Khruschev and Kennedy are both dead. Tito is dead. Nehru and Nasser are dead. Patrice Lumumba and Che Guevara are dead. The Shah of Iran is dead. Yukio Mishima is dead. Fidel Castro is still combing his beard despite over 600 botched attempts to kill him.
During his flight into exile, Marcos was found to have 24 gold bricks and numerous diamonds in his luggage. He and his cronies are said to have absconded with ten billion dollars from the Philippine treasury.
Imelda would regularly spend three million dollars a day on a shopping spree. In her haste to leave her native land, she left 1,200 pairs of her shoes behind. With no money or inclination to preserve them, the Philippine government left them to rot in a basement. Termites ate the soles of many of the shoes and water damage ravaged the rest.
She did not go barefoot, however. She owned a total of 3,000 pairs of women's shoes at the time of their exile.
TOMATOES TRAVELING AT THE SPEED OF "X" FROM THE1STSTATE OF THEU. S. TO THE2ND, OVER AN ELONGATED PERIOD, (QUITE ELONGATED ACTUALLY) THIS ELONGATED SPEED WE WILL CALL "Y" THE TOMATOES WILL EVENTUALLY AND INEVITABLY HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO BE REPLACED BY A MORE SEASONAL FRUIT SUCH AS PUMPKINS. IF "Y" RETAINS THE SAME RATE OF SPEED (IF IT THE PACE CAN BE CALLED SPEED AT ALL) PUMPKINS CAN ONLY BE FOLLOWED BY SNOWBALLS WHICH ARE CERTAINLY NOT A FRUIT, ALTHOUGHTHEORETICALLY ABLE TO PROVIDE SUSTINENCE TO ANOTHER GENERATION OF TOMATOES WHICH, EXACTLY LIKE THE 1ST BATCH ARE AS UNLIKELY TO REACH THE2NDSTATE AS THE ORIGINAL DELIVERY. YET HOPE SPRINGS INFERNAL! After all, it ain't as if they're coming from BUFFALO.
Let me tell you this about Tommy Schaefer. Tommy is a mythological character. He is six foot five inches tall, authentic, an original, one of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet and, at the end of his sixties, he is still one bad man. There is an army of much younger men that wish they had never wound this old street fighter up. Age has done little for his reputation as a bad ass
One day I was standing on Third Street talking to my dear friend John Walsh, since deceased. John was a funny guy and one of the most generous men on the planet. He worked on the docks for many years but by the time I met him he was retired on full disability. Whatever his disability, it certainly wasn't visible. John saw all the angles and worked them.
Anyway, John (JW to his friends) and I were talking out on the street. It was a bright, sunny day, maybe in the early days of autumn. All of a sudden who rolls up on a bike but Tommy Schaefer. Tommy was all excited and determined to impart some salacious piece of neighborhood news to us but he never got around to it. We wouldn't let him speak. John and I demanded an explanation on why this old hard head was tooling around on a girl's bike. In fact, we were so busy breaking Tom's balls that we never let him explain himself.
The more John and I laughed about the sight of Tommy of Tommy on a girl's bike, the madder he got. The more angry he got, the more we laughed. He kept trying to change the subject to no avail. By the time he pedaled away he had steam coming out of his ears.
John is dead so I break Tommy's balls twice as much about the bike in John's memory. Today I promised Tommy that if he would let me take his photograph on the girl's bike that I would never break his balls about it again.
The future wears a mustache but so did Joseph Stalin. I dedicate this image to Bryan "The Brain" German. I used to work with this guy. His name is Victor. His personalty mimics is his appearance. He is sincere and nervous. His style is his complete lack of style. It would never occur to him that someone would make him the subject of an artwork. He will probably never know that he is the subject of an artwork. I used to call him "Sabotage" after the Beastie Boys song of the same name. www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5rRZdiu1UE&list=RDz5rRZdiu1UE The title of this image, "The big fun!" is also the name of one of my favorite Miles Davis albums. www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRVvIovxPaA&list=PLB16218313C...
How does a water tower catch on fire?
Since 1981, three Mayors of Camden have been convicted of crimes and sentenced to jail while in office.
On October 29, 2012, the FBI announced Camden was ranked first in violent crime per capita of cities with over 50,000 residents.
Camden has privatized its entire police force. www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yxq5uMSV0yI www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-aOy7madD4
Entire neighborhoods are now under heavy CCTV surveillance. www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mbm0r1KmIs
Camden is directly across the Delaware River from Philadelphia PA.
Tempura on cardboard mounted on board, 14 1/4" X 18 1/4".
