Anyone Feeling Helpless?

Being an artist living through rough economic times is an odd place to find one’s self.  Artists simultaneous occupy the pit and pinnacle of the social pecking order.  Great pillared halls world ’round have been erected to house artworks created by people who’ve died in poverty or chopped-off a spare ear in anguish and despair.  Personally I have no appetite for starvation or self-mutilation – who in their right mind does?  But getting by on-a-dime goes with the territory.  The only reason I’m not a “starving” artist is because poor people’s food is fattening.  Otherwise I’d have wasted away to nothing ages ago.  Basic needs are relative to how each individual feels toward their own criteria for creature-comforts.  Artists are obstinate – and anyone who’s survived a length of time supporting themselves as an artist doesn’t have the luxury of costly indulgence – only the appearance and trappings of it.  All artist have a certain personal style – but I don’t ask for much from life aside from the privilege of living indoors, producing my art and having food in my belly with my dog by my side. Winnie often shares my meals.

It’s not easy these days trying to live within your means in a world where the survival-bar is continually raised unfairly.  Everyone secretly wants to be rich or at least more comfortable.  I’d be a hypocrite if I said I disliked the rich – I don’t – in fact some of the wealthy I know are among the finest people I’ve met.  It’s the greedy I despise – the people who hoard money without realizing they’re no better than cat-hoarders.  You know who I’m talking about – the people who take without giving back.  Having a wealthy class is necessary – what’s not necessary is the growing disparity between the two social extremes demonstrated by the disappearance of the American middle class.  The middle class (may we remind the monetary hoarder) serve as the buffer-zone between the aristocracy and the guillotine.  History bears me out.

The other morning I took Winnie for her AM walk to Washington Square Park as I’ve done so for close to 30 years over the life-span of 4 different dogs.  I make this sleepy hermitage to clean-up after my animals in the historic, pristine park caddy-corner to Independence Hall.  I usually look a ‘fright’ during early morning dog walks.  All day long I work with messy art-supplies, so I try to keep what few good clothes I have neat and clean.  I wear ruined cut-offs and Jackson Pollock-spattered T-shirts when I paint or merely bang around the house.  Most mornings I throw-on my sloppy paint clothes to avoid leaving the house naked – purely for the purpose of walking the dog before showering and deciding what to wear for the day.  I left the house one morning last week, looking totally groady, smeared with a spectrum of pigments and my hair sticking-up like I’d slept on the floor.  When I wear this ensemble around town, suburbanite motorists lock their car doors and roll-up the windows.  It makes me chuckle every time.

When I take Winnie through Washington Square Park, I’m acutely conscious of the importance that historic site holds as a Revolutionary War battlefield and cemetery.  In Philadelphia, it’s considered sacred ground under which 3500 dead are buried, including run-away slaves, John Doe’s, yellow fever victims, farm animals and Revolutionary War soldiers.  Patriots are buried standing-up and Hessian mercenaries are buried with their heads pointing-down toward toward the devil.

Here I was enjoying our morning constitutional to to Washington Square Park looking like hell and dragging a bag of dog-poop, when my cell-phone alerted me of an incoming text.  I stopped and sat on one of the park benches to read the text in the shade.  You know how LCD screens are impossible to see in bright, glaring light…  Out of nowhere, the buckram-hatted National Park guards descended on me en-force.  “Move it along fella – Move it along,”  interrupting me from reading my text.  “All the homeless have to leave the park before the tourists arrive” a ranger barked at me puffed-up by his own authority.   All I could do was glare at him…  I’d just been been damned, pigeonholed and condemned based entirely on my appearance.  I continued to sit there stunned and slack-jawed.  All the homeless have cellphones, and some have dogs too, so I was in no way immune to being marginalized at first sight.

I don’t know what made me stammer out the following comment, but I said, “I’m an accomplished artist.”  To which the park guard said, “Sure you are fella, sure you are – now move it along…”

Sheepishly I moved “it” along.  

