The original title to the post was “The End of Wussy Psychosis”. After some thought I changed it, knowing the many nice people on earth who would balk at content with a title like that. The wussies are the scaredy-cat mentally disturbed who possess these semi-automatic infant pacifiers to protect themselves from everything gentle and alive surrounding them, and also that big sky which is bound to fall at any moment in their minds.
It is an anecdotal fact that adult children who possess these people killing shoot-shoots have no sense of irony, and are without the curiosity that forgives children wayward thinking. I posted this painting on Instagram with my usual hashtags dealing with art and paintings, and added embellishments such as #nra #nrawussies #suzieskirtnra #abnormalpsychology, and #babieswithguns. And wouldn’t you know it! I received several likes from suspect psychopaths on social media about the country and world (most likely country). Suspect because their Instagram icon was either an American flag, or one of those child-murdering beauties that Congressman Katko (NY-24) is posing with at the town hall in the painting above. So I go to their pages to confirm identities, and yes, plain as day to any psychiatrist or FBI agent with a trained eye—psychotic behavior with over 50 images to prove it. From crazypants Code-xyz, and his deepthroat image love affair of Jesus holding an AR-15, to USAsexysuzy in a thong firing the same model at pretend human targets beneath the great blue sky in the Arizona desert.
What the hell is wrong with these people’s minds, (and there were plenty more), to be so damn afraid of their own shadows? Maybe because their shadows are black? Does their chicken little terror prevent them from seeing the painting and sensing perhaps the opposite of love for the big metal penises they sleep with at night? Just a pinprick of confusion, and one would think USAsexysuzie might peek at the hashtags and see #nrawussies and think twice about “liking” the post of the gentleman poet who paints. Especially if the latter is convinced that USAsexysuzie is three Walmart® trips away from mowing down kids playing in the park, or hating 75 more liberals enough to kill them with guns and ammo legally supplied by my supersexy NRA wussy Congressman at the town hall.
Which brings me to the true meaning of the painting.
Congressman John Katko (NY-24) is charged in my morality with conspiring and aiding and abetting a domestic terrorist organization. No, no, no sillies—not the Sierra Club! Yes, those nature rats can get pretty dangerous walkin’ and talkin’ tough, shouldering their automatic seedlings and wilderness preservations. Danger, danger, I know. However, the Sierra Club has not lobbied to kill children in a school for over a century at least. Yet the NRA has. And if it takes an army of neurosurgeons to lobotomize the violent psychosis in the disturbed minds of USAsexysuzy and Congressman John Katko (NY-24) , then so be it. New Congresspeople can write up those necessary bills.
Now, in all seriousness, my representative John Katko (NY-24) has taken money from the NRA, a domestic terrorist organization. I don’t need the divisive FBI to declare its lobbyists in Washington a terrorist cell. If the typical agent can’t scroll an Instagram feed with the hashtag “nra” and find over a hundred terrorism leads a night, from crazy folk espousing the virtues of their leader organization, then said FBI agent is not doing her job. After the blocked seventh psychopath, I knew there was something very wrong in the state of the United States.
First and foremost, we need to state the obvious and no longer allow for obfuscation. Here:
The NRA, via the United States Senate and Congress, is a domestic terrorist organization. Those in government who accept monies and/or give support to a lobby that promotes weapons access to domestic terrorists, are themselves aiding and abetting said domestic terrorism.
Meanwhile, duck when you see a pick up truck. You just never know, right?
Thanks John Katko (NY-24), for the out-the-door and anywhere terrorism on our streets and schools. I am so proud of your psychotic leadership!
Another small treasure slipping away. Quintus Gallery, perhaps the most beautiful individually run venue for art in New York State, the one which hosted the work of 37 international Stuckists last October, is moving on due to financial pressure. I am very sad to hear this. Sad and mad.
On Valentine’s Day I am having a one night viewing of work by 16 Stuckists.
