It all starts with candy cigarettes.
It's a slippery slope from there.
And then the morgue.
The final outpost for ruminations and self-indulgence. Art, Film, Commentary, Personal Works, Photos, etc.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
The Grass Picker
OK, so I've told maybe a couple "big fish" stories on Bloggy-Blog. However, when I choose to embellish, I only do it so that I can drive home my anti-drug message to the kids who look up to me as a role model. So while the following tale may sound like some kinda' fake yarn, it ain't. What's more, you have my permission to smoke yer "H" and shoot up yer "reefer", just to prove that I have no ulterior motives.
When I was about 7 (that's five fingers + two), I found myself inducted into a spontaneous rain-making ritual on the front lawn of my parent's house. It was a summer afternoon and my brother, plus about three neighborhood kids, and I were sitting out on the grass. We'd hauled out a big zig-zag patterned multicolored quilt, which in our household we always referred to as the "Indian blanket". Our lawn was on an incline, so my brother sat at the top of this small hill wrapped in the Indian blanket.
Of course, he with zig-zag blanket is the de-facto Chief.
The Chief sat in a noble cross-legged position, while other kids engaged in specialized tasks which would complete the ceremony being improvised. One kid would make arm waving motions; another would be doing some kind of retarded "ooga-booga" chant. Meanwhile, I was dubbed: "the grass picker". So I proceeded to furiously uproot grass by the fistful and toss it into the air. Once all this got going, we worked up a good head of steam --as a bunch of dumb white kids sitting around chanting, breast beating, and grass picking are wont to do.
Then it began to rain. This is true. It was a very freaky rain at that. Not a heavily-clouded sky, just wisps. Of course, when it came down, we responded like drunken monkeys. In all, it lasted about 15 minutes, then we all went home to watch Gomer Pyle or whatever.
We laughed about it but the whole rain ritual felt normal and plausible at the time. I think we tried experimenting with levitation soon after.
So isn't that just the most gosh-darned charming little childhood story? I have plenty of other kiddie stories full of menace and danger to kick the ass of that one. Like the local improvised "Spook House" which featured a neighbor kid (or more aptly: "spook house cast member") who'd pee on guests as they groped their way through the dark in true horror ...or the day we made a bomb out of a hollowed-out croquet ball stuffed full of gunpowder culled from hundreds of firecrackers. Yes, it's all about having idle hands -or no hands in the case of the croquet ball bomb- just like the impetus for this blog.
a childhood idol at work
blogs need photos. this was the best i could do.
When I was about 7 (that's five fingers + two), I found myself inducted into a spontaneous rain-making ritual on the front lawn of my parent's house. It was a summer afternoon and my brother, plus about three neighborhood kids, and I were sitting out on the grass. We'd hauled out a big zig-zag patterned multicolored quilt, which in our household we always referred to as the "Indian blanket". Our lawn was on an incline, so my brother sat at the top of this small hill wrapped in the Indian blanket.
Of course, he with zig-zag blanket is the de-facto Chief.
The Chief sat in a noble cross-legged position, while other kids engaged in specialized tasks which would complete the ceremony being improvised. One kid would make arm waving motions; another would be doing some kind of retarded "ooga-booga" chant. Meanwhile, I was dubbed: "the grass picker". So I proceeded to furiously uproot grass by the fistful and toss it into the air. Once all this got going, we worked up a good head of steam --as a bunch of dumb white kids sitting around chanting, breast beating, and grass picking are wont to do.
Then it began to rain. This is true. It was a very freaky rain at that. Not a heavily-clouded sky, just wisps. Of course, when it came down, we responded like drunken monkeys. In all, it lasted about 15 minutes, then we all went home to watch Gomer Pyle or whatever.
We laughed about it but the whole rain ritual felt normal and plausible at the time. I think we tried experimenting with levitation soon after.
