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October 27 2017

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TGIF! thank god it’s gorilla guns friday

October 23 2017

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Captain Kangaroo nurses a Sheep

October 22 2017

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Mitchell Funk 1977

Live at the Holiday Inn! (hammered at an arts & crafts show)

We began to worship the impractical. We surrounded ourselves with forests of books and stacks of humming LPs. We hung colorful canvas heavy with the tortured artist’s vibrant blood. We filled notebooks with ink, tears and hunger. We tried everything to root our disappearing selves back into the flesh, but it was too late. The ghost machine was draining us. We were disappearing.

Another ruined world. Paradise lost. Another failed dream. A house, so bright and happy when we moved in, now in full bloom from our neglect. A litany of failed projects that sputtered out, sagging with the weight of our confusion and blame.

We are worthless.

Everything we touch falls apart.

Do we understand reality? Our world would fall apart with or without us. Do we understand that we have been given the one true gift? The endless possibility of making something. Anything. The one true thing. We could build something. We could sing. Tear something apart only to build it again, better this time. Even if it’s a fragile house of cards, even a cover song, butchered. To place in our hands or heart our desire in the light of our own attention. To make love out of nothing at all. To reach into the darkness of a blank canvas and spill a little blood. Creator forgetting itself in the creation. Until we can’t tell the difference. Is the song singing us? Who created who? Is there only one? Or is there two? The light and the dark both build the other up, tear the other apart, like a dance that forgets and fucks up everything - until it falls in love.

I created a monster and fucked it to death
I made it bigger and better until
it fucked me, devoured me

and then we were three
The monster, me and
our gleaming death dream of

October 14 2017

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I always felt bad for the monster. So misunderstood. So maligned. In my movie, the monster slaughters everyone. The heroine, the camera crew, the caterer, all of ‘em. 

And then they drink coffee all night while playing solitaire and listening to old records. They sleep in late and cook a big breakfast and read the times. Later, maybe do a little gardening and fall asleep watching a baseball game.

In the sequel, the monster kills time in all sorts of splendid ways and becomes the most terrifying monster imaginable. It all starts somewhat heroically with an uninterrupted 23 minute shot of some gratuitous waffle maker repair, but it looks like one of the little circuit boards is probably bad. The monster pokes around a little bit online looking for the part only to end up on facebook having a 3-hour argument about God, politics and the meaning of life. It’s fucking horrific.

October 13 2017

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TGIF (luminous beings edition)

October 06 2017

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Placidus hält sein Haupt in Händen und bringt es dem Hl. Mönch Sigisbert dar (St. Placiduskirche, Disentis)

Creation Myth #846

God used to worry that something might happen. Then he worried nothing would happen. 

One night while out camping by himself he was taking a piss in the bush. A rattlesnake bit him right on his little pee-pee. There was no one around to suck out the venom. People hadn’t been invented yet. Lucky for him his penis swelled up so much he was able to suck out the venom. 

Unluckily though he became so entranced by finally being able to reach his own cock with his mouth that he began to fellate himself and forgot about the venom.

Luckily God was good at blowing himself and ejaculated the poison. 

Unluckily he shot his load up his nostril. 

Luckily (or unluckily) for us he blew his nose and the cosmos was born.

October 03 2017

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Just another retired accountant with 42 guns, explosives, fully automatic weapons & several thousand rounds of ammo.

October 01 2017

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Nelson Boeira Faedrich

To the 8th Graders of Pompano Beach Middle School (To be read after the second bell of 1st period)

Dear Students: 

There is an extremely complicated sound unwinding down into a thought I wanted to remind you of.

The reminder is this.

It’s all gonna be OK.

I died once. How? That’s a story for another time, but when I left my body I was pretty surprised. After an intricate light show and seeing the faces of my loved ones - After hearing some pretty great music, I was revealed to be the entirety of conscious. Sounds hippie-dippy, weird and perhaps kinda lonely I know, but it was totally cool.

I think the issue is we are terrified we are alone, and we’re not. I mean we’re alone with everything but… In this reality, we reduce things because our brains are sorting machines of sorts (heh)

Try this:
Start with nothing and then add yourself and all the love and hate and boredom and all the small wonderful moments. The parts where you cry and laugh and feel alive. Add animals, the cosmos and all the endless possibilities of being whatever. Being everything is like that, but you are your friends and lovers and mother fuckers. It’s awesome, kinda like falling in love with everything but not in some 13-year-old hallmark special kinda way, but just being simply alive.

