Strokes And Carvings

Welcome to my DIY gallery, works by a largely untotured artist punching his way through arts and crafts! Although I tried my hand at painting in the late Seventies I stopped for awhile and now find myself creating pieces just for fun, which is a nice way of saying I've become more of a hobby painter. The serious art days are far behind me, and that's alright. I like being a Sunday painter.

One of my favorite subjects is glam rock, so painting Seventies style hard rock stars rockin' out makes me happy. Right up above is a favorite of mine. It's a dramatic portrait of my man Desi rocking out some righteous metal a la Poison, Great White, etc. with his band Whiskey Starr circa 1988 at White Trash A Go Go, maybe English Acid, prob not Zombie Zoo.

In front of the stage is his rich Jewish American Princess girlfriend wearing the official band tee getting pissed off at some cheap poodle-haired blonde who's been shaking her shoulders to Desi rocking out. I don't know about you, but I think a catfight is imminent.

Or how about a painting of Iggy based on one of the photos in back of the Raw Power album? I liked doing this one, and took great care in rendering a stylized look to his crazy eyes and lipsticked mouth. I really invested as much glam realness to the image as possible.

At this point it should be pointed out that when I first painted I used oils, giving everything a rough, expressionist look. I used a lot of heavy black lines and really slathered on the paints. It was a really violent look, however, later on when I got back in the game I used acrylics for a smoother, more refined look.

Getting tired of paints, I tried my hand at woodcuts because I liked the raw, violent look it gave, so here's yet another picture of Desi rocking out on stage with a smoke impudently dangling from his lips. I printed it with black ink on colored paper. I thought it turned out rather well.

Here's another woodcut I call King Cactus, showing a very tall, happy cactus rejoicing in his native habitat. I always liked the way large cacti always had long arms reaching out for you, and this guy seems to be having himself a good time in the wild.

Pictured below is Payin' The Bill, a painting of Desi offstge enjoying margaritas and some taco combination plates with the his rich girlfriend paying the bill for her very kept boyfriend. Where are these girls??? I need to find me one, but that's another blog.

(I've Got) The Tinnitus Touch

I love music. I love playing it and I love listening to it. I can't really go out and enjoy it anymore, though. In fact, I've only been to two shows last year and paid dearly for it. You see, I have this terrible problem. I have tinnitus.

Tinnitus is a condition where your ears are always ringing, the end result of too many loud bands, records, etc. creating permanent damage to your ear drums. After playing in bands for over 22 years and attending concerts for longer than that, my hearing is pretty blown out. I'm not alone, either. Pete Townsend, Neil Young and Barbara Streisand, among others, suffer from the same syndrome.

How did I get tinnitus? It comes from years of giving and receiving. Receiving means over 45 years of standing in front of the stage at shows by The Sex Pistols, Roxy Music, Patti Smith, Captain Beefheart, Queen and thousands of other noise addicts. Half these shows had me standing right by the speakers, and if I had to do it all over again, I would.

Giving means playing free jazz sax squall over a bed of not one, not two, but three distorted guitars turned all the way up to 10 and beyond. Wearing earplugs was never an option. I had to feel the vibrations shaking through my bones and tearing out my heart. I wasn’t some Adam Levine careerist dickhead, I was on a suicide mission to get my noise music played.

There are times when I can phase out the ringing, and then there are times when I can't. Sometimes I'll wake up at 3:30 in the morning and the ringing will be in full blast, like I just stepped out of a nightclub. It's pretty strange. My ears are ringing loudly as I’m sitting here writing,. But as I said, I can also ignore it, just as you would any annoying bit of sound.

I've been to the doctor and he said there's nothing wrong with my hearing. “That’ll be $three hundred dollars, thank you". All Western medical solutions are out. I may consider acupuncture if it works, but otherwise it's going to be this high pitched ring for a long time.

So, all you Facebook die-hard rockers, don't get pissed if I pass on invitations to your shows. And by the way, buy my books. Support is a two-way street.

The ability to hear is highly overrated, anyway. I was at the neighborhood laundromat, and it’s a reasonably small, modest one. It has the questionable perk of having not one, but two television sets. Both televisions were turned to the same program with the volume turned up very, very loud.

The television show that night was one of those Real Housewives programs where the women scream and bitch-slap each other for the better part of half an hour. It seemed longer than thirty minutes; quite frankly it felt like an eternity. It’s very hard to concentrate on folding your newly dried wash while both your ear canals are being pummeled by the shrill fighting of overly made-up women screaming their heads off.

I quickened the pace of my folding as I heard two, no, maybe three women shrieking and ruining their nails by raking them over each other’s faces, realizing that if I were truly deaf this would just look like inmates from a mental institution having it out. I would just move along, nothing to see here.

Well, the gals were still going at it like a vaginal demolition derby as I marched with my clothes out of the place, making a mental note to never go to the laundromat on a Wednesday night. Wednesday night’s not alright for fighting.