So isn't that just the most gosh-darned charming little childhood story? I have plenty of other kiddie stories full of menace and danger to kick the ass of that one. Like the local improvised "Spook House" which featured a neighbor kid (or more aptly: "spook house cast member") who'd pee on guests as they groped their way through the dark in true horror ...or the day we made a bomb out of a hollowed-out croquet ball stuffed full of gunpowder culled from hundreds of firecrackers. Yes, it's all about having idle hands -or no hands in the case of the croquet ball bomb- just like the impetus for this blog.
a childhood idol at workblogs need photos. this was the best i could do.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Rant-A-Log
Sometimes things happen which remind me of how grateful I am not to be from this planet. Before I proceed, I need to warn you that this is one of those "what's THAT all about?" life's-observation rants. If you've had enough of these, then I completely understand. I certainly don't want my readers to be sitting around in their senior years, looking back and thinking, "gee I really should have spent my time being charitable to my fellow man and less time reading Geritopia rants". But how I digress...
There's this Mexican food joint called Poquito Mas, which is a fairly decent chain in its own category of take-out. However, something clearly activates the reptilian part of the human brain that's responsible for conquering and plundering of the customer occupying the salsa bar. A customer might be carrying the most insignificant tray of an al a carte taco or even a single greasy chip they found on the floor. It doesn't matter. Anyone under the salsa bar spell must absolutely stake their claim, scoring every last variety and color in the most annoying persnickety manner. If there are 12 individual salsas then 12 must be had, as everyone waiting in line is held in thrall. You'd think that something of the utmost gravity was taking place, like the transport of radioactive isotopes. If provoked by competition, folks at the salsa bar will physically expand like blow fish to ward off other predators while they work the little dispensing spoons and plastic containers. And they breathe really hard with saliva flapping between their teeth. "Oh yeah, gotta have this one, and this one, can't miss out on this one!!! They're free and they're mine!!! Fuck'y'all!!!"
So what's that all about?!!! And why are tortilla chips triangular? 'Must be something to do with the Trilateral Commission. Just what is a "chip". Can you gamble with 'em? Can you eat a poker chip? Where do they come from? A bag? What's that anyway? Do bags come in bags?
There's this Mexican food joint called Poquito Mas, which is a fairly decent chain in its own category of take-out. However, something clearly activates the reptilian part of the human brain that's responsible for conquering and plundering of the customer occupying the salsa bar. A customer might be carrying the most insignificant tray of an al a carte taco or even a single greasy chip they found on the floor. It doesn't matter. Anyone under the salsa bar spell must absolutely stake their claim, scoring every last variety and color in the most annoying persnickety manner. If there are 12 individual salsas then 12 must be had, as everyone waiting in line is held in thrall. You'd think that something of the utmost gravity was taking place, like the transport of radioactive isotopes. If provoked by competition, folks at the salsa bar will physically expand like blow fish to ward off other predators while they work the little dispensing spoons and plastic containers. And they breathe really hard with saliva flapping between their teeth. "Oh yeah, gotta have this one, and this one, can't miss out on this one!!! They're free and they're mine!!! Fuck'y'all!!!"
So what's that all about?!!! And why are tortilla chips triangular? 'Must be something to do with the Trilateral Commission. Just what is a "chip". Can you gamble with 'em? Can you eat a poker chip? Where do they come from? A bag? What's that anyway? Do bags come in bags?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Running On Fumes
Well, here I am again. There's been a big lapse since my last posting. I've been to the mountain top and I've seen the light. The light turned out to be a flaming goat. Poor feller was hit by lightning. I descended the mountain with my ignorance and lack of wisdom intact.
Truth is that I've been on a hunger-strike in protest of the low readership of my blog. I was hoping to catapult myself into the national spotlight by eating only the tears streaming down my face. The problem is that I forgot to tell anybody that I was protesting and now, alas, I am dead. The good news I can still post remotely via my BlackBerry. Hell is full of BlackBerries.
It would have been much better had I over-eaten myself to death. Then at least I'd have my 15 minutes on the Jerry Springer Show. I could just see myself plopping down on the stage and rolling bodily into the audience like a human bowling ball. Then I might have been somebody! I could have been a contender!
Can you hear the crickets chirping?
geritopia supports nat'l Cotton Mouth week.
please give generously
Truth is that I've been on a hunger-strike in protest of the low readership of my blog. I was hoping to catapult myself into the national spotlight by eating only the tears streaming down my face. The problem is that I forgot to tell anybody that I was protesting and now, alas, I am dead. The good news I can still post remotely via my BlackBerry. Hell is full of BlackBerries.