The Stuckist is opposed to the sterility of the white wall gallery system and calls for exhibitions to be held in homes and musty museums, with access to sofas, tables, chairs and cups of tea. The surroundings in which art is experienced (rather than viewed) should not be artificial and vacuous.
I was never “opposed to a gallery system”. Not the small gallery. I was and am against fierce competition in art, back-stabbing, soul stealing. Many artists today are trying to make their way buying into a visual system that mirrors I Heart Radio corporate crap sniff. Always hoping and praying to be authenticated by the unartists, the business class, the people parasites. Some are boxed in so tightly in university comfort adding little triumphs to their “market me” CV’s. Some are truly just non-creative bores with money.
Lots of money.
Kathy at Quintus moved beyond the subjective—she knew (knows) that there better be a human being in the art, or their is no art. The first time she saw my work I was amazed at the time she took looking at each painting, asking about it, being alone with it, to leave it be for an hour to think about it, to return to talk with me about life, art, history… and then, hooray! Buy it.
She and Joe will do fine. I am not worried for their future.
However, I am calling out the devils which divide us. The following letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, and The Painter’s Table I wrote a few weeks before our opening at Quintus last autumn, to uninvite them. I mailed copies to each institution. Cost me five stamps, but well worth it. In my opinion they are poisonous places to which Stuckism remains a potent antidote.
Quintus is (was) a worthy middleman to art. Small galleries could and should remain solvent into the 21st century. But we’ll need to kill the art celebrity as soon as possible. For Wednesday’s show I am making shrimp bisque and buying up as much sparkling wine my family can afford. Come by and get stuffed, but you better promise to look at what we’ve painted. Just look at the paintings. None of us need a helper to tell us what is good to look at. Not at Manhattan rent costs. Only avarice can come from that.
Letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, The Painter’s Table, and ewwww, gross—Juxtapoze
110 Greene Street
New York, N.Y. 10012
A gray, cool autumn morning here in Oswego, N.Y.—my favorite kind of day, which I began in the basement painting and listening to Van Morrison records. I waved my wife off to work and looked to the sky getting grayer, and made the psychological small jump to mow the lawn before the weekend rain comes, and the grass gets wet and clingy.
These cool, intellectual days I think about everything, and during mundane moments of mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, I let the muse in to determine which direction the juices shall pour, not flow.
Today, ARTnews and Hyperallergic got in there somehow. Also Galerie St. Etienne, and then I just let the three of them sit down for a smoke and a talk in the situation room that is my brain. The small Internet site called The Painter’s Table stopped in later on, while mowing the backyard, and I vowed to skip the morning painting and let loose this meeting of my very limited access to the art world that comes via the business Internet.
This spring the Galerie St. Etienne returned the self-published books I sent to it six months prior, along with a kind letter expressing regret that it no longer sought outside contemporary artists. I found it strange to send back a gift of kindness, as might a team of lawyers scheme to thwart liability, and not accept it like any curious human being with a heart would. My God, I thought it was a gallery, not a law firm!
Anyway, it was kind to send reply—the one in a thousand received over my long painting and writing anti-career. It seems that Galerie St. Etienne respects the unknown building block (the artist) who gives credence to the myriad of buildings hanging pictures on sheetrock for profit. There is no bread and butter without cows and grass. Few galleries seem to get this, and those that do just might be the human ones that organizations like ARTnews don’t need to write about in wonder why they are struggling to make ends meet.
Now I have sent presents of my books to Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and I believe even The Painters’ Table because I am a painter, not a businessman. I send them with hope, never greed, and each facility should know that I have done so for many years to many individuals and institutions because I am an expressive artist, not unlike many who begin in a similar vein but end up working for the business of art. I am expressive, yet also hungry—not starving—just seeking enough financial success to keep from falling back to line cooking in my late middle age. I love to paint. And unlike a choreographed Mick Jagger, Jeff Koons, or ARTnews, I seek just enough dough to continue to do so.
