J.D. King

Buildings

2012-02-27T06:12:00.005-05:00

"I see the 'fifties apartment house. It's bleak in the nineteen-seventies sun." (Jonathan Richman)

Ancient Ritual

2012-02-27T05:57:00.003-05:00

For Sonny Simmons, Charnett Moffett and Zarak Simmons.

The Clutter Family

2012-02-26T07:08:00.001-05:00

"Jolene K. came over and I showed her how to make a cherry pie. Practiced with Roxie. Bobby here and we watched TV. Left at eleven."

(The final entry in Nancy Clutter's diary, written an hour or two before she, her brother, her mother, and her father were slaughtered November 15, 1959 in Holcomb, Kansas.)

Truman Capote learned of the slaying when a small newspaper article caught his eye and imagination, whereupon he traveled to Kansas and began work on a book, In Cold Blood.

KAC Gallery, Winter Collection

2012-02-13T10:34:00.005-05:00

These three images are included in the Winter Collection show at the KAC Gallery, Clinton, NY, Vartan Poghosian the manager extraordinaire.

The first two are very recent, part of my "Pretty Poison" series. Both are 8" squares, signed giclees, editions of three.

The third, "Primitive," is from a signed giclee edition of ten.

The KAC Gallery, new to central NY, offers a rare dose of off-the-beaten-path art for this philistine region. The artists showing at the KAC Gallery are accomplished and contemporary, the work ranges from modern to post-modern. I'm very happy to be included.

The opening is tomorrow, Valentine's Day, from 5 to 9.

The KAC Gallery

7 West Park Row

Clinton, NY, 13323

(315) 269-3677

Doom & Gloom

2012-02-03T06:52:00.007-05:00

This is the latest graphic by one "Highsmith Expat" for Public Illumination Magazine, the world's tiniest international publication since 1979. The topic this go 'round is: doom and gloom. A big thank to to Rank Cologne, bon vivant and raconteur extraordinaire, and to Mr and Mrs America and all those sinking ships at sea.

Beatlemania

2012-01-28T08:10:00.004-05:00

"Bee-oh! (Clap!) En-oh! (Clap!) Em-oh! (Clap!) Bonomo! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Clap!) It's Bonomo! Turkish! TAFFY!"

Donna, Patti and Deb were in this real good mood, singing, dancing down the hallway. It was real sweet and funny, them singing that commercial. They sounded good, they really did.

"Bee-oh! (Clap!) En-oh! (Clap!) Em-oh! (Clap!) Bonomo! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Clap!) It's Bonomo! Turkish! TAFFY!"

Of the three, Donna's the best looking. She's the best looking girl in the whole junior high, maybe even the entire world. I mean, name any movie star, and she puts 'em all to shame. She really does. Her hair's strawberry blonde, in a beehive. It always reminds me of the cotton candy you get at Coleman Brothers Carnival. And she's got these green eyes, like glass, and this spray of freckles across the tiniest nose. You wouldn't think a nose could be so cute, but hers is, and it hovers over this easy smile. And her voice just sends me, it reminds me of church bells off in the distance, I swear. I love that voice.

Donna never wears makeup. All her friends do, but she doesn't. And she looks better than them, better than anyone, really. And today she was wearing a plaid skirt with suspenders, the hem short, above the knees, a white blouse with french cuffs and her really tuff little ankle-high black boots. I mean, she's just perfect. And the best part is, she's not the least bit stuck up, she's a really good kid. Some of the sharp girls are stuck up, but not Donna. I love that perfume she wears. All the sharp girls wear it. I should find out what it's called and buy a bottle someday, so I can sniff it whenever I want.

Yeah, I'm in love with Donna. I was from the moment I saw her, the first day of seventh grade, in home room, I'll never forget seeing her that first time. Sometimes we talk on the phone. I love her voice. After we hang up, I kiss the receiver, honest, I do.

If you saw her, you'd be in love with her, too. You really would. But Owen's her boyfriend. They've been going steady since, like, forever. Fifth grade, she told me. They'll get married someday, for sure. Still, I love her. I think about her all the time. I can't help it.

Anyway, the Bonomo song. That's how it began, the last day of seventh grade.

It's been quite a year, really, when you stop and think about it. I mean, it started off nice and fun, everything was Sugar Shack and My Boyfriend's Back, but then Kennedy got shot, and everyone seemed gloomy until just after New Year's. Then everything was Beatlemania, everyone was excited again with The Beatles and The Dave Clark Five and The Searchers and everything.

