When I Watch You Dance
My Pants No Longer Fit Me
Please, Don't Stop Dancing
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Merry Fucking Christmas..
For the past 2 months I have been living on Dollar Store pancake mix.
You know the stuff. It comes in a little plastic jug and you add a 2/3 cup of water, shake, pour and cook. It makes about 4 or 5 silver dollar pancakes. Or in a pinch, you can drink the mixture pure and un-cooked.
The holiday season hit me pretty hard. If you have been following my posts, you know that on Thanksgiving I made a joyful trek (or tried) up to my local Wal*Mart. My intent was to free the slaves of minimum wage from the shackles of monetary slavery. I made it about half way before being 'saved' by my wife.
Since that epic holiday afternoon, my wonderful wife has firmly placed her foot down and started to demand that I begin to 'pay my own way'. These are her words not mine.
At first, her stern words created a bold burst of laughter from deep within my throat. Then she made me hand over my Visa card. Well..., she took it out of my wallet while I was incapacitated. That my friends is VERY DIRTY POOL. I begged and pleaded, but she would not give it back. She told me she destroyed it and that if I wanted a credit card that I would have to apply for one in MY OWN NAME and pay for it myself.
Well, my kitty has grown some claws.
Some back history.....
When my wife and I met, I was a minimum wage monkey. 25 years ago I was making shit money. In fact, I once calculated that after being paid, paying my car note, insurance and rent....I cleared $3 a day.
Enough for a pack of smokes and a few gallons of gas.
These were the dollars that woo'ed my girlfriend to become my wife.
But, the American spirit was strong within me and I taught myself a valuable skill. When we were married, I made more money than my wife. I WAS THE MAN. It was great but it sucked really hard too. Lower middle upper lower management was not my station in life, I felt I could do better.
College and a degree in Fine Art was the way I went and my wife supported me. I still made more money than her so it was in her best interest to think it was cool or her ass was out on the fucking sidewalk.
Then came the day when she proudly announced that, after a week of careful calculation, my yearly income was paying her shoe bill. Yep, my money was 'juice', 'gravy', or just 'extra'.
Deep down I knew this day would come. My wife had actively pursued an undergraduate degree of some meaning AND earned an MBA while I pursued a lowly Master's of Fine Art.
If I had wanted to make money, I should have been spending my time panhandling at Cass and Second. Because, in the 'real' world an MFA aint shit unless it's from Cranbrook. Mine aint from Cranbrook.
So, I was locked into being a kept man. The only thing I had going for me was my sparking personality and my sexual prowess. For a number of years, those two things got me out of quite a few pickles. That night I passed out in the parking lot after the MOCAD opening celebration event....she was there to haul my ass home. My opening night solo show at CPOP gallery? Yep, she was there to clean the vomit from my rented tux and drive me home. Oh, the night I celebrated my solo show at Pawn Gallery in Dallas Texas? Yep, that was her bailing me out of jail over the phone. Then came my drunken Thanksgiving adventure to our local Wal*Mart....
The final straw?
As you may know, I never made it to Wal*Mart. The Wesco gas station was my finish line. I woke up in the front seat of our Ford Edge (with heated seats). It was at this moment that I knew I had really fucked up. The day after Thanksgiving, my wife laid down the law. I was to start paying my own way and supporting myself. Her money was no longer MY money. My art was now to be paid for with MY own money.
For a short time time whole new world look bright and I felt as if I could make it happen. I had accepted a few adjunct teaching jobs at a couple community colleges and I had sold a few of my works of art. Yep, my studio rent was being paid and the world was as bright at a new penny....
Then came Mr. Jack Daniels and my love all things drunken.
Do not misunderstand, my taste for American whisky began a few years ago. I became quite the conosur and could determine slight differences in brands and even the particular months they were bottled. Notes of caramel, maple and cinnamon tickled my tongue and slowly clouded my reality. Up until late last year, I had never thought to use my taste for fire water as a medium. then one blisteringly drunk chaotic afternoon, I began creating thoughtful works of art out of the empty booze bottles that were littering my studio.
The first bottle was an empty fifth of Jack Daniels. The work was a bold first experiment and consisted of intricately engraved tentacles surrounding the square sides of the bottle. Looking at this new work of mine, I became giddy like a schoolgirl who didn't know what to do with her hands. This new work had opened up what seemed to unlimited creative possibilities and soon spawned a collection of what will become 44 separate creations honoring whisky, the American Presidents and the American love of nylon encased female legs.
But, here is the rub. When I started this journey, I was a svelte and boyish 188 pounds. I now weigh well over 225 and shake uncontrollably in the mornings. I have completed 34 presidential bottles and I am beginning to see the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. But my fear is that my drive to create highly collectible and affordable art in an effort to pay my studio rent has turned me into a pasty, sexless blob of a man.
Art is destroying me.
Well, it can try. I will not surrender without a fight.
You know the stuff. It comes in a little plastic jug and you add a 2/3 cup of water, shake, pour and cook. It makes about 4 or 5 silver dollar pancakes. Or in a pinch, you can drink the mixture pure and un-cooked.
