nonplussed. All I could blurt out was something like “That’s a lot of rent money to extort for another aircraft carrier!” I would hope that my friend got my meaning, but I believe it was lost to him. I don’t think he knew offhand the actual percentage of U.S. budget getting doled out to the military (few facts are surmised these days without iPhone back-up), but I’m sure he knew from private living and teaching experience that it comprised an eye-popping chunk of the treasury’s mother-load, and then some.

Worse, he probably went home and thought dualistically about my politics, as many often do—that I must side with evil if not the good. The “either/or’es” —you’re either with us or against us. The people who despise the out group and distrust those within. A very lonely club devised long, long ago by the first man to ever use the goodness of another for personal gain.

What I meant to say on poker night was that I would expect to pay 95% of my salary if I believed a government was using this money to help care for my family and yours.

All caps following, and I seldom use all caps:

IT DOES NOT.

The players think they got us by the sneaks. That in order to be good children we must pay our federal tax or else face the consequences. And the super majority of us will pay, no doubt about it. It’s scary not to. Good Americans, like good Germans before them, do not like to break the law. The players assure us it ain’t all that bad—each person is well represented by an incorruptible congressperson overseeing an arbitrary block of 600,000+ people, or, as in the case of one of my senators from New York, a massive baying herd of over eight million people.

I think you can tell where this is going.

Because we have no say in the money and how we are “protected” by decision-makers in Congress, then I declare that institution unlawful and illegitimate.

So, I believe we have an out-of-control state run mafia that does not show the slightest indication that any day now it will turn itself in. What to do…

I do not advocate insurrection—even while Congress legislates to kill off Americans. I do not think enough of us are angry like people of the past who were starving and therefore prone to anger. How many of us have a smart phone contract? Raise your hands.

See? We’re not truly angry resistors. Neither to Trump mafia nor Obama mafia. Actually in the great line of time, the super-majority of us are just ineffectual political wussies. It would be okay if some of us weren’t going out and copying our negligently homocidal legislators with horrific crimes to humanity. That’s what happens with disenfranchisement. The desperate with nothing to loose start hammering away at those whom they think win all the time. Even folks like you and me, working check to check, yet still attempting a check to power, even in the most limited ways.

Both Democrats and Republicans are ignoring a single-payer system—they take our tax money and provide insurance companies with sick, paying, animals. Both are guilty of watching our families get sick and die with our own money. The game being played now is refereed by Big Insurance and Big Pharmaceutical (“Big” is their word, not mine. I believe there are no tinier humanoids in the land).

I can explain this painting and therefore exonerate myself from the partaking of any violent radical acts in the future. I have my alibi, and owe much of its construction to the first career I could obtain while coming of age in crazy county, U.S.A. Whenever I’m given a bloated piece of anger meat, I let it rest for a few days. Then I marinate it in acidic thought and reflection, turn the burner up high, and sear in all thoughts worth keeping. I never take anger out of the kitchen and yet I rarely dine alone (Thank you wife and Internet). Onto channeling my next career as painter, which hard copies an illustration of a bloated Kentucky senator making decisions with the money I put aside for upcoming life and death. I don’t like his ideas. So I paint a dynamite auger into his neurocranium.

Works for me!

I can do this because I’m an artist and not a killer. I wish no final future for this man different from one of my very own mother. A peaceful, non-painful demise. I’ve smeared the end of the dynamite auger with an instant-acting opiate releasing ten times the strength of the most non-lethal morphine injection.

Again, artistic license. What else can a poor boy do?

 

 

 

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Capillary Reaction Installment #5 and the Book to Purchase to Raise Money for my Self-Esteem/Sad

cardinaltumblr

2014. Acrylic on canvas. 32 x 48″

You can buy the book and join me in the catch-22 nightmare of never being freed from the poisonous web of “everyone pollution”. Unfortunately, Representative John Katko (The fracking lover) is me is you is brother-sister-mom, and dad. Multi-billionaire Jeff Bezos, the owner of Amazon and landlord of Createspace® which publishes this book on demand, is a leading dark lord overseeing the advent of environmental catastrophe. My wife and I must prepare our taxes today. I have made approximately $- 2658.00 in 2016. The nonplussed rabbit in the painting invented a dollar/despair converter calculator that uses the symbol ‰ (sad) to measure collective species despair for every dollar humans spend on global trade. Negative readings do not offset positive when converting to the sad. So, according to the calculator, in 2016, I contributed 3.7‰ to all of earth’s living things. John Katko, the U.S. Congressmen I intend to unseat in 2018, acquired 3780.00‰ from sad tax payers like you. Neil Young, the talented activist rocker, made nearly 69,000‰ to life on earth. And finally, the great Jeff Bezos, despair-creating delivery tycoon, added 396,000,000‰ (sad) to all of earth’s biological species.