Just before Christmas vacation, though, there was one good day. Banjo Eyes, I mean, Mr. Gagliardi, cancelled gym class, we didn't have to suit up, and it was boys and girls together, he held a little dance right there in the gym for us. He said it was time we started preparing for sock hops and stuff. He played some 45's over the PA system: The Marvelettes, The Impressions and Major Lance. And Mickey's Monkey, I love that song, I really do. So we danced around. Doing The Twist, Donna lost her footing and slipped a little, but caught herself without falling and said, "Woops! La dee dah!" never missing a beat. It's stuff like that that makes you love her even more, if that's possible.

At the very end, Mr. Gagliardi held up a 45 and said, "In my opinion this is the single most significant popular song of 1963." He's a young guy, for a teacher, so he listens to WPOP and all, he's pretty sharp for a guy with banjo eyes, I'll give him that. Then he gave the record a spin.

"Deet! Dunt dunt dunt. Dunt dunt... Louie lew EYE aye... We gotta go now, yi, yi, yi, yi... LET'S GO!"

Marvin says it's got dirty words, but no one can understand most of them, although I can make out some of them, and they are pretty dirty. Anyhow, that was a real good day even if Kennedy was dead and all.

I don't tell people this because I'm not exactly winning too many popularity contests, but I felt sorry for Oswald, when I saw him get shot. Don't get me wrong, I liked Kennedy and all, he seemed pretty sharp, and I felt bad for his wife and kids and all. But when I saw Oswald get shot, that's when I got real sad. Like I said, I don't tell that to people, but it is how I feel.

After The Beatles hit, it was Beatlemania: Beatle hours, Beatle magazines, Beatle cards and stuff. One day, Lenny, this real weakling kid, wore a Beatle wig to school and got some attention for once, he was kind of a hit for once. But when he went to the boys' room, a bunch of hoody kids, eighth-graders, were in there, smoking. They yanked the thing off Lenny's head and tossed it in a toilet. He started blubbering, said his sister bought it for him, and Stanley, the leader, called him a crybaby and told him The Beatles were fairies and told him to get the hell out, go piss in the girls' room with all the other girls. On the way out, Stanley gave Lenny a kick, a hard kick, in the ass. I think that was really uncalled for, that kick. I mean, Lenny was already crying, how much do you want out of a guy?

I never had money for Beatle records, but when the old lady's out of the house, I'd listen to them on the radio. I love The Beatles, not as much as I love Donna, but I do love them.

I remember when Mr. Deros intercepted that note Owen sent to Donna. He read it out loud to the class. And this is what it was, Owen'd written out the lyrics to PS: I Love You. That was so tuff. We laughed and all, even Owen and Donna, especially the way Mr. Deros read it, all lovey-dovey, but, really, it was pretty tuff for Owen to do that. They'll get married someday. I wish I could hate Owen, but I can't, he's a real good kid. Actually, I'd like to be him, if you want to know. He has it made. I wish I was Owen.

The thing is, after school today, I got this real bright idea to skip the bus ride home, I'd walk it. My report card was real bad, one C, the rest D's, even worse than last semester. I was in no hurry to get home. So I walked, all the way down the long hill, around the corner, past The Pizza Palace and all the gas stations, stopping at the one with the '51 Ford custom, I love that car. It's candy apple green, so tuff. Then I got going again, along the factories, over the bridge - the air smells so good up there on the bridge, and spitting in the river is real fun. Then into town.

From town to home is one long walk, and I'd already had a real long walk, I was beat, but like I say, I was in no hurry to get home with this report card. My old lady's been the Creature From The Black Lagoon ever since the old man split. It's just the two of us in that crummy little house. There's times I've wished her dead, I swear. She's always on my case. It can drive me nuts. And with this report card, I knew I was done. Order the tombstone.

