I have Mono. The kind that that lays all sorts of alien seed in the sinews of your neck.



Here is one website's interpretation of the virus:




Here is this website's interpretation:





Anyway that's what it is. Right right. Night night.



Tom, March 30, 2006, 8:06 PM
                                                  






NEWS

March 26, 2006

NEW YORK, NY -- In what's being described as a "bizarre twist of," I believe "fate" was the word, PHIL'S FUCKING OFFICE BURNED TO THE GROUND! Investigators are still looking into the cause of the fire, but I can vouch that this wasn't Phil's doing, as he was in Providence all weekend (setting different kinds of firessss). Besides, Phil loves his job.

Reports from the ground tell us that sharing the floor with Safehouse Pictures, the relatively new, now studioless production studio Phil works/worked at, was Under the Influence Productions, which is/was Ethan Hawke's company. Mr. Hawke had recently returned from Mexico, having shot there a bunch of footage for his latest project. Footage he was apparently quite excited about. I wonder how much, if any, was stored elsewhere.

Definitely lost in the blaze though was the absolute largest CD collection I ever saw with mine own eyes, belonging to a former music supervisor who now works as Mr. Hawke's editor, I think.

Such a shame.





UPDATE: I was just reminded that this is the second of my friends' workplaces to go up in smoke in the past year. Remember when Julianna and her fellow Aardman artists lost their models back in October? Damn.

This is why this world sucks. Places like Aardman and Safehouse burn down while places like [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], [redacted], and [redacted] remain standing.



Tom, March 26, 2006, 6:40 PM           (link here)
                                                  







I sent these to Jenni almost two-ish years ago. Almost two-ish years later I find myself pressed for modernarthur content. Thus, this. They're "from The Ballad of Sleepy Jack and Bargain Jenny by Sleepy Jack Eddie."

    Bloomed in the showroom of the discount store,
    Their's was Love in its simplest form.
    Bargain Jenny, the dotty sales girl.
    Sleepy Jack, homeless troubadour.

            ...

    Nowhere to sleep plus hungry and poor,
    Jack would sneak into the showroom of the discount store,
    Where the beds smelled better than at the shelter,
    And bathroom not synonymous with floor.

            ...

    While the fancier store wouldn't let Jack thru their door,
    Bargain Jenny cared enough to ignore.
    Cared enough to ignore,
    Cared enough to ignore.
    Bargain Jenny cared enough to ignore.

            ...

    And sleep did Jack ever! on that half-priced bed
    (When not feasting on Pop Rocks and Cherokee Red),
    But crossword puzzles to smarten his head
    Were turned down and shoelaces requested instead.

    "What's the point of new laces for shoes with no treads?"
    Wondered Bargain Jenny, with a crooked smile
    of perfect teeth.



Tom, March 26, 2006, 2:28 PM           (link here)
                                                  






I just noticed a painting left in the trash room. I used to have a thing for thrown-away paintings, I used to collect them, as space and priorites permitted.1 Some I would hang up, some would never make it out from behind my bookcase. Most were the only thing I left on the walls when it came time to pack up and move to another apartment, but by then I had usually had my fill.

I left this latest thrown-away painting where it lie though. It would have had to have been truly exceptional for me to justify picking it from the trash at my age, and it wasn't. Our tolerance for irony lowers, I'm finding out, and this thrown-away painting was nothing I hadn't picked from the trash before.

It was of the Abstract Expressionist genre.2 Rendered in a palette heavily favoring red and muted purples. Mauves, I guess. And though every time I say something like this it gets me yelled at,3 I digress and assume that Untitled (The Thrown-Away Painting Currently In The Trash Room) was painted by a female. In fact, I've assumed that of many of the thrown-away paintings I've found. A lot of them have shared in their compositions, their abstractions, a certain womanliness--not necessarily feministness, not necessarily bows and kittensness, but certainly not manliness, or even gay manliness.4 I digress further and assume that the thrown-away painting currently in the trash room, what with the red and mauves, is a comment on menstruation. A bold comment in fact, given its large size.5

Or maybe those are the only colors she had to work with.6

Either way, in a matter of hours, the murdered creation of one of my articidal neighbors will be taken away with the trash and I will have done nothing to stop it. Not sure how I feel about that.