Buying the book will give me the boost of self-esteem I require to increase my sad among sentient beings. Or, you can keep my sad at a break-even more or less, by reading for free from this 2010 Apple computer, charged by coal, oil, or gas, producing about .003‰ per month.

The Eighth Cardinal Sin Must Be The Pursuit of Happiness

Finished a painting yesterday, a study in the human justification of “happiness and all else be damned”. In the age of resources, it could be the great sin that fuels the other seven, and sadly, solely responsible for our final collapse. At least now I know why Jefferson declared it—so he could justify the Louisiana Purchase from a third party, own as many slaves as was necessary to seek happiness, and love make with the attractive ones whenever he got lonely from all that happiness finding.
Even well drillers just want to be happy. So do the anti-well drillers. The fracking protestor doesn’t want a company from Texas feeding subterranean New York State with toxic juices. He jumps up and down with a sign and some friends, and drives his Mexican made Volkswagen 30 miles north back to his warm cozy Christmas house, heated dutifully by fracking labor in rural North Dakota. Likewise, families in Puebla appreciate the pesos generated from the Volkswagen Jetta-making plant, but hate the smell and the silver metal dust cutting into their kid’s scalps. It’s a trade-off for happiness. How else will they afford cable TV and French wine?
A boom economy in North Dakota keeps Lewis and Clark State Park lodge stocked to the rafters with bottled spring water from Maine. The recycling plant in Williston runs 24/7, and nowadays all residents are familiar with the new parts per million science, and therefore happier.
There is no human moral high ground in this debate. Even photovoltaics have to be made somewhere, out of unnatural, non-renewable things. Factories are never earth-friendly even when producing giant rectangular sun-catchers. We could live under a tree by the river, like Ratty in The Wind in the Willows, or all cozy tea-like at Mole End with the frack froth seeping up from the floorboards.  Then we would pursue human happiness like rodentia in the wood, that is, with an amazing frack induced picnic luncheon of: “coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwidgespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—”
“‘O stop, stop,’ cried Mole in ecstasies: ‘This is too much!’
‘Do you really think so?’ inquired the Rat seriously ‘It’s only what I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that I’m a mean beast and cut it very fine!’”
Poor Kenneth Grahame was nervous about the future. No doubt he sniffed in the harsh, coal field stench of Nottinghamshire at some point in his life. Perhaps Toad was the pursuit of happiness amphibia incarnate. He was an ignorant spaz, buying up whatever was offered for immediate gratification, checking his many deeds off on the cardinal sin list, while thinking everyone else a simpleton. For it was only a matter of time before ratty, mole, and even cantankerous badger would want to race about the countryside in a newfangled automobile.
This painting shows nature finally joining those whom they cannot beat. I hate hydrofracking. I hate my pile of discarded packaging waiting to be recycled even more. A sack of oats and brown sugar would get the worst rat character through a hard winter. No need to drive over to the supermarket once a week for a 12 ounce box of already chewed Cheerios®. And any mole could tell you that the cooper would make a tub for the peanut butter if the cooper wasn’t long ago executed by the always boy Peter Pan, henchman for ConAgra. We, the glorious anti-hydrofrackers have not yet learned how to stay put and buy in bulk. We think it’s okay, this day-to-day world we participate in, as long as the water is as pure as our water factories can fake it.
The poisonous web connects us all. I am sticking with my hypothesis—that we need to go all mid eighteenth century with access to antibiotics before catalysts like nuclear winter and cancer water make it so without the hope of repair. Hence, follow through with my anti-fracking show in the spring. Keep the potable water flowing while pursuing our sickly happiness.

Capillary Reaction #4 Installment in Year and a Half Long Attempt To Replace Seat of Congressman With My Seat

ItsAlimentaryMyDear

2013. Acrylic on (5) 6 x 6″ wood panels

John Katko, New York’s 24th District U.S. Congressional Representative, thinks that fracking our land is an a-okay prospect and glorious economic opportunity for rural, landowning New Yorkers. So is drinking HCL if dissolved human flesh and bone was a marketable commodity. And believe me, bottles of it would be on supermarket shelves tomorrow if this were so. I think John likes money and dreams of reelection more than the biological systems of New York’s toddlers and infants. During the campaign I will challenge John to a month-long tour of Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and North Dakota fracking country where his water can only be drunk from residences within 300 yards of a frack well. If he isn’t green or blue by month’s end, I will cease to use fracking as a campaign issue.