“It” didn’t matter that I’ve had art published in Architectural Digest, a profile in the New York Times Home Section – nor how I’d been featured on the TODAY Show and profiled on HGTV.  I’ve published an illustrated children’s book and I have art in notable collections and some lessor museums.  But in the eyes of the over-grown ‘high-school-hall-monitors’ who’d landed cushy Federal Park Service jobs, Winnie and I were no better than the other unfortunates struggling for shelter and food while 2% of the nation blithely buy $15,000 pairs of shoes by the dozen.  I was mistaken for one of the growing cast of sorrowful characters who grovel through trashcans looking for something they can choke-back for breakfast.  Truth to tell, some of them don’t seem so different from me, and many appear to be very new to their circumstances.  I don’t feel better than them – only luckier – at least for the moment…

I walked home, showered-off my embarrassment and reassured myself it’s really the Wall Street’s shame and embarrassment, not mine.  It’s the legacy of moguls too selfish or obtuse to grasp the full significance of how their greed has brought about the diminished state of our nation.  When people live insulated and exposed only to others who’re as comfortable as themselves, they loose focus about the world of struggle all around them.  Perhaps they don’t care so long as they’ve got theirs and a way to steal mine – there’s no economic downturn…  What economic downturn…?  The greedy don’t notice anything out of place.  Nor did Doctor Joseph Ignace Guillotin when he invented the device that bears his name and by which he later perished.

I think I’ll fix myself a cocktail and join Duck at the Betty Page Clinic searching for a cure for sobriety.  Apparently some of us are put on earth to be poor.

Say Good Night Irene

As much as I love the beach, I’ve never liked the drive there and back.  I relax at the beach, but by the time I’ve dealt with ‘shore-traffic’ on the way home, my nerves are shot and all my relaxation has evaporated.  

I have friends driving back from the Jersey Shore even as I write this, and people are worried sick about their beach homes and businesses while Hurricane Irene bears-down on the eastern seaboard.  Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley have been spared most of the major recent weather calamities – a couple charming 36″ snow storms perhaps – but Irene is roughly the size of the continent of Europe.  We haven’t seen anything like this since Hurricane Hazel destroyed Philadelphia’s historic Horticultural Hall built during the Centennial of 1876.  Granted, it wasn’t destroyed until 1954 when I was small child, but still…  We east-coasters are spoiled and unpaired for disasters that only happen on TV in other places.  We send money to those calamities and feel terrible about them, but somehow it isn’t quite real to us – it’s the sort of thing that only happens on TV as much as we might empathize.

Look at our reaction to the great earthquake of 2011:

My most vivid adult recollection of a REAL storm was Hurricane Bob on Fire Island in 1991 when I woke-up with the mother of all hangovers, blinded when I opened the shades only to see plastic lawn furniture sailing past the windows.  I was staying with my old drinking ‘n whoring-buddy, Joe Bowman – and our reaction was to make Coco Chanel rain-suits out of garbage bags and hand-out pitchers of Margareta’s to other drunks who’d slept through last call – even after the National Park Service and the police had long since evacuated  the island. 

Our transistor radio told us the “eye” of Hurricane Bob was going to pass right over Fire Island.  Not endearing news, as Joe and I were staying only one boardwalk-in from the boat-slip.  No pun intended, but the last ferry had left the dock…

We were all facing death like brave queens and lesbians – OK, only the lesbians were brave – but Joe and I put flowers behind our ears to accessorize our Chanel garbage bags, and walked in high winds from house to house dispensing brunch cocktails to the doomed.

I had my little dog Buddy with me at the time, and animals sense things.  Buddy trembled all day before the storm.  Not knowing what was wrong with him, I gave him a doggie-downer the vet had prescribed for long drives.  Poor li’l Buddy was stoned.  

So was everyone else. 

Facing death square in the jaw, we all walked to the beach and watched the rain-curtain while lightening struck the water.  All the blender drinks were gone, when I slurred to Joe, “I could sure use a cocktail righ’ now…” – just then an extra large unopened can of Budweiser hit me in the shin as a wave broke on the beach.  We laughed, up until we realized little Buddy was sinking in the sand in a Xanax haze, when suddenly I was hit with a bar-stool.