It would have been much better had I over-eaten myself to death. Then at least I'd have my 15 minutes on the Jerry Springer Show. I could just see myself plopping down on the stage and rolling bodily into the audience like a human bowling ball. Then I might have been somebody! I could have been a contender!
Can you hear the crickets chirping?
___________________________________
geritopia supports nat'l Cotton Mouth week.please give generously
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Jet-Lagged, Bothered & Bewildebeest
I'm up early today. No telling what bleary-eyed lack of self-censoring might lead to. Yawn. --which reminds me, I've always wanted to write a song entitled, "'Cant Stop Yawning Over You".
My assignment this a.m. : Entertainment News Graphics. As long as I'm here, I can give you heads-up on the latest tinseltown news flashes. That is, if anyone gives a flying crap. I've got the edge, because I can do this live.
This just in: Leif Garrett, 70s puppy love idol, is in jail for drugs. On that note, I missed my Mother Superior connection, thanks to him. Thanks for blowing my cover, Leif! I'm just no good without my morning syringe-full. If there's any more late-breaking celebrity news, I'll be sure to scoop it here.
My life pattern for the last week has been work, followed by coming back home and sleeping. Work followed by sleep. Work-sleep. Work-sleep. Worsleep. Wrslp. Wsp. Wp...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Joey Polanski, whom I've never sent a cent of payola, for keeping this blog the vibrant community that it is. When Geritopia goes brick-and-mortar, there's going to be a golden cornerstone with his name stamped on it as honorary patron saint, or something like that. I fear that Joey is actually my Mom in pseudonym, just helping behind-the-scenes in this, my latest dubious endevour. Then again, the thought of a person named "Joey" having nursed me in infancy, does make me squirm just a bit.
Good Morning and Good Luck.
My assignment this a.m. : Entertainment News Graphics. As long as I'm here, I can give you heads-up on the latest tinseltown news flashes. That is, if anyone gives a flying crap. I've got the edge, because I can do this live.
This just in: Leif Garrett, 70s puppy love idol, is in jail for drugs. On that note, I missed my Mother Superior connection, thanks to him. Thanks for blowing my cover, Leif! I'm just no good without my morning syringe-full. If there's any more late-breaking celebrity news, I'll be sure to scoop it here.
My life pattern for the last week has been work, followed by coming back home and sleeping. Work followed by sleep. Work-sleep. Work-sleep. Worsleep. Wrslp. Wsp. Wp...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Joey Polanski, whom I've never sent a cent of payola, for keeping this blog the vibrant community that it is. When Geritopia goes brick-and-mortar, there's going to be a golden cornerstone with his name stamped on it as honorary patron saint, or something like that. I fear that Joey is actually my Mom in pseudonym, just helping behind-the-scenes in this, my latest dubious endevour. Then again, the thought of a person named "Joey" having nursed me in infancy, does make me squirm just a bit.
Good Morning and Good Luck.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Geek's Delight
I can't express the joys of Altavista's Bable Fish translator. You just have to experience it for yourself. Indeed, having it at my disposal has saved my life. There might have been nights where I would have been out running across lanes of the San Diego freeway... but instead, I stayed at home inputting text into Bablefish's translator. The "fun" part is taking the resultant foreign translation and then cramming it back into the translator and out pops the most mangled (and often inspired) English you ever read. It's also a good brain-storming device for composing song lyrics and ransom letters too.
Here's 70s pop-classic Afternoon Delight translated into French, then back into English:
"Energy to find my baby, energy to hold his tight outward journey to seize a certain pleasure of afternoon. My always étée currency; when it is exact, it is exact. Why makes an attempt until the one night old middle dark cold. When very a little clairifiant in the light of day. And you know that the night always will be there any manner. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Thinkin ' of you workin ' to the top of my appetite awaiting with interest a small pleasure of afternoon. Rubbin ' sticks and lapidates makes together the ingite sparks and the thought of the rubbin ' which becomes to you so enthralling. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Started out of this feeling I so polished of morning always although a fish could not be fished which would not bite but you have starter a waitin ' and I think that I could try to nibble a small pleasure of afternoon. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Please await me baby when I come around. We could make much lovin ' ' for the sun goes down. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon."
