It’s a good day for the resurrection of painting updates

Street Dancer Jazz Pianist Flower Sunny guy Late sketch

Ever notice how assaults are almost always a bad thing in real life, but are frequently great things in fiction?  Like how someone will put on an “assault suit” and take care of an alien menace, or do a “vicious kung fu assault” on a warlord and free the people from fear.  Check out https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0aYfwX-RV_k&feature=youtu.be for more nonsense.

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Fun Haus

It’s recently come to my attention that people have been circulating false copies of my popular new album, Fun Haus.  In an earlier post (now deleted), I inadvertently provided a link to one of the fake versions.

Here is the real and only real version of Fun Haus – https://archive.org/details/funhaus .  Accept no substitutes.  I know this is a common thing on the internet, and as proud as I am of Fun Haus and all the work that went into it, I’ve realized that negativity cannot be fought with more negativity.  I believe we can regain our willpower and our future, and working constructively towards this end is my new theme.  Therefore, I bear no ill will.  Let’s not only imagine a better tomorrow, but be prepared to put in the hard work, the blood, sweat and tears that it takes to get there.  I know I’m not alone.

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The wisdom of Cady

Today I had the opportunity to meet illustrious businessman Scott Cady. He’d met up with Steven Spielberg three days ago and was heading to get with some spare members of Steve’s film crew, to get footage of the Nelson Atkins archives. Please note that his name is pronounced like “lady”, not “caddy”. That’s just good English. I did a diligent search and didn’t find anybody else trying to chronicle Cady’s words, but I apologized if I missed anyone who’s already doing this work. These are unfortunately paraphrases, as the meeting was totally unexpected and I had no way to record it (I was in the middle of work.) They would be much better in Cady’s exact words.

However, I seriously did not make any of this up.

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“The Chinese have this old world insight. They know from years of experience that, when you start feeling those cramps in your stomach, that’s the onset of stomach cancer. So, experience has taught them, that’s when to drink your own urine. And I’ve drunk my pee. It tastes kind of peanuty. But then, I eat a lot of peanut butter.”

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“If that guy gets much closer to my truck, I’m gonna have to make a gun out of your butthole and my tweezers.”

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“Have you ever tried (eating) the plecostomus? …Tastes like shit. Of course, if it looks like shit, and it smells like shit, it probably tastes like shit. They say, ‘If it looks like shit, and it smells like shit, it must be shit,’ but that really isn’t all of it.”

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(In regards to string theory) “They’re always trying to find out more about the universe and God. That’s the thing about Man. They want to find out the most powerful theory, Hawking and his guys- he put them on to trying to find the single equation that solves everything. But they don’t have the equation for that. The hippies found it in the sixties. It’s love. The peace sign, that’s the equation. And I don’t know how they’ll ever find that. I wonder how Hawking is doing? I’ll get back to you on that.”

-

“So, is your mother still living? …Hmm, what’s your birthday?” (I admit my answers became rather cautious at this point, I hope I didn’t offend Cady.) “My brothers is January 19, I think. Are you an Aquarius or a Pisces? I think the tipping point is January 20th or so. To be on the exact tipping point between Aquarius and Pisces… man… that would be crazy!”

-

“See’ya later, brabe. Hey! I just made up a new word. ‘Brabe’. It’s a combination of ‘bro’ and ‘babe’.”

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I’m not your bro, bra.

I can smell myself- the pork-and-vinegar margarita funk of a golf course locker room that accompanies any physically unfit white man who tries to bite off more than he can chew. I could have walked, but jogging “is a really good cardio workout.” I couldn’t accept the need for moderation. I sprawl on the couch, helpless. It’s in this way that I’m unable to escape from the fatuous venting of my distinguished lit major roommate- one Archibald Stein.

Today, he’s a dynamic ball of sass energy. Archie certainly isn’t bald, but nor does he have as much hair as most thirty year old men would prefer. This works into a good excuse for him to constantly wear the kind of funny little hat that’s popular these days with men who enjoy keeping up with fashion, and absolutely nobody else. Recently it looks to me like he’s been displaying “Mad Men” fashions. I can’t validate this by citing specific clothing articles, because I don’t care what they’re called. But he looks exactly like a guy from the “Mad Men” tv show, if you just added a luxuriant coating of pudge over his whole body.