We giggled and swapped sips of the Budweiser taking turns holding Buddy and sitting on the stool, which was also sinking into the sand.

The storm only ‘glanced’ Fire Island.  Instead veering-off into the other ‘Gay Mecca” Provincetown, caught right in the cross-hairs of the storm.  The collective Massachusetts queen’s response to that disaster was to place mannequin legs wearing black and white striped stocking and ruby-red slippers under the base of a cottage knocked off it’s foundation.

Take THAT Pat Robertson – we’re a resilient people…!!!  It’s YOU who’ve fallen out of favor with the Gods.


I’d Rather be Waterboarded

I’ve never cared for Condoleezza Rice. Nor am I quick to jump to the woman’s defense, but there are limits… Condi is takin’ it from both ends today. First Dick Cheney has her weeping in his presence like a house-slave who stole food from the kitchen, followed by the revelations that Moammar Gaddifi kept an album of photos of her in his bedroom.

That’s a lot for a girl to take-in.

Cheney is hawking his distorted “memoirs” hitting shelves next week, while Gaddifi is hitting the ground in duck ‘n cover, pining for the feisty, spitfire of his dreams. (I’m gonna to be sick…) What do these two disparate events have in common you ask? A boner for Condoleezza, which is enough to run anyone’s blood cold.

Who knew what a Mata Hari Condoleezza was? I can only speculate her fascination for attracting the wrong kind of man has something to do with the space between her teeth. It worked for Lauren Hutton.  That said, the only things more skeevy about today’s developments, are Cheney’s unrepentant worldview, and Moammar’s gilded mermaid-shaped sofas carved with the likenesses of his own daughters faces.

Quick Condi – run – RUN to the piano and play Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 op.23 in G minor, and put some extra gusto in it girl – you’ve had a ROUGH day.

The World of Fashion Mourns the Fall of Moammar Gadhifi

NOTE: According to Wikipedia, here are no less than seven accepted spellings of Momar Kadgaffi – all are wrong.

The world of fashion is mourning the fall of
Moamar Gadhifi. Stylish to the very end,
Moammar is reportedly wearing Balenciaga from
head to toe and carrying a smart handbag by Kate
Spade – this according Vogue editor, Anna Wintour 

who herself used to “winter” at the Gadhifi
Compound enjoying celebrity performances by the
likes of Beyonce and Piriah Carey and savoring
beautifully prepared delicacies such as ‘peasant
under glass’.

Even now as bombs and grenades are both
showering to and from the Rubiat of Moamar’s
compound, he’s found the time to change hats and 

accessories. His new hat is made entirely from crow
feathers, and he’s expected to eat it within 24 hours. 
The chapeau, a Valentino creation, is specifically
designed for special occasions such as lynchings in
public squares. Even as I’m writing this, Colonel
Gadhifi has changed into a very ‘Brave” Betsy
Johnson couture sundress with matching shawl and 
a complimentary AK47.

After the Libyan leader’s ritual execution and 

dismemberment have been completed – following 
a proper half hour observation of mourning – designer
Christian Lacroix will be rushing a new line of
Gadhifi-inspired fashions just in time for his New York, 
Milan and Paris trunk shows.

Dissociated Press – 8/22/11

Rumors of Moamar Duckdaffi’s demise have been vastly exaggerated.

Mitt Romney Sure Does Have Nice Hair.