Here's 70s pop-classic Afternoon Delight translated into French, then back into English:
"Energy to find my baby, energy to hold his tight outward journey to seize a certain pleasure of afternoon. My always étée currency; when it is exact, it is exact. Why makes an attempt until the one night old middle dark cold. When very a little clairifiant in the light of day. And you know that the night always will be there any manner. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Thinkin ' of you workin ' to the top of my appetite awaiting with interest a small pleasure of afternoon. Rubbin ' sticks and lapidates makes together the ingite sparks and the thought of the rubbin ' which becomes to you so enthralling. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Started out of this feeling I so polished of morning always although a fish could not be fished which would not bite but you have starter a waitin ' and I think that I could try to nibble a small pleasure of afternoon. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Please await me baby when I come around. We could make much lovin ' ' for the sun goes down. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon."
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The Deconstruction of the Sergeant Carter Mythology and its Archetypal Reflection of Contemporary Political Struggles and Whatever
I'd like to propose that Sergeant Vince Carter, played by Frank Sutton on the "Gomer Pyle USMC" 60s TV show, was the most awesome tragic figure of the 20th Century. Am I nuts? Certainly. But it's clear that the Sgt. Carter character was a haunted man, full of rage and deep insecurities. One must simply reconsider what lies beyond the goof-ball trappings of the "Pyle" series and you'll find commentary on the dark underbelly of a culture in the thick of denial. By utilizing the literary tools of irony, metaphor, and archetypal projection, the show is as trenchant as any of Shakespeare's works, once unraveled.
Shazam!
Sergeant Carter did everything by the book. However, where
Gomer was concerned, resultant clumsy antics cancelled out Vince's desire for validation as military potentate. Everything that he asked of Gomer would backfire, while Gomer's classical "holy fool" innocence would push Carter to his wits end and eventual impotence (thus reflecting the diluting effect of passive resistance on traditional power structures, borrowed from Mahatma Ghandi and utilized as a common form of civil disobedience during the 60s). At the end of the day, Sergeant Carter would go off and drink a whole bottle of bourbon and become abusive to his girlfriend Bunny. Bunny symbolized fertility, as bunnies will, and Vince's sexual collapse meant the discontinuity of future progeny to his paternal order. He was a man living the demise of a chapter of assumed authority; a specialist made obsolete.
carter with his bunny:
uneasy smiles before the descent into hell
_________________________
Geritopia's List of Top Tragic Figures:
Ruth Buzzy
Sergeant Carter
Sisyphus
Gary Coleman
Captain Huffenpuff (aka: "Uncle Captain")
Fred Mertz
William Demarest
Clint Howard
Shemp Howard
Anyone who makes a top-ten list of names
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Meditations on Cartoon Footwear
Intrepid commenter Joey Polanski writes:
"This guys shoes dont match. Dont ask me how I no. I jus do."
I sincerely hope this ends all the sleepless nights
This Blog's for you Joey
This Blog's for you Joey
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Friday, January 06, 2006
Zippity-Doo-Doo
I made this last night after learning that one of my clients won't be hiring freelancers any more. Tell me Doc, what does it mean?
Thursday, January 05, 2006
No Time To Blog
Lindsay Lohan.
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Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Fine, How Was Yours?
Today's Log:Ate pancakes.
Watched TV.
Each sitcom without fail, hilarious.
Each commercial, a college education.
Then I sneezed.
Should a sneeze be so satisfying?
Does this happen to "regular" people?
Or was it a cheat?
A recreational sneeze, without any redeeming social value.
Made me tingle.
Wanted to cherish it always.
Tried to catch it mid-flight so I could bronze it.
But this convulsive glimpse of heaven was only ephemeral.
Another spider's web of carnality.
Went back to the TV.
Must forget, must move on. Must save planet.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Upcoming Events & Previews for 2006!