As long as I was in town, I figured, why not go to Woolworth's, thumb through the records? It don't cost nothing to look, as my old man used to tell me. I made a beeline to The Beatles bin, and when I saw Meet The Beatles, I just had to have it. But I don't have money, I don't have an allowance. My old man don't send us nothing, we're on relief, the idea of an allowance is a joke. Now, I know what Joey said: No one, not even him, has ever shoplifted even a 45 out of Woolworth's, let alone an album, on account of The Witch, this old bag who watches all us kids like a hawk, like we're mice for her to eat or something. But that made me want it all the more. And I remember seeing, on this TV show, that if you walk out a door, backwards, they won't notice, they'll actually think you're walking in the joint. And it was warm out, all the doors propped open. So I picked up the record, like I owned it, acting real casual - even if I was sweating icy bullets down my ribcage and my knees were flubber.

Anyhow I did it, just started walking backwards out the door, whistling. That's when I heard The Witch. "What do you think you're doing?! Come back here with that record, you little punk!"

I was shoving people out of the way, running down Main Street as fast as I could, as fast as you can run in these shoes. I mean, pointed toes, Cuban heels - with cleats?! Try it sometime - in tight pants! My heart wasn't in my throat, it was in my mouth, I could practically spit it out on the sidewalk. Then I started skidding along on my cleats, slammed into a fat man, sent him sprawling. I heard his pants rip, he was cursing, but I had no time to learn some new swear words, I just kept going, sprinting, past McCann's Hardware, I knocked over a mom and her little boy, saw Bondi's Barbershop go by in a flash. Then a hard right, down Bank St., a left, up that hill, the big one, to where all the dormitories are for the college kids, until I knew I was safe. My sides hurt SO much, and I was gasping for air, like a drowning guy, but I was safe. And I owned Meet The Beatles.

I tore the plastic off the cover, a gust carried it away. Then I decided to lie on the lawn, face down. The cool grass felt so good, so refreshing, like Coca Cola, so I just stayed like that, holding my record. I could hear the college kids walking near me, one laughing, "What's with that kid? Did he die?"

I fell asleep.

I woke up, all groggy, it was getting dark and chilly, and I had a forty-five minute walk ahead of me, my legs were all shaky and I was thirsty as anything, no dough for a soda.

What a drag it was getting home to that dump with the peeling paint. I was dead tired, dying of thirst, my feet were blistered and killing me and I knew the old lady was going to slit my throat. I was scared. Exhausted and scared. Actually, I guess the word is dread. I was filled with dread.

I tried to sneak in, but she was at the door in a flash. You wouldn't believe a fossil could move so fast. She'd been in the kitchen dicing onions, chopping them to bits with the knife, the big one, but there she is, in front of me, yelling at me. I hate it when she yells. It drives me nuts, it really does, I can't stand that voice - even when she's not shouting.

"Where have you been?! Why weren't you on the bus?! Where's your report card?!"

Then she spots the record and says, "Where'd you get that? You don't have no money! Where'd you get that?!"

"A kid gave it to me."

She called me a liar, ripped the report card right out of my hand, sent my record flying, slapped my mouth. When she saw those grades, she exploded all over again, said I was no good, just like my old man, the drunk. Then she remembered the record, started in on that a second time. She knew I boosted it, she can read me like a book, she's like a gypsy fortuneteller. She slapped me across the face again and again. I screamed, "STOP IT! STOP IT! YOU'RE HURTING ME! WAIT A MINUTE! WAIT A MINUTE! WHAT'RE YOU SO MAD ABOUT?! AT LEAST I PASSED EVERYTHING! I WON'T HAVE TO REPEAT! A KID GAVE IT TO ME!"

I used my hands to shield my face, but then she slapped the back of my head so hard I saw stars, I swear to God.

She kept whacking me, screeching, calling me a liar and a crook and a retard.

I ran into the kitchen - but still with the hitting and the screaming.

All I could see was red. I can't stand being yelled at. Why couldn't she just, at least, have shut her trap?! That voice of hers drives me crazy, it's like it's all out of tune or something. Why couldn't she have just hit me?! Kept her yap buttoned?!

But no, she kept at it. And at it... I tried to make a break for it, but she was stationed in the kitchen doorway, blocking me like some kind of Green Bay Packer, shifting left to right, on her toes, left to right, on those little feet, snorting like a beast.

Anyway, officer (deep breath... exhale)... that's when I picked up the knife.

In Brief...

2012-01-19T09:15:00.004-05:00

Here is a recent illustration of mine for a business trade magazine, Briefings. (And you let your subscription lapse!) The topic was crowdsourcing.