Mitt Romney is the candidate who’s idea of being “folksy” is admitting he used to lash a cage containing the family dog to the roof of his car when he and his huge Mormon brood went on desert vacations.  He says the dog loved it.  The dog can’t speak for himself, but I suspect the charm wore thin after the first block or two.  The poor thing was probably terrified.  Is this what Romney’s leadership would have in store for the American people?  Watch for those low-flying over-passes.  They say you can judge a man by the way he treats his dog, and I’m sure as hell not interested in becoming Mitt Romney’s bitch.
Mitt’s illustrious “business” career that he forever alludes to in stump-speeches was with Bain Capital.  Bain Capital’s business was leveraging other companies into the red, then selling their assets and shipping the jobs overseas.  If this is Romney’s “fix” for the economy, then he’s a little late to the table – that disastrous philosophy is precisely what got the middle-class into our current financial pickle.
Now Romney wants us to believe that corporations are PEOPLE…  Great, let’s elect President Exxon Mobile to lead the country coughing and hacking into a greater future of pollution and prosperity – or maybe President Fox News with Rupert Murdock, Grover Norquist and the Koch brothers deciding our fate and pulling the strings…
Yes, people work for corporations, but corporations are NOT people, whatever misguided decisions were handed down by the Roberts Supreme Court.  Corporations don’t have a great track record for putting the greater good ahead of the bottom-line.  This is a scary world where voters are desperate, lacking patience for anything except quick fixes when long, painful measures are the only tried and true solution.  Painful measures like ending the Bush era tax breaks for the top 2% wealthiest in our nation AND ending tax loop-holes for corporations.
The misleadingly titled “Citizen United” Supreme Court decision has nothing whatsoever to do with uniting citizens, and everything to do with giving corporations carte blanche to run amok with mystery-funding for political candidates who will bow to corporate masters to do their bidding.  This doesn’t bode well for the average citizens like those in New Jersey who thoughtlessly pulled levers for stuffed-suit candidates like Chris Christie – and then wonder why everything is far worse than it was under Governor Corzine.
If corporations are people, then let them answer for the un-American and financial crimes they’ve perpetrated against United States citizens.  If citizens tried to get away with what corporations do, I can guarantee that person would be in prison.  

Ask corporate America: Where are the jobs?  Where is the money?  And why are most vulnerable among us the only ones being asked to sacrifice?  Citizens are people too.  Corporations are not.  Nor by any stretch of the imagination are corporations individuals – they’re more like a heaping helping of Soilent Green, with a side of greenbacks.  But Mitt sure does have nice hair, doesn’t he?

How to Humiliate a Childish Billionare

How to humiliate a childish billionare?  Well it ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.  Providing one has more humility than hubris.  Mark Zuckerberg is a young man who has succeeded in life far beyond the scope of his own maturity.  Never mind the strong evidence that he stole the Facebook concept in the first place.  Who gives anyone $65,000,000 to any false-accuser to make them go away?  A thief who knows he’s guilty, that’s who. 

As an animal advocate, I have come to rely on Facebook to cross-post information about lost pets.  It has simply been the best tool available to reach people in particular communities where lost pets are located.  I produce, at no cost, printable online fliers to help-out frantic pet owners.  I post these in an album on my Facebook page and copy the links to networking pages specifically designed for the purpose of doing this.

Many’s the time I’d rather be doing something else other than cranking out countless fliers for missing dogs and cats, but I believe in what I aspire to do.  And I have a 50% success rate with the dogs, which is pretty good.  Cats seem harder to locate, but I find them too – through SOCIAL NETWORKING.  I lost a dog once under very traumatic circumstances, and that loss will always be with me.  So imagine my surprise when Facebook imposed a 15 day”time-out” accusing me of spamming.  I charge NOTHING to do what I do.  I do it to help people and their lost pets.  Every time I try to post a missing animal anywhere but on my own page, this is the pop-up I receive:

“As we notified you earlier, this feature is temporarily unavailable because you’ve been making spammy and irrelevant posts on Facebook Pages.”  You know really what’s irrelevant?  A 28 year old mulit-billionare who stole his brain-child from his friends and gives nearly NOTHING to charity during the worst economic downturn in recent living memory.  “Spammy…?!!!”  SPAMMY?  Seriously?  Is that even a real WORD?