This year Bloggy-Blog is expanding its staff (if you catch my meaning) in anticipation of a volcanic eruption of sensory stimuli (if you get my drift). Don't you worry, we've still got a big haul of creepy found photos to trot out whenever there's nothing new to say & the traditional array of junk-drawer digital renderings and doodles. All that, along with the full-blown Best-Tasting Shampoo Contest and the June Taylor Dancers (nobody but the infirmed will get that last reference)!
I'll have new stories of relative success in putting together collaborative "video art" installations in the LA gallery scene. I'll have frame-grabs from my rare documentary about a Torrance lounge lizard act and a fantasy film about a baby spiraling down the bathtub drainpipe and encountering a haunted land of jackals and dancing shoes. I'll be taking more swipes at Hollywood and I'll be fired when the people at my work read about it. Then I'll win the lottery, even though I hate the lottery, and I'll inherit crates of toenail clippings and vats of urine from the late Howard Hughes' Estate. AND so much more!
"i promise to do my duty, to obey the law of the pack..."
(anonymous thrift store art from the Geritopia collection)
I'll have new stories of relative success in putting together collaborative "video art" installations in the LA gallery scene. I'll have frame-grabs from my rare documentary about a Torrance lounge lizard act and a fantasy film about a baby spiraling down the bathtub drainpipe and encountering a haunted land of jackals and dancing shoes. I'll be taking more swipes at Hollywood and I'll be fired when the people at my work read about it. Then I'll win the lottery, even though I hate the lottery, and I'll inherit crates of toenail clippings and vats of urine from the late Howard Hughes' Estate. AND so much more!
"i promise to do my duty, to obey the law of the pack..." (anonymous thrift store art from the Geritopia collection)
Stay Tuned!
Monday, January 02, 2006
The Shinola Factor
I'm contractually bound to provide self-indulgence here at Ye Ol' Bloggy-Blog, so today I intend to deliver.
paid advertisement
A couple of years ago I did a wee little art show called "Shinola", which was presented at a storefront gallery/hair salon in San Pedro. It was the promise of a good scalp massage and trim that brought the people in droves --gotta have a gimmick. The idea was to re-produced a selection of my best found photos into enlarged (16"x20") silk screen prints. I prepped some of the prints with an underpainting wash with the screen-printed image on top.
the hi-tech screen burning laboratory
____________________________________________________
And the results :
(click any image for large version)
__________________
the originals:
the absolute best orig.
__________________
paid advertisementA couple of years ago I did a wee little art show called "Shinola", which was presented at a storefront gallery/hair salon in San Pedro. It was the promise of a good scalp massage and trim that brought the people in droves --gotta have a gimmick. The idea was to re-produced a selection of my best found photos into enlarged (16"x20") silk screen prints. I prepped some of the prints with an underpainting wash with the screen-printed image on top.
the hi-tech screen burning laboratory____________________________________________________
And the results :
(click any image for large version)
__________________the originals:
the absolute best orig.__________________
Lessons learned: The Shinola show wasn't exactly a huge success, although it didn't stem the tide of business for the salons' daily grind of perms, dyes, and hair extensions. At the opening, a pearl-necklaced art matron asked me, "why would anybody want to put a picture of you and your girlfriend up on their living room wall?". She was referring to the image of the guy grabbing the woman's ass (above). That snipe alone made Shinola a minor artistic triumph. In retrospect, I'm surprised that there were no riots.
I really didn't know jack about screen printing and I taught myself as I went along. [Don't use the water-based ink, like I did --use oil-based] The bigger issue was that the original found photos are so outstanding that it was like a sacrilege to mess with 'em. The analogy would be Ted Turner colorizing Citizen Kane. The screened images DO look better than they've reproduced here and they're OK, but still.
Nothing sold but I gave a few prints away for love purposes.
I really didn't know jack about screen printing and I taught myself as I went along. [Don't use the water-based ink, like I did --use oil-based] The bigger issue was that the original found photos are so outstanding that it was like a sacrilege to mess with 'em. The analogy would be Ted Turner colorizing Citizen Kane. The screened images DO look better than they've reproduced here and they're OK, but still.
Nothing sold but I gave a few prints away for love purposes.
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