You Talkin' To Me?

I did this a while ago and just found it again. I actually like it as opposed to many of that older crap. It is a classmate's portrait in Amedeo Modigliani's style done with oil pastels on canson paper (he used oil paint, like a real artist). Amazingly it isn't too far from my more recent work.

If You Can Make It Here, You Can Make It Anywhere!

The Agony and the Ecstasy

I am sure glad to be done with this book. Now I can say that I read it, learned some things, and am better than you whom has not read it. I guess I have to see the Charlton Heston movie based on it. I didn't know previous to reading this 1961 Irving Stone novel that they had made a movie on it, especially staring Moses as Michelangelo. Had I known, I would have just rented the movie. Therefore I would have gotten a three-step watered-down history of how Michelangelo actually lived/worked/loved in an age of dynamic change. Who would really want the middle-man story - the novelization, or even the history books full of piddly theory - when you could get Hollywood entertainment!

Irving Stone is the very same dude who wrote Lust For Life: a novel of Vincent Van Gogh and a ton of other biographical novels. His real name is Irving Tennenbaum, no relation to Royal. He did his research for this book. There were some passages where I didn't know if I was reading a novel or a recounting of the streets of Florence, and what churches are on them, and what priest molested what boy behind which statue of whom. Wait a minute! We can't talk about homosexuality! This is the early sixties afterall. The sheen of the fabulous fifties hadn't yet been rubbed off by those sadist hippies who have so corrupted the morals of society. Wasn't it much better when we could pretend that great men and dirty homos were clearly separate entities?

I'm not arguing for a gayed up version of this novel (which was a good page turner, especially with the three, count 'em, torrid romances.), but for at least an acknowledgement that homosexuality did exist and was practiced by people, even perhaps religious and important people. I'm not saying for sure that Michelangelo Buonarroti was gay. I didn't know the guy. Butt for Mr. Stone to completely pass off, and write around this possibly (and generally agreed upon) huge part of Michelangelo's motivations, inspirations, and most likely social life, is disappointing. It is somewhat strange that Stone is so unwilling to let homosexuality slip through his tale, but perfectly willing to detail the excesses, corruption, and sins of the six popes Michelangelo has to deal with throughout his life. I loved that aspect of the book. Give me a bloody, sadistic, papal history any day of the week and I'm apt to believe it. Oops! I've revealed my political bias. Never a good sign.

Let's be Frank

This ends the first week of classes for me this sunny summer quarter. I decided to take a full compliment of three courses, thus making me a full-time student. This is significant for two reasons - 1) I probably will finish my MFA program a quarter early (winter) 2) It bores you to death. Like Frank.

Anyway, I am no longer a stay-at-home, Oprah-watchin', no-bathin', fat, stupid, appallingly ignorant slob like I used to be. Now I have responsibilities. I have classes for three hours a day, people. (three day weekends not included.) I have a part-time job, damn it. I am now a proud Oprah-watchin', no-bathin', fat, stupid, appallingly ignorant slob!

I also just discovered that I can watch all the best clips from The Daily Show on their website! I always knew that I didn't need cable. You can ask me if I have seen the latest promotional material on STELLA. Go ahead. . . I quadtriple dead dog dare you.

I also received in the mail today an informative textbook all about out great land. I will read it like the overly eager schoolboy I am.

Precious Moments

My Parents were in town visiting me and my own last weekend. This town is designed for old people, and old people they are. We had a blast, a grand hubbaloo if you will, going to various museums, cemeteries, civil war forts, and plantation ruins. This is no child-friendly vacation spot, folks. No. It is down right boring if you aren't into old houses, boats, trees, moss, bits of string, and fibrous diets. I hope they had a great time.

Notice the socks with sandals that my dad is wearing. You fashion Nazis out there are blanching, but he doesn't care. Even though grunge isn't cool any more, he was WAY ahead of the curve with that one. And when it comes back again with the kids, he will once again be redeemed by all you fashion czars as a forerunner of all things keen.


Unfortunately, we actually took a fair amount of pictures of each other taking pictures.

The socks are gone, but now a nasty sore is forming where the sandals rub. To solve this problem he slide in his shoe a whole Kleenex tissue. Now he looked like he wondered out of a bathroom after a disastrous toilet assident.


Lest she be forgotten on this Non-Mother's Day, here is Mom checking the temperature of this fallen tree. "Oh, dear. It's hot. Hot as mother trucker out here."


Here is evidence of our train depot visit. This is actually a really cool place called The Roundhouse. There are lots of old steam engines, brick workshops full of old machine tools, and a working round train switching-thingy. My Dad loved it here. So would J Boyn, friend from ages past.

Anyway, Happy Father's Day to a fine looking gentleman of class and distinction. Here he is in Bonaventure Cemetery, not being dead.



P.S. Thanks for paying for everything.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

My now ex-neighbors left Marigold and I a treasure-trove of junk. I got plenty of half used drawing pads, colored inks, rolled up aluminum, a compass, a tripod, BBQ sauce, and two bicycles. I really don't need two bikes, but they needed to not have them anymore, so I stretched my generous heart just one more time, as the Tenth Commandment tells us to. I was going to sell off one and bring in some serious cash, but then a friend of mine found herself in the crosshairs of a bicycle thief. Now she can ride on as if that Eight Commandment breaker had never coveted her wheels.

So today I completed my first day of bike errands on my very own Savannah Bike. Man oh man oh man oh. The traffic isn't too bad, but the there isn't anyplace to safely ride without some truck barreling over you. And it is hot. I thought my speeding through the air might cool things down, but no. If you don't know, living in Savannah in the summer (and New Orleans, for that matter) is like living in a vagina. It is important to stay hydrated in situations like this.