Premonition of a Clampdown, an Insurrection and Their Abject Futility. No boiled beans this time around. When I was three or four years old my parents took me to Philadelphia Museum of Art. My favorite artworks at the time were Soft Composition with Boiled Beans by Salvador Dali, Prometheus Bound by Peter Paul Rubens and Why Not Sneeze, Rose Sélavy? by Marcel Duchamp. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soft_Construction_with_Boiled_Beans_(Premonition_of_Civil_War) http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/104468.html http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Why_Not_Sneeze,_Rose_Sélavy%3F In the late fifties and early sixties, Why Not Sneeze, Rose Sélavy? was not protected by a Plexiglass vitrine as it is today. It sat on a shelf exposed, vulnerable to the touch of four year old wise guys. I knew that the cubes of marble were meant to be read as sugar cubes. I suspected that they were not what they appeared to be and I felt that the artist was fooling the viewer by substituting marble for sugar. To prove my hypotheses I stuck my finger in the cage to feel the cubes, much to the horror of the somnambulant guard. He began yelling and asked us to leave the museum. The only other person that I know who was ejected from PMA on his first visit was the remarkable painter Thomas Chimes. At age eighty-eight the museum gave Thomas a one man exhibition in their galleries. It took Philadelphia Museum of Art fifty years to throw me out again. CLAMPDOWN: 18 1/4" X 24 1/4" tempura paint on cardboard mounted board, newspaper photographs circa 1984, matte medium, glue stick
“We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?” - Roberto Bolaño
I don't look like an artist. Recently a woman on the street told me that I look like Picasso, but I don't. I more closely resemble the former WWF wrestler George "The Animal" Steele than Picasso. Steele was the guy that had a green tongue and ate turnbuckles. I would rather look like a professional wrestler than an artist that purportedly put a cigarette out on the face of his girlfriend. Eating turnbuckles is a much more civilized activity than misogyny.
Appearance aside, I am in fact an artist and a writer. A voracious reader since childhood, I keep an extensive library of my favorite books in my home. The collection constantly expands, making it is necessary to cull the herd once or twice a year.
I was trained as a sculptor at Philadelphia College of Art (now the University of the Arts) but I am a literary autodidact. I began writing much later in life.
The truth is that most art leaves me cold. Facile painting is a bore and it is not nearly as difficult as it appears to the uninitiated. If slavish reproduction is the goal of art, painting lost the battle with photography during the last century.
I am disinterested in viewing or making an art doomed to be hoarded as decorations in wealthy homes. The entire art system is built on a moribund nineteenth century model that is no longer relevant. The culture industry is entirely the provenance of wealth and is propped up by the dysfunctional and bloated bureaucracies that perpetuate its existence. It is unconscionable to create work for the elite group that holds an accursed share of society's wealth while the vast majority of us barely subsist on a meager wage. Unless the culture industry adopts an inclusionary strategy rather than an exclusionary one, it is doomed to collapse under the weight of it own corruption and greed. The ever dwindling and aging audience for this shell game will insure its disappearance.
Technology is the tool to circumvent the culture industry's rotting corpse. Work can now be produced cheaply and in abundance. It can be distributed in bulk, anonymously or attributed, a Potlatch with few goals beyond making people think. For the first time the other 99% of society will have the ability to own artworks. These new distribution networks exist outside of the taste and jurisdiction of the ruling class. The suburban gated communities where the rich huddle in fear of the rabble from the cities will be an unlikely point of distribution. The exclusion of the lower classes from these communities, except as servants, guarantees their isolation. The unwillingness for the rich to perform even the most basic of tasks results in a reliance on lower class factotums to do the work. This inequitable system also guarantees that the presence of servants will guarantee distribution within these communities should the need arise. The cowardice and racism that fostered these gated communities will result in their exclusion from a rigged game of their own making, victims of their own tactics, losing hand after hand of three card monte and swallowing their own tails like Ouroboros. The ruling class will retreat further into the shadows, unaware that the city has transformed itself into a Pirate Utopia except by rumor. A Temporary Autonomous Zone can rise from the ashes of oppression, one that they can only view from the safety of their armored vehicles through narrow slits. Bell Hooks rightly postulated that oppression is the absence of options. Options will have to be taken, they will not be awarded through grants given by the lumbering bureaucracies left behind after the culture industry falls. In fact, the only remnant of the former system that will exist long after its stated purpose will be these organizations. Their only purpose, solipsistic in nature, will be the survival of the bureaucracies, parasites without the benefit of a host.
Literature, like language, is an extension of reality. As Guy Debord noted, gypsy culture permits lies in any language other than the language of Roma.