a drop of water

Fractured man

Fractured man in a thousand pieces, cut up and reassembled a thousand times a day.

Cave boy tribute reading circa back in the day . . .

COS, Chuck over shoulder . . .

I got to visit the studio of Chuck Close the other day (thanks Bun and Adam!). There was art and stuff everywhere.

The bands were smoking, the audience not so much

On Vacation

The Sound is Furry

The Sound is Furry, February 12-13, 1993, Randolph Street Gallery, Chicago, Illinois

Because sometimes a half mustache on your way to work

Life and how to live it . . .

Small

Because barbecue

It is summer and summer requires Barbecue and this year requires the overhaul of the Weber Kettle 22-in charcoal grill.

Added a new closure for the bottom and added a wooden handle to the top vent and a temperature gauge.

Mets fan surrealist

Young once

Not sure why this is so creepy . . . .

 . . . but it is . . . .

Nonsense

Because the Fire

Because the Fire is burning, there is a shopping cart full of extinguishers. Because the fire is burning there is cart. Art loves a good cart, and so my heart

Monkey Wrench Gang

The Monkey Wrench Gang now comes with a digital setting . . . Apple of course.

NO!

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. Please god no.

Because New York

Ramones and New York go together like ice and cream. A cool day on the dark side of the street leads to 2nd St. and second street leads to the palace that punk created. Country, Blue grass and blues, never the same . . .

Persuasive . . .

Because bowling . . . .

Stacked and windproof, Downtown Manhattan

Grown up flowers

Grown up flowers, it must be spring time in NYC because it smells like . . . well, you know.

Creative studio PLAYLAB, INC. has planted six inflatable flower sculptures all around the town. Sort of fun. This one is named Kerri on 55th Street.

Brussels sprouts should not be seen as . . .

This really isn’t the right way to do things.

You cannot un-see this

Head Grenade

A very large bag of Elvis 8-Tracks

Tell Me When It's Over

Dream Syndicate, live at the Hoboken Arts and music festival. May 6th, 2018

things that you find

Strange

man on the street

Thrasher friends

Here is a Thrasher from 1989 autographed to my by my old Pal Brian of JFA . . . I am somebody.

Black Beauty

Marquee Moon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8L874E05oU


Here is a recording I made of Richard Lloyd at a book signing in Hoboken last January.

"Marquee Moon", Richard Lloyd, Hoboken, NJ  2018

It's about the guns. We have had enough . . .

Our awesome cats, Ambrose and Buster.

No newspaper on a snowy day, but I do have a pile of magazines.

What makes a man start fires

1982

My . . .

Prince of Dead Dirt and stuck like tuna tar-tar to the roof of the last gasping mouth. I should have something to say but not with these words. A death sentence really for a writer without good grammar. I’d rather be a righter. Fix the wrongs, leave the unforgotten to their misery. I will have a long bath or a long walk, something like that. Spinning in my grave above ground with the others. Toss a dreary aside my way. Looking for the time of day, it is not in the Times. It might be half drunk and passed out. The great groans of the masses and the grim reality which passes. I shall have my tea and biscuits, my PB&J. Let us walk together in the trenches and the tree lined streets. The boulevards of screaming filth they will not hear our cries. The crisis will march towards us, not away.

kll the guns

I will kll the guns, that’s who I will kll.

I will kll the guns and leave them for dead, dying.

This is what I will do.

Pain is not for people, pain is for guns

Man with axe

Computer reads speil

Drive to the store

Flower on the mouth

Flower of the month. Stuck in my mouth. Business side down. My energy up. Young, bitter and bored: constant aggravation. A smart-ass frustrated by the dim-witted. The devil, you know. Degenerated beyond the magic that music makes in your head. My energy up. My energy up. Please sing me songs of days gone by. History as you find it. The underwhelmed are eternal, or perhaps the plain old whelmed. I’ll not give up the ghost at any price. Segue to a downhill stroll. Flower on the mouth. Shucked corn and radiate. Star finder set towards the night sky. Radar radio, nonsuch. A great list of things written down of things for me to do. A great list set in time set in motion. Stand alone against the tree breeze. Stand alone in the garden. Grabbing at straw.

Candy on purpose

Candy on purpose. The matter at hand. Live another day and wreck reigned in to upset proportions. I love the aftertaste that money leaves. The lingering stench. Lagoons filled with murk (oh the murk). Can I revel in the murk? The stand off existence will prescribe then don’t ask why. Shadow makers and mystic fakers and I will drive the car along the pocket. No defense is the best no offense meant none taken. A drawing will always be a drawing. As long as it is drawnt. And side-views cast through rose colored sunglasses take a stab at the night. I’ll take a stab at the night. The night as it was originally intended is a dark thing, a dark thing plopped down along the earth like a soldiers rucksack. Crash glamour is barking and I am still as loveless as a pylon.

Some phrases or titles hit home so hard that they become part of the captions to things that happen in your life. Back in the early 80's on a trip to NYC we went to see this show at the Whitney. You'd be surprised how often you can work this title into conversation.

Curtains

(the door)

Beyond comprehension, awestruck, devastated beyond the tunnel of retribution, sadness. Lost keys in an effort to sideways down the car park. The house not entered, the storm unrealized. Coulda, shouda, winter. Standard lines of truth vs a life well lead. Feet well fled against a sky of high water. Aghast at last weeks unfinished news and the history of good times that will not become of road map. Oh, I’m sorry, did my existence just fuck up your day? Really, I’m not crazy. Really. I’m just relegated to the front lines of my own life, against my will. I will take up arms against the day. Me against them. From the tumbler comes the wicked dice tossed into my face, into my life. Good, smart then fall apart. I hope you find what you’re looking for (the door, the door).

Sonny

Saw a friend