Some Paintings This Week With New Style of Fun


Old Man Remembering With a Bird on His Head or I Have the Moves Like Jagger 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″


My Beautiful Obsession 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″


I Just Don’t Know What I’m Painting Anymore 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″


I Saw the Chicken Man at the Arsenal Street Dennys® 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 18 x 24″


Two People Upon Reviewing Male to Female Prison Inmate Ratios and Unable to Connect the Dots 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″


Self Portrait With Another Man’s Face and Demeanor 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″


Precious Angel, Don’t Let Anyone Tell You Otherwise: You’re More Beautiful on the Outside. Much More 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″


My Congressman’s Last Town Hall


My Congressman’s Last Town Hall 2018. Acrylic on cardboard, 22 x 28″

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!


My Countrypeople of Stupid

sweetheart skull

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s living crazy, politics in America.

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

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

And people like me?

Moralists in a moral-less land.

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


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


2015. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 21″

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Been Very Busy this Past Week Exhibiting and Painting and Space Staring


“Just Keep Pressing On” 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″


“Are You Passionate?” 2017. Acrylic on dead man’s canvas, 18 x 24″


“The New and Slightly Improved Landscape of Mandy Schandt” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 20 x 16″


“Illustration of Space From the Back of my Tongue to the Underlayment of my Solar Plexus Whenever the Mouth Engages in Small Talk” 2017. Acrylic on slab of Styrofoam®, 12 x 16


“How to Break a Person’s Will Without His Being Aware of It” 2017. Acrylic on cardboard, 22 x 21″


This Week I Painted Some While Lake Turned and Weather Charmed


“I Know Lake Ontario Doesn’t Look Like This in April, but Maybe It Should” 2017. Acrylic on birch panel, 24 x 24″


“Only Jay Leno and Other Jingoes See the American Dream From Outside the Dollar Store” 2017. Acrylic on 500 piece puzzle for a dollar. What a deal!


“After Sacrificing 23 Pieces of Crap From the Dollar Store, I Planted This Baby Pear Tree” 2017. Acrylic on dollar store frame, 8 x 10″


“Dollar Store Frozen Chicken Cordon Bleu and Blueberry Muffin on Ceramic Plate Made in China, $3.08” 2017. Acrylic on plate, dinner plate size


“This Dollar Store Clipboard Does Not Want My Dream of Mexico Unless I Make It So” 2017. Acrylic on Chinese dollar store clipboard, 10 x 14″


“How I Look and Feel at the Dollar Store in Town” 2017. Acrylic on dollar store frame, 8 x 10″


“Even at 50 My Attempt at an Imaginary Alligator Should Spark the Professional Curiosity of a Bored Psychiatrist” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 11″


“For Those of You Living in 1 of the Other 195 Nations, the Reason Americans Don’t Love Trains Anymore is Because Our Brains Have Been Usurped by Cognitive Dissonance Aliens” 2017. Acrylic on Stepanov packaging particle board, 12 x 16″

The Last Anxiety Dream


“Rose Left For Work This Morning With Her Nose in a Better Place” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15″

Rose is my wife. Or, I am her husband. They say possession is 9/10 the law, and to anyone looking, it’s obvious that we are close—married to the hilt— bearing all the positive and negative of that attachment vice/virtue the Buddhists claim is soul draining. So, emotionally, we possess each other, for better or worse, like good/bad attachments. We “get it”, and flow fairly well together, through good and bad, in concert with fluctuating hormonal balances—her month, my month, hair loss, hair gain… We have nearly mastered the art of cohabitation, and she, whether realizing it or not, is primed and ready for a sweet nirvana, if she ever desires/not desires its potential awakening.

Me, on the other hand, is an anxious mess. The culprit (if I must ascribe blame. And I must because I am not healed) is culture, and the roles it pressures us into, wittingly or unwittingly. Rose is breadwinner. We eat and stay dry and warm because she maintains acceptable work outside the home. A steady job that pays well enough for me to stay home and keep life about us steady and content. I am literally bread-maker—stay-at-home cook and part-time butler, part-time painter, writer, curator. These are the chores separating me from Rose, for we are both very sensitive, full time spouse and parent, and there should be no comparisons made in these departments. I am an okay cook, decent butler, yet would fail the most basic Emily Post white-glove inspection.

Selective breeding among male Throops carried on fairly well without me for 56,000 years, and then Rose and I came along and upset the stream. Damned it up good and proper, I’d say, for I haven’t gone a day in my adult life without some manner of confusion about my place and role(s) in a society that worships nothing but abstractions—namely, money.

To say I am an anxious person would be a gross understatement. I am more like an outwardly successful squirrel, yet unsatisfied with myself in a world of squirrels that covets and adores a mutual abstraction. Squirrels around me who act like squirrels day after day, accumulating nuts, building impressive nests, braving seasons and storms, but underlying every accomplishment is the pressing desire to accumulate the abstraction that will make the squirrel a new squirrel, refined prince or princess in squirrel kingdom. I am infected with the abstraction also, which makes me a constantly dissatisfied squirrel. Let’s say this abstraction occupying us squirrels practically night and day is the desire to accumulate human manufactured snow-globes. Many generations ago, some wise and economically trained squirrel scribes thought to create a falling leaf money supply to ease and simplify transactions among squirrels of Squirreldom, however knowing the ubiquitous existence of trees, sought a limited, countable base currency to give an abstract value to something that was readily available in Squirreldom—leaves. Leaf banks opened up practically overnight, followed by upstanding squirrels founding colleges and universities, the development of a million acceptable leaf-paying occupations (none of them nut gathering), and finally a culturally devastating, squirrel-separating atomization.

Anyway, I had a dream last night, my last one about money if hope can help it. I was at Donald Trump’s next wedding and the cheapskate expected a gift. 60 dollars is a lot when you can’t make that in a month from painting. Rose’s brother from D.C. was there with his wife telling her in a false admiring, deeply condescending way, that it was “too cool” that I painted—Oh, but I could see the mockery in his eyes and hear it in the tone of his voice. Shamed again! And not for the last time that night. After the gifts were laid out for all and sundry to see, Trump had my gift, a painting, taken out and thrown in the trash. Rose confided to me that she provided a back-up without my knowledge—a Samsung® tablet for the new bride. I was so mad. I stormed out of the tent and went to sleep on a servant’s cot in some nearby dusty garage.

The end.

Faith that my marriage is secure, I intend to reach my end beating to death inside me this false god money. Whenever I have deep doubt, (and that is as often as dinner), I will take that negative energy and with it,  push as hard as I can into a positive dream.  This money god has got all of us squirrels absolutely frazzled. All my nuts aren’t secure, but I know where to find them. I had no faith in gods. I want no faith in money. I’ll play my faith at this marriage and focus my dreams on a persistent present moment. I will continue to write and paint erratically, like a squirrel caught both ways in the road.

Friends, family, and safe acquaintances, please continue to buy the paintings I paint and books that I write. Heck, $50 is “better than a sharp stick in the eye”, as my bodhisattva wife often proclaims. I leave you now with a few paintings by me and a song by someone else.

“The Bodhisattva Poses With Her Anniversary Pot” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

spirit animal

“Is the Squirrel My Spirit Animal Or Am I Just Hyper-Paranoid?” 2015. Acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11″


“In November, 2051, Rose Will Be Out in the Backyard ‘Digging a Goldfish Pond’. Just Wave, and Carry On” 2017. Acrylic on Alexey’s packaging particle board, 12 x 16″

Please look the other way, and just listen….