“I know I shouldn’t be so naïve to the state of culture”, he says flailingly, plopping his leathery book of whatever sharply down on the coffee table. “I mean, I know what society it is that we’re living in. I’m really not that naïve. But I still can’t believe the state of people’s discussions. It’s just pathetic”

“Were you at some debate club or something?” I ask mildly.

“It was Broadway.” He sounds short. Broadway is a coffee shop. He knows what’s coming, but I can’t hold myself back. I’m too tired.

“Archie. Broadway is a coffee shop. It’s a commercial establishment. You don’t need an invitation to go buy a cup of coffee. Everybody’s allowed, and everyone is allowed to be themselves. They might not all be brilliant people. They’re just hanging out.”

“What you’re trying to say is that the standards are naturally lower for discussions in a broader forum like Broadway. -No, I know, what you did say. I’m fully factoring all that in. I mean, Keith. These people. They’re not just less literate. I wouldn’t even call them cunning, or ‘street smart’. They’re goofballs. You should be able have at least something that would qualify as discourse in public places. This isn’t even discourse. And it’s not just a few people. It’s almost every one at that god damn coffee place. They’re scurrilous ninnies!”

I could only wonder at how anybody could keep up so much sass at such a nonexistent transgression. If I wasn’t more used to Archie, it would have sent me to my room with a splitting headache. As it was, he was clearly begging to be tested, to prove the validity of his inherently silly outrage. “What kind of scurrilous stuff do people say at Broadway?”

“Okay. There are four guys. And two of them are having this talk. The other two never interceded in it. The one guy is saying, ‘I mean, these days I just can’t piss in the urinal. It’s got to be the toilet booth. I’ve gotta be out of view even when I piss.’

“And the other guy in this talk is saying, ‘Why? Why can’t you just piss in the urinal? What are you bein’ so afraid of?’ And he says, ‘It’s the gays.’ He starts talking about how he’s afraid of the gay agenda. He doesn’t use that exact language, but you know. ‘They’re all over the place nowadays.’ Pathetic. Like gay people didn’t exist before they wanted equal rights. So this guy is saying, ‘I can’t pee with some gay guy fresh outta jail checking out my junk, man.’ And the others are laughing like filthy hyenas.

“So the first guy, he’s the opponent here. You might expect some reasoning out of him? No. No, he says, ‘Let the gays do whatever, man. It’s not like you gotta give them all a golden shower, bro.’” Archie’s imitation voice reached a crescendo of simpery-ness. “I certainly hope such men don’t think of me as their bro. I can assure you, bro- I am not.

“I mean, never mind the nerve of assuming that because a gay guy happens to need to use the bathroom at the same time as you, that must mean that he’s going to check you out. Never mind that. Oh no, we can go a step more outrageous to try and justify our unhealthy fear of being near the bodies of other human beings. There’s no question that sometimes there might be a pervert who happens to be in the men’s room at the same time as you. But that’s so obviously a whole different thing. You can’t use that. What are these men even doing at Broadway? Can they really tell the difference between a Broadway coffee and the acidic caffeinated tap water they serve at Quiktrip?

“So, never mind one outrage against gay men. But now, NOW we’re assuming that all gay men want you to piss all over them? It’s ridiculous. It’s just ridiculous. These men have their heads so far up their asses. Listen, bubba. Nobody wants you to piss on them.”

To see the self-righteous expression on Archie’s face made me lose all self-control. “You’re probably giving them the exact reaction that they’re looking for,” I said laughing.

“No, they weren’t even looking at me. They couldn’t see me, I was just haplessly sitting there trying to enjoy my reading with a good latte. (I’ve gone over to latte because it makes my stomach feel less acidy, even though I know milk only feels less acidy but is actually still bad.)” I certainly wasn’t going to bite on that one. “But, I mean, what hope is there for somebody like that? I mean, somebody so conceited in their chauvinism that they think gay men are just aching to get pee all over them? That’s Germany Third Reich horseshit of an evil color. But the thing is that our society, we totally accept that kind of thing into public dialogue. There’s no hope,” he went off, muttering, inconsolable.