Portrait of a Teen-Age Crybaby

2012-01-10T10:06:00.015-05:00

Warren Germond wasn't the brightest kid by any stretch. And his head was pointy, a cartoon of a nuclear nosecone. With his parents and little brother, Nicky, he lived in a cramped two-bedroom brick ranch plunked onto a quarter acre of Rhode Island crabgrass and dandelions.

When he was arrested, caught red-handed spray painting a fleet of school busses with swastikas and hammer-and-sickles that August night, tears of inchoate adolescent rage flooded in his eyes as smirking cops led him away, the can of black Krylon on the parking lot tarmac, forgotten.

"C'mon, punk! Don't be a crybaby!" said the officer directly behind him, kicking Warren in the ass, good and hard, right on the tailbone, sending white razors into the teen's eyes. "What's up with all that commie jazz, anyway, asshole?! My brother's in Vietnam, asshole!" the cop bellowed, following with another well-placed kick. Touchdown!

They shoved the miscreant into the back of a patrol car, its rooftop light twirling, slicing the night, before the driver hit the siren, gunned it to headquarters.

(Warren had little chance of getting a date with any girl, let alone Lisa Maroni, that stuck-up rich blonde on Olympus Drive. A date? She never would've given him the time of day for all the "16" magazines in the world, prior. But after this?! Better get a Timex, kid. On the verge of seventh grade, the preteen queen of her purview has her pick of the litter, no time for a mangy old mutt with a rap sheet.)

Roused from a warm bed, Mr Germond drove downtown, seeing red. In three quick strides he entered the police station, saw Warren sitting stupidly on the oak bench, and socked him in the mouth with two quick punches - a left, a right - to the delight of the cops.

"You snotty little cocksucker!" he hissed at his son, eyes squinting in fury and humiliation.

Since dropping out of high school at the first opportunity last year, Warren whiled away the days drinking grape soda, sniffing glue, watching TV, thumbing through comic books, smoking the Tareytons he swiped from his mom's purse, and sneaking out of the house at night so he could jerk off outside Lisa Maroni's house, hidden by a tree, a sightline to her bedroom as she undressed before lights out. Only about ten feet away from him, she had stripped naked, head to toe, illuminated in stunning detail, night after night, all summer long. What a show! He couldn't believe his tremendous luck. Thank God someone planted this big fat tree right here! It was his special tree, a friend of sorts.

Someday, someday soon, he'd marry her. Maybe her parents will fly to Rome or Paris, and their plane will crash, orphaning Lisa? He'd step right up! They'd drive to one of those hillbilly states where they could tie the knot, all legal and moral and shit, a Johnny Reb preacher man to officiate. Or, maybe, after he introduces himself, after she gets to know him a bit, gets to see the wonders that are Warren, he'd move into her bedroom? During the day he could hide in her closet or under the bed. Or something. At night? Heaven! Paradise on earth...

O! For that first night together, losing their virginity in total communion, as one with each other... She was so beautiful, like one of those magazine fashion models.

When we're married, I'll have Nicky move in with us. Just us three in the lap of luxury on Olympus Drive, looking down on the peasantry below, looking down on mom and dad. Fuck 'em, the finks!

Married to Lisa... They'd dine in downtown Pawtucket, at Chez Pierre's, all fine and fancy. After dining, a gentle rain falling, they'd walk, no need for an umbrella. "Let it rain!" They'd laugh, holding hands.

A loner, Warren Germond, a.k.a. Germ, had no friends. Even before he dropped out, he'd been friendless. All he had were some distant heroes: Johnny Unitas, Richard Speck, Hugh Hefner, Lee Harvey Oswald. And Jay & The Americans. Of course, Jay & The Americans. He'd shoplifted all their records, even wore velour pullovers with lace-up necks, just like theirs. In front of the bathroom mirror, Germ struck poses a la Jay, combed his hair like Jay.

Seated, staring straight ahead, in the pale-blue Chevy Biscayne on the trek back, father and son didn't speak, but every so often, without warning, Mr Germond struck out, socking his boy on the temple, on the ear, on the jaw. (Like Candid Camera, it was when you least expected it.) Germ detested his father, and he detested the Chevy. It was so bush. Biscaynes rot. It didn't even have white walls. He was kind of used to getting punched by his dad, but a Biscayne? That was no class.

The Chevy pulled into the gravel driveway, they got out and trudged into the house, wordlessly. Mrs Germond sat on the plastic-covered chintz living-room sofa in a bathrobe and pink fluffy slippers, lights off, TV on, it sending ghastly bluish shadows dancing across the yellowing wallpaper.