So, when I came back to life. I was pretty chill. Prolly too chill. I was killing superheroes and robbing banks being all, “It’s OK! We’re all one!” Life had to take me down a few pegs. So that brings me here to you as part of my community service. 

Have fun and be good to each other. Cry and laugh and go outside once in a while. Learn how to fuck the sun and realize there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. We’re everything and nothing and all the kinky shit in between.

Love and Kisses,

District 13 PTA board member Jade Bos

September 26 2017

Thanks for all the kind words!

We are all good! Sucked we lost the trees, (We loved em!) but no one was hurt and we have insurance. Plus, I got to buy a chainsaw and haven’t cut myself too badly yet! Though I should probably stop swinging it around.

September 25 2017

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15 foot tall root ball of the tree that landed on our art studio. #hurricaneirma (at North Lauderdale, Florida)

September 22 2017

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Virgo Paritura

Hurricane Irma knocked over the two giant trees in our backyard. Both were over 80 feet tall and had been there before the neighborhood was built.

We got a couple of estimates of $3,800 - $5,000 to clear them away. I bought a chainsaw to see if I could clear some of it up myself to save some money (and hey! I bought a chainsaw!) After practicing my Texas Chainsaw Massacre moves I began to pare down the trees. I kept noticing these strange black rings on the wood as I cut off the branches.

At first, I thought it was oil from my chainsaw, but I used vegetable oil as the hardware store was all out of regular chain oil. Vegetable worked fine. Not only was it environmentally friendly, but it didn’t leave black oily stains on the wood.

I also noticed a few large wires in the root ball of both trees. I called the city and they looked at our survey and said there shouldn’t be any underground lines there. They did say not to touch anything and sent out a guy to scan the ground. While he found a bunch of metal wires around the root systems of both trees they weren’t connected to anything. “Probably just a bunch of wire and scrap they buried when they built up the neighborhood.” But why or how could the wire be under 100-year-old trees?

My chain got really dull as I cut up larger branches. I tried sharpening it, but it didn’t seem to help. So I bought a new one. Still, I wasn’t having any luck with the new chain. Maybe I’d put the chain on backward? No. I tried a few smaller branches and it cut right through. Then I looked closer at the larger branches and what I thought were oil stains turned out to be thin waves of metal. It was like someone had covered the entire tree with a heavy tinfoil and the tree grew over it. There were several layers throughout both trees.

Then looking again at the wires in the root ball I realized they were running up into the trunks of the trees.

The wires went up into the trees and disappeared into the branches, but where did the wires go from the trees? That’s when I started to dig and three days later I discovered the cave.

September 20 2017

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Up late making bumper stickers. =)

September 15 2017

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Little girl and three owls, Sweden, 1925. via reddit http://ift.tt/2reGh5i


September 11 2017

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My wife and I are safe and our house and animals are all fine. Our art studio and trees did not fare so well. We lost two big 80+foot trees that covered our backyard and one of them landed directly on our art studio.

We’re more upset about the trees than anything. They were our friends and provided me with many of my stories and my wife with inspiration for her art. They were also home to many fabulous critters. Much love - Jade

September 01 2017

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No Nazis, No White Nationalists, No KKK, No Hate, No Trump, 

No tumblr September 1, 2017


August 31 2017

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Sunset Manor - Assisted Living Facility

“You gotta take me to the bank,” Nathan said. “I can take out ten thousand dollars and we can go rent a limousine and me and you and Don and Joe can all go out to dinner. And then we can go pick up Lori and go to the park…”

“Listen Nathan, I’m your friend. I’m here to help, but I can’t take you to the bank,” I said. “There are limits to what I can do. I can bring you some art supplies. I can bring you a snack. We can hang out and draw and I can be your best friend, but that’s about all I can do,” I said, putting my arm around him.

Nathan lives in an assisted living facility. He’s in his late 60’s but is intellectually about 6 or 7 years old. He has some difficulty walking. Sometimes he has little mini seizures and falls down. He likes to tell stories. He constantly tells one about how he just won the lottery and he needs me to pick up the money for him at the bank. One time he even got out a dusty old leather satchel he wanted me to fill with all the cash. He’s also constantly getting married. Last week he told us he got married in the Bahamas.