Now, here I still lay, damp and foul smelling. But thankful. A pen and paper were close by, so that I can amuse myself by writing things down. Note to self- try to remember to get a little enough pad so that it fits in my pocket. And I lament. Foolish as I know it may be, I lament Archibald Stein’s pitiful condition. I lament that he somehow can’t see that he should be people’s friend, and not their adversary- to try to reach understanding, instead of clinging to the safe refuge of accusation. What goes wrong in a man’s life, to make him think and act thus? What happens to us along the way?

What happened to us?

 

-From the papers of Cunning Keith

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The Darkest Day

Cunning Keith was killed yesterday when a semi-trailer truck struck his vehicle from the side. He was on US-169 highway, driving home from a 4-month tour that took him to locations across the Midwest. Officials prefer not to reveal what autopsy found in his system, for the usual rational reason of not wanting to contribute to the further glorification of these types of events. It was just some PCP and cannabis. You’re no richer for the knowledge- not only did he constantly boast about “smokin’ some sherm” in his rap music, the driver of the truck was found to be utterly sleep deprived. It could have happened to anyone.

Cunning Keith entered the KC rap scene around 1987. Does this matter? No. It doesn’t matter. Nor does any of Keith’s music matter. Somehow, it’s more pathetic than anything else that it was believed (and not only by Keith himself) that avoiding spelling “Cunning” with a K would make any of this less of a joke. It failed. All of this is a joke.

Keith was a man plagued by unusual bouts of spiritual congestion. His crisis, if it can even be called that, was not a normal one. He did not “become depressed.” He rarely “gave in to anger.” You couldn’t truly say that his day-to-day thought patterns were all that out of the ordinary. As I say, it was, above all else, a type of congestion that afflicted Keith. Imagine your intestine filling up with gas. I admit that this is a biased analogy. Almost all of us 30-year-old men experience this unpleasant buoyant sensation on a daily basis. However, I can think of no better analogy. Now, as your intestines fill up, it does not merely displace the supply of clean air in your innards. It displaces some of the clean air in your soul. For Keith, it was as if a bit of his humanity was being displaced.

What was the cause of this congestion? It’s difficult to say. If Keith had some degree of greater potential, it was well hidden. Like most of us, Keith’s life was fairly inane. He purchased and used drugs. He occasionally convinced some naïve woman to allow him to sexually penetrate her rectum. He made music in an effort to convince others, but mainly himself, that these things made his life more interesting than that of the normal person. They did not. He failed to make his life any more interesting than the norm, and what’s more, after a while it’s doubtful that he was fooling even himself one bit. If you can’t fully accept at this very moment that Keith’s life was not exciting, you can go no further in understanding Keith. And the purpose of learning about Keith is not, in itself, to understand him. This would be pointless. It is the malady, not the man, that’s of interest. I write this not in sadness to commemorate Keith. I write this in rapture, to commemorate a malady well-lived.

Perhaps all of us, or at least most of us, have experienced some part of this malady. Remember picking a long-encrusting scab. Suppose that an ingrown hair lurks in the scab, waiting to be aerated. The skin under your scab is like the spring soil after it rains, before the clouds have fully cleared. It keenly awaits the roasting sunshine. And at the moment of ripeness, when the scab peels with ease. Blessed suppuration. The lymph fluid oozes to the surface in a welcoming ejaculation. Then, an end to the sensations as abrupt as the scabbing process was prolonged. But suppose you were never able to peal the scab. Suppose the hair would stay inside forever, growing in a curly network throughout the inside of your arm. You could attribute that lurking resentment to almost anything. To admit that it was only your scab? Never. But this makes the feeling no less justified. This is the form in which Keith’s emotion would at times manifest itself. What was at the heart of this emotion?