Also, I loathe promotion more than I adore self liberation. So it is no thrill for me to seek approval to those who can help deliver a meager cash flow into my home. But I do it anyway. Because I am human and made of carbon and contradiction.
Now this morning Hrag Vartanian, a self ascribed promoter of art and culture at places like L.A. round table discussions, white-washed Chautauqua Institutions, and that beloved next-gentrification called “Brooklyn”, wrote in a fast tweet, like our dear lonesome president, his frustration at being used as other people’s “PR”—I assume he meant “public relations”.
Who wouldn’t be? All people just want to be loved for the right reasons. Nobody likes the feeling of being used. Like me, Hrag is an expressive individual, and I often even agree with his knee-jerk politics. Again, like me, he is probably also a bit delusional. However, I know this truth: He uses Twitter® more like a gossiping school kid than a person actually interested in painting. Privately I bet he’s a great guy, loved by friends and family, as well he should be. However, publicly I see him as an arrogant vanity that holds power and influence over others, and seems to like it, almost sardonically. To contrast, I will only express my overt arrogance in private, to my wife, children, and maybe a few close friends. To me, as a man and artist, that is my social success. Unlike financial success, I do not need to hope for it. It has already arrived! Likewise, as a painter and a man, I don’t need Hrag through Hyperallergic to promote me as a painter. I expect it.
As previously mentioned, I do seek financial dishwasher status in the art world. It is his job as editor and founder of a popular art blog to review me and many others in a very long list, else apologize readily for the insurmountable backlog. Otherwise, he and other institutional aggrandizing promoters like him (ARTnews and The NY Times) are irrelevant. All profit-driven art propagandists are no more than a bullhorn for established galleries like David Zwirner, and also that lying piece of billionaire tax write-off auction brothel, Christies®.
Here is why. No artist is or can be profit-driven and remain an artist. That should be the #1 precept printed poster-sized across the wall in art editorial rooms. Again, if it’s not what you stand by, then, as art promoter, Hyperallergic and ARTnews are irrelevant, just another businessperson’s scam.
That is my private belief now made public. I feel a strong connection to the art movement Stuckism, which keeps me painting when nobody, especially the bought and paid for editors of popularity, cannot recognize a damned kindness from an artist when they see it (a free book promoting other painters). They do notice his query about advertising, however. Why shouldn’t they? These institutions, like individuals, also seek financial success, and work hard to achieve it. When there’s a potential paycheck in the e-mail, then of course, open it up. I also trash the spam. Nobody likes the beggars, whether dressed up corporate crisp, or down, door-to-door like the ragman. I do not argue Hyperallergic nor ARTnews their desire to stay relevant, and likewise, financially afloat in the media sea of art. Their inevitable defeat into the 21st century is due to reliance on income from established wealth when the new age promoters of art (humanity) seek magnanimity in culture, as well as the pretty pictures. ARTnews cannot survive continuing to cherry pick what their readers need to “see” art to be, while relying on established interests to promote the vicious circle of money = relevance = money. A paradigm which is anti-art in a nutshell, and shouldn’t take a nutter like me to show all and sundry. I think the real world of humanity gets it. The Painters’ Table I forgive because it’s too small yet to hate painting enough to profit enormously by it. I think the editors are sincere—visually anyway. They probably don’t “see” like I do how many of the painters that they highlight love money almost enough to eat it. These editors seek pretty pictures with a twist—rarely human paintings by people who wish to liberate us from what ails us.
By the way, unlike Hrag Vartanian, I also do PR for others, and enjoy it very much. I’m doing it now for an incredible gallery show that Hyperallergic has taken no interest in (until it is celebrity of course, mainstream, established—like gypsum dust in wallboard). I’ve written to Hyperallergic about it without reply, also ARTnews, NY Times, Central NY newspaper arts editors—Cornell University art professionals (the painting professors!). I send postcards. I send exhibition or creative books to others. I ask that this show of 37 painters living in 9 countries be well-attended—to honor each sending his or her work from far away to a little community in the center of the real art world—which is any place where art for art’s sake thrives, and profit for more profit’s forecast dies.