Now Zuckerberg has announced he’s only going to eat animals he kills.  Fine, I understand hunting, I just don’t want to do it or hang with the crowd who does.  Releasing that information makes him one WEIRD child with WAY too much money at his disposal.  Since ducks are all too frequently the target of hunters, it seems only appropriate that Duck D. Duck should both do the honors AND eat the little bastard.  Winnie will settle for the bones.  Mark Zuckerberg, while founding the world’s most successful social networking site, is about as “friended” as Casey Anthony.  If only Warren Buffett would have a word with Zuckerberg and snap him to…  Buffet, on the other hand has a soul, where Zuckerberg has all the charm of a bowel obstruction, and the conscience of a clam.

Below are some examples of the current posts I’ve been prevented from sharing on Facebook:

Bachmann + Palin = Malapropisms — Classic Republican Talking Points

Palin is a tried and true idiot, but it’s taken Bachmann to perfect the fine art of only opening her mouth to change feet.  Both women are so unrepentantly misinformed, that they’re tailor-made to connect with their slack-jaw base – the great unwashed who only read Jackie Collins novels (if they read at all) and think JFK was shot during the Civil War.  In other words, POX News zombies who get all their misinformation from delusional liars.  

Yesterday at a rally of her “base” Bachmann wished the late, great King Elvis a happy birthday on the 35th anniversary of the man dropping dead on the toilet.  Smooth, Michele, real smooth.  

It was bad enough when Bachmann confused serial-killing children’s party clown, John Wayne Gacy with classic monotone American actor, John Wayne.  Or when she thought America’s Founding Fathers were committed to abolishing slavery when most of them were troubled, yet unrepentant slave owners. The Elvis gaff made headlines, but in a recent NPR profile about Bachmann – it came out that she sees nothing inconsistent about human slavery, the bible and the American Constitution, citing General Robert E. Lee as having had a lovely relationship with his slaves.  

Really?  Seriously?
Bachmann’s even more gleefully ill-informed than Sarah Palin – both of whom share the same psychic-orangutang slapping his palms over a keypad and throwing feces while gathering vital information about Big Foot.  Palin was under the impression that Paul Revere was somewhere between warning the British and riding on the back of a dinosaur while “ringing them bells and warnin’ those British.”  Chalk it up to aphasia.

I haven’t done acid since college in the late 1960’s but these 2 women seem to me like an acid-flashback whenever I hear them speak.  The difference is, they’re not smoking funny weed.  They’re high on their own identical brand of crazy.  What they hate the most about each other, is the way they can finish each others sentences with the same non-sequester.  Michele and Sarah live in an alternate universe, and it’s time for them to catch the coattails of the next comet bound for Planet Zaznar.  One can only hope Zsa Zas Gabor will be there to greet them as “Queen of Outer Space” and guide them to rapture.  Or is that raptor?  Zsa Zsa should be crossing-over any day now…

In similar yet unrelated news, after republican Texas governor and presidential hopeful, Rick Perry accused Fed-chair, Ben Bernanke of treason – making thinly veiled threats to have the man drawn and quartered down Texass way – such being how they administer “justice and jury” in the Lone Star Hate, (ahem – I mean STATE.)  Even Karl Rove was so alarmed that it appears he’s going to groom doey-eyed Paul Ryan (R) from the troubled state of Wisconsin to run into the 2012 presidential race.  Rove believes Ryan can sweep the 2012 presidential election with his winning strategy of ritual executions of everyone’s grandparents.

- Dissociated Press, 8/17/11

It’s Official – All Neocons SUCK !!!

Ever since ‘Deep Throat’ blew the lid off the Nixon White House in the Watergate scandal, right-wing republicans appear to have developed an oral fixation. They attend ‘Oral’ Roberts University to get bogus law degrees from a Christian perspective. They hate the government, but suck at it’s teat for pork and profit. They want the government out of our lives, unless you’re talking about what normal people choose to do with their own crotches in the privacy of their own homes. Apparently this is meant to “protect our family values.”