Nathan is probably the sweetest human I’ve ever met. He laughs easily. I have to be careful or he’ll laugh so hard I worry he’ll fall or have an episode. He hugs me several times whenever I leave.

The Beginning
When I started doing hospice visits I told myself I could handle it. I’d been to dozens of funerals and I wasn’t afraid of death. I’d tried to help foster kids and orphans, but that was too much for me. I guess it brought up my own issues about being a foster kid and courtrooms, and adoption and being unadopted, being made a ward of the state, homeless.

Hospice would be easier for me. These folks were terminal. Given three months or less to live. Plus, they were being taken care of by a slew of nurses, doctors and their own families. I’d just be spending an hour or two a week with them. Just visiting. Just being there for them. Maybe I could give them a little comfort. I could talk to them or read or just listen. Maybe I could hold their hand as they approached the great unknown. Maybe I could sit with an ailing husband while a wife got out of the house for an hour or two. How hard could it be?

In our training they said, if the patient dies, don’t call 911. Call the nurse or your contact number. I found that reassuring. I wouldn’t have to worry about fucking it all up. Even if something went horribly wrong I could just be there for them til the end.

So now I’m in over my head. I have a patient I’ve had for over a year. Don lives at Sunset Manor and is dying of cancer. He’s mentally handicapped and been in various facilities his whole life. They’ve decided not to tell him he is dying. He actually gets around pretty good, so much so he gets into trouble because sometimes he escapes. So I take him out of the home once a week to help ease his wanderlust. We usually go get some ice cream. Sometimes we wander around the mall or visit a pet shelter if we have time between nurse appointments. One week he wanted to stop at the store for some activity books. He likes word find puzzles and coloring books. The next week he wanted some coloring pencils. The week after he wanted more coloring pencils.

“What happened to the coloring pencils we bought last week Don?”
“Oh nothing,” he says, averting my gaze.
“Did you lose them?” I ask
“No,” he says, “they’re for Nathan.”
“Oh, does Nathan live at the house with you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “He wants some batteries too for his radio.”
“What kind of batteries?” I say, shaking my head.

When we get back to the home Nathan is nervously waiting like a prisoner planning an escape. “Did you get the stuff?!” he whispers loudly, blinking his hands with anticipation.

“Hi Nathan,” I say introducing myself. He smiles a big shy rotten toothed smile and nods excitedly. He pulls out a shopping list.

Color pencils, Cracker Jack, Babe Ruth, batteries, headphones, sketch paper, People’s Sexist People Magazine. Also a list of numbers.

Nathan explains that he won the lottery and these are the winning numbers. I just need to pick up the money and a few other things. He’ll give me and Don a million dollars each.

I hand Nathan his colored pencils and explain to him that he is supposed to give me the money first and I’ll go get him all the items he needs. This turns into a long running joke where every time I see Nathan the first thing he says to me is “Did you get the money?!”

I say, “No, I thought you had the money! You’re supposed to give me the money and I’ll bring it to the bank!”

Then he laughs and laughs. Then we get down to the serious business of what he drew for me that week and if I brought him anything. Nathan and I have a working agreement. I’ll buy him art supplies as long as he makes me a drawing. I’ll also bring him one snack, but that’ll cost another drawing or a story or poem.

Lately, he’s been trying to weasel a radio & headphones out of me. I explain to him that these are expensive and my resources are limited to art supplies, snacks and books. Last week I got him a big Ripley’s Believe It or Not book from a thrift store. A Guinness Book of World records and People’s Sexist People is on the list too, but I try to dole things out slowly. I got three guys I’m buying stuff for and, sadly, anything of value gets stolen from these guys.

Joe is Don’s roommate. He draws all the time and brags that he taught Nathan how. He’s a former sign maker. I saw him drawing a horse one day with an old nub of a pencil. He had a ruler he’d fashioned out of a restroom sign, but he was having trouble because he didn’t have an eraser. When I bought him some pencils and erasers, he said that God had sent me. That he’d been praying to find an eraser. I made the same deal. He’d make me art and I get him supplies. Joe draws 20-30 drawings for me a week! Most are Merry Christmas cards to my wife and I. Some are pictures of politicians. (He hates Trump!) He also draws sailboats and his dog that he had to leave when he came to the home. A story for another time.

Every week I spend an extra hour with these guys after taking Don out for ice cream. The four of us hang out in Don & Joe’s room. We sit on twin beds and look at art and pictures and tell stories and laugh like little boys. They are all so sweet and thankful and say it’s their favorite thing all week.