It’s Alimentary My Dear Manslaughterer

In with the bad, out with what used to be bad, but is better now than what stayed in. Proof that the Beatle’s song “Helter Skelter” was bad medicine. Charles Manson took it in innocently enough, not knowing how it would mix things up inside, jive with his homicidal entitlement dreams, and be released into the wild. So he formed a cult and planned gruesome parties.
I believe that what makes a crazed Manson character must lie dormant in each and every one of us. We are guilty of abusing our own small powers sometimes. When power becomes absolute, whether expressed as micro from a stinky, run-down homicidal maniac’s ranch in Death Valley, or macro, by the state mandate from a Mao Zedong or Andrew Cuomo, it will corrupt absolutely. We are familiar with the popular phrase. We repeat it at parties, yet at election time, still vote for either party in a one party-pretending to be two party-system. The one, true party is made up of the corporitos. They party all summer long on the private beaches of Lake Superior. In Oswego at late summer, one can get a glimpse of their yacht captains battening down the hatches before a morning intercoastal departure to Florida. A month later they anchor their master’s ships for many warm winter parties beneath Miami moons.
You wouldn’t give Charles Manson the power to determine the potential fate of an entire people’s water supply for profit. Even if it would employ all the violent LSD soaked hippies on earth. What has Andrew Cuomo written on his “saint” wall to have you assume that he is looking out for your best interests? Who is your state senator and assemblyperson? Are any of them hobbyist nutritionists, chemicals scientists, structural engineers, mothers and fathers who would struggle to afford a year’s supply of home-delivered spring water?
The man in the painting knows the science. It’s alimentary dear Watson. If you drink benzene, you suffer benzene. What might not be so obvious is that your representative in power would trade your physical well being for a small profit if a corporito told him to.

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 36 x 36″

Think About It

The fact that a 48 year old man, simple, shy and nearly as honest as his neighbor ever was, feels the need to take up what the elites of my state are claiming is a cause célebre over the pros and cons of chemically infecting our water supply, is a sign of the black SUV times.
Even our local “public” radio is in on the money game, selling advertising to the gas men who espouse child leukemia as a justifiable result of fake farmer Fred’s purchase of a speed boat to play with while the subsidized high fructose corn syrup grows tall.
The governor is corrupt, his friends all greed punks, his girlfriend a very bad human being, and not even a good cook, really. Phenol crab cakes. A mixed green salad washed in naphthalene. A glass of formaldehyde Finger Lakes wine delivered to her door by the sleazy state senator who dreams paper money is happiness.
It amazes me that these lawyer-cowards are not hanging from a stick, by a thread, over a frack pool bubbling with mass community rage.
Stanley Milgram would have nodded his head while the people of the village turn the voltage up on their own screaming children.
So I take up paint and mix in what I think is the second most audacious power grab ever made by human beings. The first being the advent of probable nuclear annihilation by future lawyer-cowards. My neighbors watch and listen to the fake debate and wait to judge which side the hippies fall on. They all love CSN, and even Neil Young before he broke away and wrote the poetry of a grown-up. They just don’t appreciate hippies bearing a conscience. All are waiting for the lawyer-cowards to set up the tent of the crazy circus debate on hydrofracking. And established tools like my local public radio people perpetuate the power grab with credit card payment glee. They don’t need to be millionaires. They all just want to look like one.

fissures1.jpg

“Fissures!” 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″

Fissures Make Colorful Carcinogens, Yes?

A self-explanatory painting. Chemicals can be colorful. They are sent into the earth under high pressure. They come back up and float in a pool. That’s the way the gas men want it to be understood. Innocuous, maybe even slightly normal, and downright grand if it provides jobs to the job hungry.
Atmospheric temperatures must have stabilized overnight. No longer news worthy. Nobody is talking about it. Huzzah! Tomorrows are purified for our progeny!
No, not really. But that is how the established 4th estate expects us to think.
Headlines from NPR would have us assume that global warming just stopped, and that summer’s upstart is warm breeze and strawberries and wild fauna nesting soundly in the tall grass, swimming peacefully in pure and wild, wet waters, nibbling moist berries off the endless lush produce of mother earth…
NPR is government propaganda. Someone at the top of their machine is having lunch with Goebbels.
We could stop to get our bearings, reassess our dependencies, head into the future with strong backs and determination, but will not move a millimeter until our dollar takes its final nose dive into oblivion.
Still, with minimal effort we can break out of surface denial by making atmosphere talk our first attempt at every conversation. We could become mindful once again and use our cleanliness and good health and swell science to imitate 14th century Japanese royalty. We could write poetry, take day walks, stab to death the Carnegie Steel and Rockefeller Oil earth-hating drive-about we depend on more than our neighbors and families. We could naturalize our lives with creative job creation. That means we choose our local economies and dress them to our own survival tastes. Oil execs might have to be tortured gently. Fracking giants could have their heads politely lopped off. Military brass would get the picture after a sound fragging by its own sentient cannon fodder.
These punishing days will come. What’s unbelievable is that the majority of intelligent human beings refuse to articulate this with any regular pattern.
Geeze, even without a blog to help clear her fuzzier dreams, the woolly mammoth got smitten with bright yellow buttercups still digesting.
So, carpe diem, verdad?
Yes, of course. But let’s do it with some class. Let us witness some poetry crawl out of this Walmart funk hole we’ve born ourselves into. Use our liberal educations—read what the dead dogs wrote to become living lions once again. Don’t let the consumer culture barons fool you any longer. The woolly mammoth was a blind consumer too. What was lost in non-acquisition of petroleum plastics, she made up for a thousand times by expressing her true nature.
Express your true nature. Become who you were before you were born. Focus your dreams toward creative survival. Yes, even with the weekly trade off of coins for Scott Tissue paper. Doom should be the only preoccupation of any species’ grown-up. Even the crazed mega-neuronopolis doom of the human being king.