Rather than enjoying their crotches and those of other age-appropriate, willing participants, the GOP has turned to deep-fried corn-dogs to scratch that special tickle they all seem to have in the back of their throats. Rick Perry, who was George Dubbuah Bush’s Texas lieutenant governor greatly resembles his former gubernatorial running-mate and boss. There’s no love-loss between the two, but perhaps that’s because they’re the same person. Like Bachmann and Palin. To quote the old Patty Duke Show theme:

“Still, they’re cousins,
Identical cousins and you’ll find,
They laugh alike, they walk alike,
At times they even talk alike –
You can lose your mind,
When cousins are two of a kind.”

So here’s your answer – George Dubbuah Bush and Rick Perry are inbred cousins. So are Bachmann and Palin. Ya’ll know how those trailor-trash folks are…

Perry both looks and sounds like Josh Brolin when he turned-in his performance as Dubbuah in
Oliver Stone’s film “W”. Tom Brokaw said “The primary thing the 3 GOP front-runners have in common is good hair.” How gay is that?  Despite his disdain for the gay life-style, Rick Perry really knows how to go-down on a corn-dog.  Apparently it’s part of the right-wing platform. Perry is quoted as saying: “Republicans would not embrace an endorsement from a homosexual organization.”

Maybe not – but nothing’s stopping them from sending a subliminal message about their oral skills sucking-off the American people.  Not to mention, like Patty Duke, “a hotdog makes them loose control.” 

It’s kinda like an update version of ‘Lady and the Tramp.’

If the image above doesn’t move, right click it to watch them go round ‘n round.  A special thanks to the brilliant mind out there whoever it might be who designed this gif –

Michele Bachmann Demonstrates What She’s Learned at the Bachmann Institute

My goodness, Michele Bachmann was ambitious while she sensually demonstrated what she’s learned at the Bachmann Institute.  Perhaps therein lies the secret to her success…?  Can’t help but wonder if her husband, Marcuth Bachmann makes her dress-up like a little boy when she performs those skills?  

Really nothing more need be said.  No need for further blog commentary.  A picture is worth a thousand words.  But WHEN are right-wing anti-gay neo-cons going to learn that eating phallic foods in public screams photo-op?  Praise be to Jesus they’re all such dim bulbs.  They fall for it every time.  And Michele Bachmann DID, after-all, write the Dim Bulb Energy Inefficiency Act of 2011. 

Duck D. Duck Sweeps the Iowa Straw Poll

Long Island Ice Tea Party candidate, Duck D. Duck stunned her critics by sweeping the Iowa Straw Poll this evening where delegates ate deep-fried butter while denouncing Obama Care.  Guns, God and trailor-trash cuisine were on everyone’s minds as cholesterol clogged the thought-processes of people not known for deep thinking – only for deep frying.

Duck D. Duck’s campaign manager, Winifred P. Jumpingbean expressed concern that “many Iowa voters will not live ’til election day 2012 if they went-on eating deep-fried Snickers Bars wrapped in bacon.”  She went on to say how candidate Duck D. Duck blew the competition out of the water by reminding voters during the debates how Ms Duck had sponsored the “Light Bulb Freedom of Choice Act” while dictating in no uncertain terms what perfect strangers may or may-not do with what they have between their own legs.

Fried foods and inefficient lighting framed the central theme of Duck’s campaign platform, all but eclipsing God Father Pizza CEO, Herman Cain, who managed to give-out only 3 slices of pizza to the largely white crowd – due to their lack of familiarity seeing people of other races handling food outside of the kitchen.

Duck beat-out such formidable opponents as Rick Sanitarium who feels boosted by the 10% vote of no-confidence displayed by straw-pollsters most of whom are even less coherent than himself.  Tim Pawlenty, now millions of dollars in debt, is rethinking his campaign slogan of “Good ‘n Pawlenty.”  Ron Paul packed-up his lack of marbles and went home taking his libertine values with him.

Pundits suspect tomorrow night when Duck D. Duck squares off at an Iowa fund-raiser with anti-American secessionist, Rick Perry – Sarah Palin will mud-wrestle Tanya Harding in a desperate cry for attention.

- Dissociated Press, 8/13/2011