I’ve been having a hard time with it though. I tried to avoid this. I just wanted to help someone through a dark moment in a dark hallway. Now I’m neck deep with the lost little boys (one of whom is me) trying to live in a world of loneliness and pain.

Plus, I can’t shake the feeling that I could help a hundred poor lost souls if I had my shit together. I break down and cry when I’m alone, thinking of how happy I make them with just a few pencils and paper and an hour or two of my time.

I look at the world and I’d hate it if hate wasn’t a waste of time. I guess I got things to do, art to work on, friends to help.
Banks to rob.

August 26 2017

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Bon Appétit

My self-cleaning oven became neglectful and stopped cleaning itself. I called a repairman who referred me to an expensive New York therapist. After several sessions, the therapist informed me that my oven was no longer “mine” and had become a mystic.

I had a hard time rectifying my oven’s new identity and behavior with my desire to eat lasagne, but eventually, we worked out a new relationship. I fed my oven books and it cooked them up and together we ate their knowledge.

We have great dinner parties in our virtual reality now. As long as no one removes my feeding tube, we shall feast eternal.

August 25 2017

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The Best of Times

Back in the 21st-century shit got a little crazy. People were so tired of politicians that one Tuesday afternoon they elected a new President who was an actual shit flinging ape.

The ape was your run of the mill animal who beat his chest if anyone got too close to his bananas. Many of the good citizens found this sort of honesty refreshing. They were tired of being lied to. Now they had something they could easily understand, an animal that made angry noises if anything got too close to his bananas. Or too close to their bananas, they hoped.

The bananas unfortunately, changed depending on the ape’s mood and what the talking light box said. The talking light box was a form of simplified reality that everyone could comprehend, without having to engage their brains. Brains had proven to be far too open to chaos and easily overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of existence. This occurred during the early part of the industrial revolution. Luckily, it was found that various drugs were sufficient to dull and excite the frontal cortex as needed.

Tired in the morning and don’t want to go to work? There’s a delicious warm drug to nurse you into the fray! And if that’s insufficient there are more powerful drugs. Can’t focus at work or school? Try more drugs. All kinds and flavors! Done with work and you need to blow off some steam? Drinks, smoke sticks, powders and pills! Combine with electric music and you’ll be laughing and crying and fucking and fighting in no time! That’s all any pent-up creature truly longs for. Can’t sleep? Worried you’ve acted a fool on all those drugs? You guessed it, we’ve got more drugs to help you sleep like the dead!

One of the many new problems the shit flinging president revealed was that drugs were no longer enough. 

The dumb animal president had exposed us. Come to find out, we the masses were just a bunch of dumb scared animals too. Unable to face the fact we were childish ignorant imbeciles propped up on drugs and technology, we began to search out something to blame. The glowing light boxes and drugs were our only comfort so we certainly couldn’t blame them.  So, we began to blame each other.

This wasn’t too bad in the beginning. People were either pro dumb animal president or not. But it began to devolve. Some blamed the ape’s handlers. Others blamed the people who voted for the ape. Those who voted for the ape were so tired of the naysayers they blamed the younger generation or even other races or religions. Suddenly everyone was divided and arguing or dimly repeating what everyone else said.

We became suspicious and retreated to our caves and light boxes. No one spoke in public, but we formed secret armies on the light box. In a sad hilarious moment, one specific sex and color of human beings suggested we should divide up by color or sex. Like in the old days! Someone pointed out that was only beneficial for the one sex and one color, which coincidently was the same as the one suggesting it.

Meanwhile, the salesmen scientists were busy on a new reality. A virtual reality where anyone could be anything they wanted and the center of their own little story. Our current world would become fully automated and we’d climb inside the colored light boxes where things were simple and made sense and no one would be hurt. If the world became too toxic, we could stage the whole thing on Mars or out in space.

We just had to be careful not to blow the place up. Plus, we had to figure out what to do with the shit flinger in chief.

Does anyone remember if we went into a new virtual reality or if we finally came to our senses and took personal responsibility? Either way, we eventually found the enemy we couldn’t face. It was us. (Suprise!) Luckily, the hero was us too. As was the lover, the hater, the artist, the motherfucker, and even perhaps one troublesome little shit flinging ape.

August 18 2017

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Thomas Theodor Heine, Geneviève, 1911


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