Now, the suggestion that follows is only a speculative musing. The spiders like to lurk in dusty alcoves. At deepest night, the giants are so deep in slumber that they are unmoving in the style of objects. It’s at these times that the spiders come out to roost on the nape of the neck, on the tender region behind the ear. At places like this, the spiders inject venom into the giants. The venom goes into the blood. Some of it passes through the blood-brain barrier to enter the mind and infect the dreams of the sleeping giants. Their dreams take morbid turns. Yet giants still look forward to sleep. Unlike fleas or bedbugs, which disrupt all sleep with their draining of vital energy, a strong giant may shrug off the disruption to dreams such as this. But suppose the spiders of this world confused Keith for one of their giants? Could such a malady be the result?

For weeks, the undefined gas might build up. Keith would go about his routine, leading a life more furtive than cunning. The days grew darker, however, for no apparent reason. And again, there was nothing like melancholia. The notion, presented by some, that there was “a storm brewing under the surface” is uproarious. But there were the subtle, the strangely memory-resistant signs. Friends found Keith harder to talk to, but could not remember him ever being especially easy to talk to. Nor could they ever recall having an especially interesting, or worthwhile, conversation with Keith. The question became- what was the need to talk to Keith anyway? For his part, Keith displayed no signs of neglect when spoken to less often. The displacement steadily increased.

Could it be that Cunning Keith was truly becoming less human?

I hesitate to make a suggestion with such dramatic weight to it. To really judge whether loss of humanity is taking place in a given instance, one should probably consult at least one authority, such as Japanese author Osamu Dazai. I haven’t even devoted all that much study to the matter. Yet when I go over the malady in my head- the displacement, the unease, the resentment, and above all the never-relieved congestion- it becomes impossible for my limited imagination to come up with anything that explains the situation with the same sense of satisfaction. Why this would afflict Keith and not someone else, I can’t imagine. In my mind, on that dark day, a puerile god seated lazily in the dark cosmos was laughing a mischievous, pointless, empty laugh , while farting out nebulae. He rolled the dice, spun the wheel, played the lottery. Keith came up. The gambling god chuckled, “I’ll take this one’s life force for my farts.” Perhaps the outer gods, the true, meaningless gods, drink human souls for their beverages, like crusty old men sipping beers during their dice games. In that case, Keith may have been selected in the style of a connoisseur choosing a pabst for some trivial reason, like nostalgia for college days.

Of course, this describes a draining and not the type of bloating I’ve mentioned. But the key is the sense of some outer intentionality, some fate. What I don’t believe is that Keith brought it upon himself. Not only were his bouts of hedonism both utterly plain, and exaggerated by him in retrospect. His mysterious lose of human habits didn’t have any of the character of this animality that’s taken hold in the United States. There was no true sense of need to shake off a weight, to let go of the burden of human responsibility. What responsibility? The weight was deeper, and more ill-defined. But most tellingly, it was not so much the weight itself, as what was excluded. The old god might have filled the bottle of Keith’s soul with a quantity of drool and spittle equal to the life force he drank from it. Keith became a receptacle of cosmic phlegm. And no sooner had Keith forgotten his unimagined humiliation and moved onward, than the lordly old bastard put another swig to his ever-drooling, amoral grin.

So went the life of Cunning Keith, wizard on the KC hip hop scene. And he died, like all the rest of us. But please don’t think I hold any ill feelings towards Keith. What I’ve said negative about him could apply to almost anybody, and most of it could apply to me. Our lives go by, like shadows on water, like farts on the breeze, and we don’t grasp a merest fraction of our awesome human potential. Within those dismal chains of events, often there lurks a sign of things incredible, wondrous and hard-to-reach. Who among us can tell what stuff humanity is made of? Who has the wisdom to know what afflicted Cunning Keith?

-Kansas City, Missouri, April 4, 2014

 

 

 

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Sax Offender

Follow That Camel Sunny Honey Make a Splash Odd land sketch DSC00850haus

Respect your Sunny Honey.

Give him lots of heed.

Because you might be able to use his guidance,

In your time of need.

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Don’t do anything yet.

Butterfly Female Figure Mahakala sketch

I can’t recommend doing anything until you’ve been given more information.

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