For more information about tinnitus, go to the American Tinnitus Association site at http://www.ata.org/

Spermatozoa, East of Java

I was in Highland Park the other day and I saw a car with one of those old Bad Boy stickers on the window. I mention HP because a sticker like that's still be a big deal over there with the older folks. If you've never seen the Bad Boy stickers before they show some little guy with a Dennis The Menace cowlick peeing on the floor with a sneer on his face (natch), Bad Boy mooning you, etc.

With all this FU sentiment coming out of Bad Boy I then found it rather odd that there was a car sticker showing Bad Boy on his knees intently praying to the Cross. Ah, what goes on here? What does this signify?

What exactly is Bad Boy doing here? I can only surmise it means one of two things, either: (A) If Bad Boy prays to Christ regularly then he thinks it exempts him from sin from giving us the finger and pissing on our lawn, which makes him a typical Republican, or (B) This little cunt is actually repenting for being an irritating sticker icon. What do you people think?

I had another one of my ghastly dreams last night. When I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom to do my business I opened the door, flipped on the light, and what looked like over fifty large cockroaches ran around in circles like madmen all over the floor.

Normally I would run and put my boots on, but time was of the essence so I simply took my stockinged feet and began stomping on these multi-legged vermin like an insane Italian stomping grapes for dry red wine. The roaches squirted open upon impact of my furious stomping, all lying dead and twitching their last few legs and clicking their antennae in entomological agony. After cleaning up the mess I went back to bed.

Two hours later I got up to go to the bathroom again, and once I flipped on the light I heard the hissing and coiling of two dozen snakes all over the floor. I grabbed a safety razor I only use on special dates and severed all of their heads, still spitting venom at me and missing wildly. That was a messy clean-up, but I went back to bed.

Three hours later I got up to go to the bathroom, hesitated opening up the door but duty calls, so I flipped on the light, and twenty one rats ran around the floor. I grabbed the biggest tote bag in the bathroom and threw it over them, tied the ends of the bag and threw it into the bath tub. I turned the hot water spigot all the way up and heard a lot of cute shrieking.

These boys very reluctantly drowned, but a few were still hanging in there, so I pulled the survivors out by their cute pink tails and threw them into the toilet, flushing them down. two of them had their heads halfway stuck down the bowl with their tails and back legs sticking up from the bowl.

Damn. I guess I'm going to have to call the plumber tomorrow.

I have this job on weekends delivering fashion to well-heeled people in Malibu, Bel-Air and all points northward. It's a great job because I get to go to these ridiculously lavish areas with more spectacular homes I've ever seen. It's pretty awesome. It's never boring, and sometimes these people even tip.

So I'm making a drop-off up in the Hollywood Hills and I'm really flustered getting the gown out and all, my ass is hanging out of my pants and my clipboard is falling down, and I turn around and there's this TMZ tour bus with these blonde apple knockers with their fucking cameras and iPhones taking pics of me pulling out a gown with my dick falling out my pants and I got THIS close to screaming, "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"

Pictures At An Exhibitionistic Collection

Well, all the European fashion weeks representing AW16 (Autumn/Winter 2016) seem to be over and the smoke has finally cleared and it was easy to pick the good stuff from the junk. Trying to keep up with all the fashion weeks and the designers that made them so notable would be like counting boxcars from a speeding freight train. Can you blame so many designers for resigning from the well-dressed rat race? I can't.

A few lines caught my eye and I'm going to talk about the ones I rally liked. Attacking the dumber ones would be too easy: let's just say I saw a lot of hokey flower and animal prints, which looked like bad tourist wear.

Dries Van Noten : Cold weather never looked so cool, but DVN rarely disappoints. Beautiful delicate fabrics of silks and velvets in rich colors with dashing old world coats, slickers and dusters, partially recalling Jules Verne's Michael Strogoff and Dr. Zhivago. Very romantic stuff,a nd it didn't hurt that the models all had that Terence Stamp/David Hemmings look. Well done.

Maison Martin Margiela: This was almost approaching Clockwork Orange territory with suspenders holding up mixed fabric trousers and tops, looking very pop art futuristic droog.

The more "subdued" designs were cool waistcoats and jodhpurs, very Rolling Stones pirate with some Sleepy Hollow ghost rider goth chic thrown in. Extrovert or introvert, this one wowed me both ways.

Dior Homme: Dior Homme's AW16 collection was a highly energetic collection of wild suiting utilizing unusual fabrics and beyond elephant flares, the baggiest, widest trousers, phat enough to make Rei Kawakubo jealous. Cartoony bolo ties finished the look, and that was just the formal wear. The sportier styles were asymmetrical wool caps with rich oxblood leather coats. Bravo.

Yves St. Laurent: This show took place two miles away from my house and I could kick myself for missing this great presentation. Following the death of David Bowie, the menswear designs shown at the Hollywood Palladium (!) emulated Bowie during his cocaine fueled Young Americans-Station To Station period, big slouch hats, tightly cut suits with thick, severe sunglasses. Hedi Slimane did a brilliant job. Fashion comes to Hollywood and wakes up all the ghosts of glitz and glam.