So the bike will live on in the hallway as will I in the air-conditioned cave we call home. All calls for activity outside of these walls will be thoroughly examined and promptly rejected. Except for trips involving ice cream.

Life in the Fast Lane

I received my very first speeding ticket today. Just a few hours ago, in fact. I feel violated. I feel the crushing weight of that beastly combination - bureaucracy and safety. The Copper [read: Pig, Fuzz, Flatfoot, Bluebelly, Po-Po, High School Reject/Revenge Case] clocked me at 48 in a 35 zone, then asked if I had any legal reasons to be going so fast. I said, "Bitch, that's the going speed! I was going slow. Get out of my allergenic face, ho." Then I handed over my license and insurance. In this we got lucky. Only the day before did Marigold have the presence of mind to check for an updated copy of our insurance papers. They were old, and she updated them from our highly organized document filing system. I could have been charged a bunch more cash for that little paperwork mishap had this happened before today.

And the stupid thing is, I knew that they were speed-trapping people on this street [Abercorn]. I saw them doing it for the last week or so. The people in the neighborhood must have complained that traffic was too fast for them. But it is one of those streets that is difficult to stay at a steady 35. It is just too straight and uncluttered with traffic lights. It is especially difficult to keep my speed down with all those 53 stallions galloping hard beneath my Saturn SL1 hood.

I have to wait four days to find out how much I have to pay or how the court date thing works. This would be the first time of mine that I would have to go to court as an Offender Of All Things Good And Fair [read:Law]. It should be an experience if nothing else. Maybe I'll get The Book thrown at me. I'll have to bone up on my Law and Order watching.

Checking In On Me

Because my parents are coming into town tomorrow, I have no time waddle on about nonsensical blather to fill your "working" hours. Nope. So I suggest instead that you look at the beautiful wonder that is this site.

There are so many really great old ex libris bookplates all seemingly done by Russians or Eastern Europeans of some kind. Those Eastern Europeans. I don't know if it was the terribly soul crushing totalitarianism or what, but they made some really great artwork in the early twentieth century.

Let's Go To The Beach! Let's Go To The Beach!

Marigold and I decided to go to the beach over this last weekend. The beautiful Tybee beach. [Tie-bee, although Millers and/or New Orleanians might pronounce it Ti-bee, and we would not dare correct them.] On the way there Marigold asked which I like better - the Atlantic Ocean or the Pacific. After much brow beating I had to conclude that the Pacific coast is much better than the Atlantic. I think that the presence of industrial man has made a bigger impact on the Atlantic coast in the USA and therefore - ugly. But whether which ocean is actually better than the other? Neither. The Sea of Japan has them both beat, if only for the peaceful lack of whales. So here is Marigold in front of wonderful, natural beauty that is Tybee beach.


And here she is sharing her second hand smoke with our fellow beachgoers.

Do you see the bad-ass look of apathy on her nicotine filled face? She quit smoking a while ago. For me. She reminds me often. So when I left her for the Frenchies, she decided to take her frustrations out with her old friend, fiberglass-laced tobacco. Now that I'm back she feels the need to quit again. I try not be a monster about it. In fact, I barely mention it. Our smoking conversations usually go the same way our leg shaving conversations go. Oh, the twisted mind games I play just so she won't die before me.

Also, I took this Walker Evans-style picture of an abandoned building near the beach. Mine is better than any of his although. Trust me.

Sideshow Act

Marigold, love of my life, gave this book to me for our 4th anniversary yesterday - Carny Folk. It is a great book full of stories and pictures of "The world's weirdest sideshow acts" like Chang the Chinese Giant, JoJo the dog-faced boy, Sealo the seal boy, etc. Butt what am I to think of this highly romantic gift? Maybe I'm not strange enough for her tastes. Physically, I mean. Maybe I should start playing with acid or taking extra hormones. Or maybe, like in Geek Love, she wants our soon to be birthed children to be certified circus freaks. Who could not love a woman with such grand desires? She can read my inner, forbidden desires like an open book. An open book called "Carny Folk".

In other news, Arron Spencer Wilder, old dear friend o' mine, has started in near past a blog! We never would have predicted that he who is made of the very Earth would fall to such technological traps. See the eco-patriot wax on about this or that, with almost no typos or missing letters replaced by zeros. Hear the angst-filled, anti-corporate revolutionary tell anecdotes of his storied youth amongst the downtrodden and netherheard of this place we call America. Feel the energy and enthusiasm this modern Bacchus inserts into every manifesto he pens.

I'm Happy, Damn it!

I read this today:

Neither upon down
Nor under coverlets, men come to fame;
Without which, he who runs his course of life
Leaves of himself on earth the selfsame trace
That smoke leaves in the air, or foam on water.

That's Dante, folks. And it happens to be true, what it says. Lacoste was good for me artistically, I think, because there was no activity "under the coverlets" as Dante says. Although it is sappy to say, but inspiration does really come from solitude and/or misery. Successful artists are like rich people, seldom are they truly happy.

This is my excuse for not working so damn hard on my art - I'm just too goddamned happy. Marigold is too good to me. She makes me giggly all over whenever I see her. Also, I happen to have luck enough to receive her smiles in return. I don't know what I did to deserve her, but I found what most people search their whole lives for. And she takes away my drive to search for anything more.

This is me complaining about being happy. Maybe there's hope for me as an artist yet.