Quintus is that small “struggling” art gallery that ARTnews and Hyperallergic cry crocodile tears over. Like the artist, it too can be the canary in the coal mine to profit-driven culture fabricators. Quintus Gallery is poised to make history next month which the next generation of art propagandists will glowingly report on because some influential gallery in Singapore needs Christies, Inc. to buy this dead painter so and so’s life to make another billionaire lie work for the billionaire. I say to these future struggling institutions of irrelevance, “Go eat cheese!”
Hear ye, hear ye Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and NY Times! I officially uninvite you to Quintus Gallery in Watkins Glen for opening night on Friday, October 13, from 6 – 9 p.m. You like money, maybe status too, but not art. The Painters’ Table can still come, if it stops looking do damn depressed. Either way, it would do itself a good turn to invite just a wee bit of Stuckism into its sycophantic soul. Heck, we’re all painters, aren’t we? Wake up!
Just this moment the magazine Juxtapoze popped into the smoking room of my muse. It is even more un-invited than the others. And if I catch any of those phony art and artist killers lurking outside the gallery on Friday night the 13th, then I might actually become bouncer and kick those bony phonies into Seneca Lake!
The Twitter editor of Empty Mirror, an online weekly literary journal, tweeted this on February 5, 2018: “Cleaned a bunch of the political stuff out of my feeds and I feel so much better.”
And that was that. Contemporary literature died. The people who came to read about the dead Beat poets, or dead Henry Miller, or perhaps dead political screamer George Orwell, found a zone free of annoying, present-day political matters, such as nuclear proliferation, Syrian refugees, or the coming environmental catastrophe that even the dinosaurs wouldn’t get the chills to witness imaginatively. The editor freed his or her feed from U.S. politics that, since WWII, have ballooned, by the breath of a mighty superpower, to lord over all life on earth and atmosphere.
Hurray. At Empty Mirror we can adorn our meditative consciousness with the fineries of life brought to us by writers of the past. Or, at times, click into some present day, university graduate’s careful art to keep our precious, unearned joys leagues away from dirty politics.
Here is what I say: There is no literature or art without politics and philosophy. Everything good that came before (in modern times) has been provided by super sensitive people reacting to the political environment of their day.
Writers and painters today have a slick, state of the “art” smartphone and a two-year contract with a corrupt and very political corporation.
Unart comes from comfort. Ask any artist alive today, if you are able to find one on or offline.
Those who do not want their minds sullied can clean their Twitter feeds or react like Barbara Bush when asked about her son’s philosophy of having other people’s children’s legs blown off by Empty Mirror’s tax contribution to American politics:
“Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? It’s not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?”
Perhaps the editor of Empty Mirror, who no doubt is a kind and sensitive person, views art and artist how another editor of a garage press reacted to my efforts on what turned out to be the last time I tried to get an unartist to recognize a work of art.
From Just Another Stuckist in Oswego:
I have theories about this starving artist dilemma. Many spring from the field of social psychology. Here is one:
None of us are any good until many of us say that some of us are.
Each failed writer or painter needs, more than talent, a promoter with Biblical outreach. If Beyoncé (accent on the e) wore the teeth image (painting above) to don her Super Bowl outfit, I would be rich and known richly by morning. Target® would call for a wall hanging product line, and the New York Times would best seller me. If Oprah got caught reading less trite and inane crap, maybe some of you talented writers could afford rent as well as dinner, and miraculously the Media-CIA Industrial Complex would suffer sinking ratings of its perpetually popular “Let’s Dumb Down America Now!”.
All fine literature, music, and art is relegated to obscurity if not considered salable by a connected media entity. Here is a rejection from a book publisher I received a couple weeks ago, followed by a quote from Henry Miller who wrote meaningful desk chair philosophy at a time when art was the artist, and not bullhorn announcements from high-rise promoters about the “state of the art money”.