Now Playing ABSOLUTELY FREE on You Tube - Pyromaniacs On Parade

Lately in my sojourns on You Tube I've noticed a few horror-based thrillers that all employ the device of the house fire trauma. This is not an easy trick to pull off, as in they all seem to have the house still standing after the fire and in pretty good shape. The films listed below aren't particularly good, but they're swell trash worth at least one view and definitely chuckle worthy, so let's get started:

Picture Mommy Dead (1966): A teen variant on the old William Castle movies, where the halfway sane person gets bullied into believing they're still crazy and going crazier by the minute (see Strait-Jacket or The Night Walker). Is it as good as Castle? No, but it's still pretty camp.

Susan Shelley (Susan Gordon) returns to the home where she witnessed her mother's fiery death three years earlier, an experience that drove her to madness to a convent-based sanitarium. While she was committed in the institution her father (a buttoned-up Don Ameche) ran off with the governess (Martha Hyer) and married her.

Ameche went bankrupt spending all of his wife's money and has to sell out most of the property at home. Unfortunately he cannot sell the home, as Susan is the legal heir to the property. These details are explained laughably by a highly abrasive Wendell Corey, who speaks in a sort of crotchety William S. Burroughs-style voice.

Susan also happens to know where the late Mrs. Shelley's extremely expensive necklace is hidden, as selling would mean paying off Papa Ameche's extremely sizable debt, but Susan's shock from the fire blacked out her memory of the necklace's whereabouts.

Most of the film is spent with Hyer and brother-in-law Anthony (a hammy Maxwell Reed) scheming on ways to drive poor Susan into mental infirmity so they can have her locked away again and take over the family fortune. There are many scenes involving falcons, phoenixes, and other aviary imagery.

Mommy Dead isn't a great horror film but it's a decent time waster and a genuine oddity. The role of Mommy is played by a silent Zsa Zsa Gabor, who hasn't got any dialogue to utter. It's also funny her hair's dyed red to obviously symbolize fire. And when was the last time you saw a movie featuring the Mattel Scoo-Ba-Doo beatnik doll?

How Awful About Allan (1970): Curtis Harrington directed this Henry Farrell adaptation from his novel. If the name Henry Farrell sounds familiar to you, it should. He's the writer of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, and the next two films with Mr. Harrington, What's The Matter With Helen? and Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?

How Awful About Allan, starring Anthony Perkins, is not as good as any of the films listed above. It's a TV movie and looks it, plus the story isn't terribly involving. It starts with a house fire which killed Allan's father and disfigured his sister, played by Julie Harris. Allan loses most of his eyesight in the fire, with his sanity gone as well, leaving him institutionalized.

Out of the institution and back at home, Perkins is perpetually angry about his blindness, cussing and yelling at Harris in every other scene. It doesn't help that Harris rented out a room to a boarder which Perkins swears is stalking him, a bizarre claim given that Perkins can barely see.

The standout scene in the film is when Perkins loses his shit and steals his sister's car, tearing down the main road, careening wildly all over the place, uprooting trees and knocking over mailboxes with a completely perplexed look on his face. Pretty funny stuff!

It's nice to know that Harrington eventually made better films with Farrell after this one because this film was a hard one to get through. Joan Hackett is the only saving grace in this one. Not one of Perkins' better crazy guy roles!

Cure For Pain: The Mark Sandman Story (2011): No, not another horror thriller, but a film which can be seen in its entirety on You Tube. Directed by Robert Bralver as a labor of love, the film charts the short life of the man behind the legendary band Morphine. Being a major Morphine fan I couldn't wait to see this film.

To those not familiar with the sound of Morphine, they were a three-piece consisting of baritone & tenor saxophones played in tandem, a slide two-string bass guitar and drums. Somehow it worked on a Tom Waits "Swordfishtrombones" level. In fact, it helps a lot to listen to latter day Waits to figure out what Morphine were up to.

Bralver's documentary goes into Sandman's childhood with his troubled siblings, nomadic post-teen years, and going up to his early days playing in Treat Her Right. Both ex-girlfriends and former band mates are interviewed with somewhat less than saintly accounts of the occasionally arrogant musician.

But let's be honest, you're watching it for the great Morphine music and his great singing and playing, which he delivers in spades. The film spends a little too much time recalling his last days playing at an Italian mountainside festival where the air might have been too thin to allow proper breathing for him. A lot of detail is paid to this sad episode.

Again, this is a film that deserves a quick view but isn't terribly gripping, partially hindered by the film's wobbly time line. During the first half of the film it's difficult to figure out what time period people are discussing, because it goes from Treat Her Right days back to his childhood and back again. It can get pretty confusing. Tighter editing and sequencing would have helped.

Still and all, it's pretty great that a Mark Sandman documentary exists, and there are parts that get pretty exciting, but I wonder if that's just something a CD would have accomplished, and a lot quicker, too.