The holiday season hit me pretty hard. If you have been following my posts, you know that on Thanksgiving I made a joyful trek (or tried) up to my local Wal*Mart. My intent was to free the slaves of minimum wage from the shackles of monetary slavery. I made it about half way before being 'saved' by my wife.
Since that epic holiday afternoon, my wonderful wife has firmly placed her foot down and started to demand that I begin to 'pay my own way'. These are her words not mine.
At first, her stern words created a bold burst of laughter from deep within my throat. Then she made me hand over my Visa card. Well..., she took it out of my wallet while I was incapacitated. That my friends is VERY DIRTY POOL. I begged and pleaded, but she would not give it back. She told me she destroyed it and that if I wanted a credit card that I would have to apply for one in MY OWN NAME and pay for it myself.
Well, my kitty has grown some claws.
Some back history.....
When my wife and I met, I was a minimum wage monkey. 25 years ago I was making shit money. In fact, I once calculated that after being paid, paying my car note, insurance and rent....I cleared $3 a day.
Enough for a pack of smokes and a few gallons of gas.
These were the dollars that woo'ed my girlfriend to become my wife.
But, the American spirit was strong within me and I taught myself a valuable skill. When we were married, I made more money than my wife. I WAS THE MAN. It was great but it sucked really hard too. Lower middle upper lower management was not my station in life, I felt I could do better.
College and a degree in Fine Art was the way I went and my wife supported me. I still made more money than her so it was in her best interest to think it was cool or her ass was out on the fucking sidewalk.
Then came the day when she proudly announced that, after a week of careful calculation, my yearly income was paying her shoe bill. Yep, my money was 'juice', 'gravy', or just 'extra'.
Deep down I knew this day would come. My wife had actively pursued an undergraduate degree of some meaning AND earned an MBA while I pursued a lowly Master's of Fine Art.
If I had wanted to make money, I should have been spending my time panhandling at Cass and Second. Because, in the 'real' world an MFA aint shit unless it's from Cranbrook. Mine aint from Cranbrook.
So, I was locked into being a kept man. The only thing I had going for me was my sparking personality and my sexual prowess. For a number of years, those two things got me out of quite a few pickles. That night I passed out in the parking lot after the MOCAD opening celebration event....she was there to haul my ass home. My opening night solo show at CPOP gallery? Yep, she was there to clean the vomit from my rented tux and drive me home. Oh, the night I celebrated my solo show at Pawn Gallery in Dallas Texas? Yep, that was her bailing me out of jail over the phone. Then came my drunken Thanksgiving adventure to our local Wal*Mart....
The final straw?
As you may know, I never made it to Wal*Mart. The Wesco gas station was my finish line. I woke up in the front seat of our Ford Edge (with heated seats). It was at this moment that I knew I had really fucked up. The day after Thanksgiving, my wife laid down the law. I was to start paying my own way and supporting myself. Her money was no longer MY money. My art was now to be paid for with MY own money.
For a short time time whole new world look bright and I felt as if I could make it happen. I had accepted a few adjunct teaching jobs at a couple community colleges and I had sold a few of my works of art. Yep, my studio rent was being paid and the world was as bright at a new penny....
Then came Mr. Jack Daniels and my love all things drunken.
Do not misunderstand, my taste for American whisky began a few years ago. I became quite the conosur and could determine slight differences in brands and even the particular months they were bottled. Notes of caramel, maple and cinnamon tickled my tongue and slowly clouded my reality. Up until late last year, I had never thought to use my taste for fire water as a medium. then one blisteringly drunk chaotic afternoon, I began creating thoughtful works of art out of the empty booze bottles that were littering my studio.
The first bottle was an empty fifth of Jack Daniels. The work was a bold first experiment and consisted of intricately engraved tentacles surrounding the square sides of the bottle. Looking at this new work of mine, I became giddy like a schoolgirl who didn't know what to do with her hands. This new work had opened up what seemed to unlimited creative possibilities and soon spawned a collection of what will become 44 separate creations honoring whisky, the American Presidents and the American love of nylon encased female legs.
But, here is the rub. When I started this journey, I was a svelte and boyish 188 pounds. I now weigh well over 225 and shake uncontrollably in the mornings. I have completed 34 presidential bottles and I am beginning to see the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. But my fear is that my drive to create highly collectible and affordable art in an effort to pay my studio rent has turned me into a pasty, sexless blob of a man.
Art is destroying me.
Well, it can try. I will not surrender without a fight.
Monday, January 7, 2013
A new year...
So, it's 2013.
Every New Years Eve party I have ever been invited to, I always ended up drunk and smoking alone outside in the cold winter air. The new year is always a time for me to look back and cry at all the squandered moments of a dim and useless life.
Look, I am not a writer. I make most of this shit up and right now I am just not feeling the love.
Keep checking in though.
Every New Years Eve party I have ever been invited to, I always ended up drunk and smoking alone outside in the cold winter air. The new year is always a time for me to look back and cry at all the squandered moments of a dim and useless life.
Look, I am not a writer. I make most of this shit up and right now I am just not feeling the love.
Keep checking in though.
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