You do seem passionate and, as you wrote, “determined,” so I’m sure this won’t stop you at all from continuing your search for a publisher. I would like to suggest you consider self-publishing this manuscript. Just from reading the first sample parts you sent me I can tell you it’s going to be a very difficult sell to any indie press. Forget about even going to the majors via a literary agent. It occupies too much head space, in my opinion, and while that’s not a bad thing at all for some readers who enjoy that sort of thing, commercially this would be extremely difficult to convince anyone to spend any money on reading your words. Even if you have some clout due to your painting, it is pretty thick stuff to get into and stay into. I don’t mean this to sound mean at all. I just feel that this is the kind of book that may have a life as a self-published work. Save yourself the time and trouble of querying anyone else and publish it yourself, then I would suggest perhaps focus more on the marketing end of the book rather than getting one of us snobby publishers to approve it lol. I hope you’ll agree.
A nice, honest rejection. I agree with him. I prefer to self-publish. But to make me a marketer of my own work is like asking a corn farmer to peddle boil-in-a-bag on the street corner. Doomed to failure before the manure is spread.
Thank you for a fast response and helpful criticism. Self publishing is the right way to go. Whitman peddled “Leaves of Grass” door-to-door, and look where that got him! No one then (or today) would publish Whitman’s work to make a living, yet countless entities do exactly that today. For me, it has become some personal badge of honor to be an unread writer in the 21st century. Like threshing wheat over a storm water grate. Very nothing, and yet some thing very good too.
Just doesn’t pay the bills.
Here is Henry Miller:
Most of the young men of talent whom I have met in this country give one the impression of being somewhat demented. Why shouldn’t they? They are living amidst spiritual gorillas, living with food and drink maniacs, success mongers, gadget innovators, publicity hounds. God, if I were a young man today, if I were faced with a world such as we have created, I would blow my brains out. Or, perhaps like Socrates, I would walk into the market place and spill my seed on the ground. I would certainly never think to write a book or paint a picture or compose a piece of music. For whom? Who beside a handful of desperate souls can recognize a work of art? What can you do with yourself if your life is dedicated to beauty? Do you want to face the prospect of spending the rest of your life in a straight-jacket?
I suggest all writers to read Miller, as Miller wanted to be read. Read me first. He’d dead. And I could use an art-paid-for loaf of bread.
Empty Mirror should understand this age old dilemma if it wishes to represent the greats of modern literature. Allen Ginsberg was not apolitical. He was politically agitated, turning his private anger into digestible, public art. Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, any literary celebrity of the past whom we prop up today was, while living, a rabid politico or shoot-from-the-hip philosopher.
I believe the editor of Empty Mirror is probably sick of the political gossip he/she sees and hears, rather than politics as they pertain to the present and future machinations of the human race. The former is a game played online by bored and unfulfilled human beings—a kind of collective in-group solitaire to stave off the agony of emptiness which fills up in those people who are unable to express or seek art and literature to comfort them in difficult times.
However, I hope Empty Mirror can see that it wouldn’t have a platform to stand on if it were not for politics of the past which goaded so many artists to react to a world gone wrong, in their time. Reaction to the insanity of world wars, nuclear weapons, the devil in capitalism, religion’s vice-grip, ignorance and fear of the masses, etc., were not deletable on the intellectual browsers for most of the 20th century.
It’s good to kill the gossip, but don’t ever lose the politics. So many people suffered angling you, dear Empty Mirror Twitter editor, toward an easier life. If you want to understand art and artist, never become a Barbara Bush, who just closes the door to the ugly which we all are until the time when we are not.
Enter the reactionary writer and artist of today who would become known tomorrow if editors and gallerists were less apolitical gatekeepers, and more sensitive to the needs of those who express the culture freely.
Welcome the politics, Empty Mirror Twitter editor, yet seek the artist who can turn the lack of generational courage into a work of art.
¡Viva el politics in art!
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.
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.
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.
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!