politics

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.

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Merry Christmas and a Kind Word

oeufs

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 Made an Anger Painting Without Hurting Anyone

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“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?

 

 

 

NPR Is U.S. State Media, Which Makes Sense. Every State Needs a State Media. Even an Outlaw State.

NPRIntellectual

“As a Leading Pretend Intellectual at NPR, I Know Privately That There are No Proportions in Death, But Publicly I Don’t Give a Crap Because I Am a Disgusting Opportunist” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15″

There is no difference between the phony intellectual radio host at NPR and the phony “I am the common man bigot” radio host in “right” wing broadcasting. They’re both working the state’s angles. It must be so, for even the pretend Christian police and their talk radio aren’t espousing a moral code beyond that of “I am afraid of sex and good cooking culture”. Nor is “I Heart Radio” offering more morality than a Nicki Minaj ass crack to the world. So, if there is no moral bullhorn beyond the artist, and there is no artist community as far as I can see, then who or what dear reader is shaping yours and my deepest convictions? NPR? Fox News? The President? The Internet?

A test for members of a pretend free state. Begin advertising today for an assembly of morally like-minded peoples to meet in your living room for discussion. No Internet. No TV, radio. No politics. Just morals.

If you’re a practicing atheist, cite from your gut, as if you came into the world that afternoon.

If you’re an old Christian or Jew, you may begin the conversation with, let’s say, the Ten Commandments.

A Hindu? Ask what would Rama do? No, make that Sita, who was obviously morally superior.

An old Muslim, Buddhist, Zoroastrian? Find a good moral base in scripture and begin from there. If you have initial success and get popular, enough so that maybe over 20 people stop in every Tuesday night to talk morality, then count the hours before NPR begins its reporting on your terrorist cell that needed to be raided by the authorities, for the informant on the inside leaked the moral thoughts being exchanged. And as everyone privately knows, it is a kind of state sin to barter morality, especially in secret.

Try it. You might like it, or not. It will reveal that beautiful human feeling we were given as children, but lost or replaced from neglect over time…

A conscience.

Seek it. It’s yours.

 

 

 

 

Installment #6 of Capillary Reaction To Record the Joys of Naphthalene for my District Congressperson

Primary

“Primary Fast Frack With White and Black” 2011. Acrylic on (3) paper, 30 x 16″

Superfly.jpg

2014. Acrylic on wood panels, (6) 6 x 6″

First the Sun and Then the Moon Waxes Poetic The Radium-266 Superfly

I learn something new each time I research the side effects of hydrofracking:
http://www.counterpunch.org/2012/11/09/fracking-and-radioactivity/
Radium-266 is bad for humans, but inspiring beyond words to its namesake mutant species “superfly”. All day and night the superfly sings lustily of days to come and gone by—the willow that stretched to the stars and cracked with the first big wind, the last squirrel to pack soil over a nut, pick its head up to the sun, and cough up a blood clot, the dreams of a mate to fly with over the lake counting the floating fish in the moonlight… The superfly is a poet and a visionary. He sleeps subterranean for seven years subsisting in a bath of charged radium ions. Then at pre-dawn on midsummer night he rises with the sun to sing the song of the world and find a mate to cuddle up with for the next long radioactive sleep.
It wasn’t enough to have a hundred toxic chemicals bubbling in a murky frack pool, so we opted for mining some well-known carcinogenics too.
With a three-year lease, Landowner Ted can now afford an F350 run on natural gas, a tiller with its own choke, and cash payments for his grandson’s chemotherapy.
Also, unfortunately, for the next 16,000 years, Landowner Ted’s descendants cannot step outside without a mosquito netting cage. The superflies’ bite is instant death, and no pesticide can kill it.

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

Opening night in Hamilton is over. I am freed up to continue amassing the first local environment painting exhibition that will be the last ever necessary. All adults of earth shall pass through the gallery thinking, “What has happened?” and “Why was I not meditating like an old ghost after having babies and teaching them the Golden Rule”?
I am convinced that, in the West anyway, art and artist must become the moral bullhorn to check humanity’s penchant for cardinal sin. I remember back during the Iraq “war” when I wrote to 40 local ministers and priests chastising them for being scared little puppies to their congregations. It seemed not one of them had the guts to outwardly protest the slaughter. The SUV’s kept driving in on Sunday mornings to hear of their personal greatness—the holy men had bills to pay, bell towers to repair at exorbitant union wages. Either way, protest or not, there would be many more crimes committed by the lost sheep, so keep quiet and share the spoils. I scolded them with the knowledge of how the church became the Hummer became the church. Not one response. Of course I never supplied a return address (I was an artist not a prophet).
Environmental disaster, like war, is not a concern to the corporate God men and women. Heaven is hard work. Few have time to think about earth, water, and air anymore. A good economy will refurbish the church, and while so many are frantically busy applying themselves to bloating the coffers (by all means), little artists paint pictures hand-slapping the bad men, who include even ministers and priests!