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.

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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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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Spy On My Daughters You Fat Dripping Government Goon And I’ll Go All Hannibal Lecter On Your Pancreas, Dig?

Spy On My Daughters You Fat Dripping Government Goon And I'll Go All Hannibal Lecter On Your Pancreas, Dig?

I think it is time to imprison Washington, D.C.

Wire a 100,000 volt invisible fence around the perimeter wide enough to include the nasty parts of Virginia and Maryland. How do the imbeciles of our Capitol keep at it, day after day? Why do they? For nice aftershave? Is that it? Is it all about a Georgetown perfumery where Senator Feinstein or Dutch Ruppersberger shop for scent products? I know the feeling of self-edification. As a boy on Christmas mornings of the past I would get all dressed up in my new clothes boxed under the tree and take my annual alternating gift of department store Brut or Old Spice grooming products into the bathroom. I would clip my fingernails, shave the score of hairs off my face, button the cuffs of my sleeves, and drench myself in the scent of man. As a thirteen year old boy laying down beside the presents stacked under the tree I began to imagine Ron Throop to be a successful businessman and/or starting quarterback for the Miami Dolphins. That dreaming would dull as soon as thoughts of Simone Beretti popped into my head. She was the smart girl who sat in front of me in Mr. Simon’s U.S. History class. She came with her smells too, and on Christmas morning recent memories of them mixed in with my cologne’s superpower, had me daydream a future winter morning taking Simone for a ride on my ski-doo snowmobile. I would seat her in front so she couldn’t fall off. I would protect her. And all would be right with the world.

Now I think of the boy and girl Ron and Simone in 2014 with smartphones. I would be connected to nfl.com, and Simone to some cool Indie band website her older sister got her turned on to. We might sneak in a cryptic puppy love tweet from time to time, her calling me a “druggie” (I was not and am not), and me pointing out her uneven pony tail in class that day. We would put away the phones at our respective homes that night. Then Simone to her homework and me to The Muppet Show, and then dragging my feet to some algebra I could not understand.

Larry Purvis was a fellow student at the time, a bully, but of another sort. A loner. He was a bit roly-poly with fat pink cheeks and blonde greasy hair. Kids shied away from him because rumor was that he was a slimy pervert. There were tales about Larry getting caught playing doctor with very young girls on his street, and that was such a foreign idea to the rest of us seventh and eight graders, so undeniably off-scene to pubescent teens, that it was a no-brainer to avoid Larry at every opportunity—in the halls, at lunch, but most definitely in the locker room.

Well, it turned out, according to my hometown friend and professional prison guard Pat, that today Larry wears a GPS ankle bracelet. The rumors were true. Larry is a convicted child predator and molester. Bound to be one growing in every school district I guess.

Now I think of the peeping Toms at the N.S.A. (and also members of Congress, the President, and any judge alive who enables them) intercepting the flirtations of our children, and I call for their arrest and imprisonment, and upon release made to wear an ankle bracelet for the rest of their lives, just like Larry Purvis. I think of the ubiquitous photo the media displays of the N.S.A. headquarters, and now realize that every car’s owner in that immense parking lot is a free Larry Purvis of America. Each one is drooling in on the privates of our children. Having not yet quit in shame is proof that the typical N.S.A. employee is guilty and seeks strength in number of other perverts to shelter himself from the storm, the vitriolic type, released by parents of victimized children who, upon hearing news of the spying on little Suzie through the bathroom window, find themselves igniting mob torches in the night to hunt down a disgusting Larry Purvis.

Who wants their country to be run by peeping Toms and Thomasinas? Even the President’s wife will not slap his face in front of their daughters and call him a “sick pig”.

She must love her Chanel No. 5 too. Makes her feel important as 1st Lady pervert-enabler.

I will share this post all over America today. I am nonplussed, seeing red, and wanting this damn Internet to feel like I do. And Marvin Gaye too.

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