1Though, of course, I can never know for sure, I'm assuming most of the paintings I have found in the trash have been thrown-away by their respective artists, and here's why: A lot seem to be unfinished, past the point where scraping clean the canvas and starting over is an option, but rarely being branded with their artist's signature. Some have still been wet. Also, I do not go looking for this particular type of garbage. The paintings I have found were not buried in the trash, but rather almost on display. There for the taking. I've attributed this to the suffering that pervades amateur Expressionistic painting. Many of the artists, I'm sure, toss their paintings in the trash with as much attention to angst as they began them, perhaps even picking them out and tossing them in again, so that they land just right. And then slowly walking away from the scene. I've always assumed if someone were to throw away a painting they received as a gift, the guilt would weigh heavily on them as they did so, and the painting would be sufficiently buried.

2Most thrown-away paintings I've found have been Abstract Expressionist ones. I only ever found three that were not: A paint-by-number found on the Upper East Side. A botched self-portrait that was perhaps on its way to becoming abstracted when the artist, a student at the University of Cincinnati, just said, "Fuck it." The word JESUS in neon pink fingerpaint, thrown-away out front a Catholic elementary school.

3Which is way unfair.

4To try and compare them to an artist I know would be difficult as I have neither met nor learned of anyone in my art history classes that they could be compared to. There might be some Outsiders out there that bear resemblance, but I'm not familiar enough with Outsider Art to know who or whom that might be.

5An estimated 30" x 40" rolled canvas.

6On his death bed, Picasso confessed that his infamous Blue Period was brought on by a drop in the price of blue pigment.7

7That's a lie. Picasso is not the animation industry.




Tom, March 25, 2006, 10:42 PM          (link here)
                                                  






One of these pictures is of moldy guacamole. The other is of a Spawn comic book cover.



Tom, March 24, 2006, 11:59 PM          (link here)
                                                  








If you were to swing by my place right now what you would find would be a feverish, forgetful, cracker-crumby, swollen half a neck attached to a rickety skeleton hiding under six layers of shirt and cardigan. I'm sick is what I'm saying. If you're not put off by that, swing by. I just put some soup on.



Tom, March 21, 2006, 5:27 PM
                                                  








"If you're going to walk around in a half-naked Princess Leia slave outfit, don't give me guff if I want to hold your chain," said Rick.



Tom, March 10, 2006, 12:14 PM          (link here)
                                                  






Thomas Kinkade is apparently in trouble. Not the Thomas Kinkade? Apparently. In trouble? Yep.

In a related story, Jonas Kingsley, the self-proclaimed Painter of LifeTM, lies dead on his living room floor, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head.



Tom, March 8, 2006, 12:30 AM           (link here)
                                                  






On Christmas Day last year, Marcy Wallace gave her brother Jeff Henderson a copy of The Triumph of Sociobiology by John Alcock. On the inside she penned the following.
    to
    Jeff
    from
    Marcy
    Christmas 2005

Marcy hoped the book would convince Jeff that the concept of sociobiology does not allow him to be a dick to his waitstaff. Jeff owns a restaurant outside of Alameda, California and he and Marcy got in an argument over whether or not he gave his waitstaff enough overtime pay on Thanksgiving Day. His reply, which angered Marcy to no end--when did her brother become such a meathead, she wondered--was, "Hey, man. Survival of the fittest."

Jeff told Marcy he would read the book and he actually did give it a shot. He made it 61 pages into The Triumph of Sociobiology before concluding that his sister didn't know what she was talking about and that the book was about loving your pets too much, something called the whirligig beetle, and bird sperm--not overtime pay on Thanksgiving Day. He promptly traded The Triumph of Sociobiology in for some old car mags at a used bookstore which then sold it to me via Amazon.com.

The thing is though, I'm already on Marcy's side.



Tom, March 6, 2006, 11:41 PM           (link here)
                                                  







In 1976, three really good movies were nominated for Best Picture: Network, All the President's Men, and Taxi Driver. And the Oscar went to Rocky.

I forget what won last night.


Photo by Charles, of course


Tom, March 6, 2006, 12:31 PM
                                                  






(g.i. joe is weirder than i remembered)



Tom, March 4, 2006, 6:27 PM