"How could you do this to us?!" she wept, her voice tight and croaky. Warren hated that voice, hated her voice in general, but really hated it when it got like that, like some old scrubwoman's. Why couldn't he have boss parents? Parents with a cool house and a cool car?

"What will the neighbors say?!" she sobbed.

"FUCK THE NEIGHBORS!"

In a flash, Mr Germond moved in for the kill, all fists and feet, pummeling the kid, knocking him on his hip, punching and kicking without a plan, a hurricane unleashed. Warren crawled towards the front door, but his dad jumped ahead of him, blocking the exit.

"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK TO YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT! AFTER ALL WE DONE FOR YOU? YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

In the background, the TV prepared to go off-air for the night, the nation's tuneless anthem playing, a B&W flag waving, followed by the test pattern.

"AND I GOTTA GO TO WORK IN A FEW HOURS! WHEN THE GUYS AT THE PLANT HEAR ABOUT THIS? I'LL BE A LAUGHING STOCK!"

The torrential assault on Germ continued. Face grimaced, Mr Germond was back in the South Pacific, in hand-to-hand combat with some stinking slimy Jap.

A rib cracked. Even with the door shut, Nicky, now wide awake, could could hear it, clearly, in the bedroom the two brothers shared. He covered his head with the pillow, shut his eyes with all the might the ten-year-old could muster, wished he were in Hollywood, in the arms of Ann Margaret.

"STEVEN!!! STOP IT!!! YOU'RE MURDERING HIM!!!"

Mr Germond paused, icy palm to sweaty forehead, gulping for air like a fish on land. Not a word was uttered for an eternity until Warren, prostrate on the foyer linoleum, whimpered, "I'm... I'm sorry..." Germ's face was to the welcome mat, hiding his tears, but convulsing shoulders betrayed him.

"All right... Get up... Act like a man, not a crybaby..."

"Okay..." Germ gasped, trying to collect his thoughts as emotions raged inside his chest like a racing pack of rabid hyenas.

A minute or two later, on his feet, wobbly, he leaned against the wall with an outstretched hand, stared down at the umbrella stand, nearly puking into it. His other hand gingerly tested his ribcage, he winced in pain, almost fainted. Taking a deep breath, he winced again.

"But just one thing..." he said.

"What's that?" Mr Germond said, still panting, a sliver of mercy entering the steely voice.

There was a long parched silence, the clock on the wall tick-tocked minutes away... Mr and Mrs Germond stood stock still, Warren breathed huskily.

Finally, the teenager cleared his throat, twice, took a breath, then screeched, "YOU'RE A DIPSHIT, THAT'S WHAT! FUCK YOU! AND FUCK YOUR STUPID JOB, TOO! WHYN'TCHA GET A GOOD JOB?! LIKE MR MARONI?! HE'S AN ARCHITECT, NOT SOME LOUSY FACTORY SLOB!"

With that, Warren ducked past his stunned parents, sprinted through the living room, into the dingy kitchen, sneakers skidding on worn tiles. He banged into the Formica table, knocked over a chair, and dodged out the back door, tears streaming down his face, into the yard, then the woods. His parting words were, "GET LAID, ASSHOLES!"

It was a starless night, as dark as Germ's heart. But he'd grown up here, had spent countless hours in these woods, knew his way, didn't stumble, didn't fall. No way his pop could follow him in the pitch black through this thicket, the stupid old bastard. Warren was free. For now.

Making tracks, he circled around, across the Edwards' front yard, behind old man Roberts' tool shed, up the hill, trotting a quarter-mile until he came to the Maroni's. Warren's breathing was heavy, his side was killing him. In Keds he was quiet as a ghost rounding the corner to Olympus Drive. The air was thick with humidity and crescendos of chorusing crickets. Their sound, that August harbinger of September school days, depressed him, even after he'd dropped out. Just the thought of school put him in a funk. Horribly dyslexic, Germ never stood a chance at anything other than shop class. A spazz, he nearly flunked gym. His fever wasn't underachiever, that was the province of the high IQ kids who failed to thrive. Warren wasn't a retard, but he skirted those waters. Reading Dear Abby was a chore.

Set back from the road, its front protected from view by willow trees, the Maroni manse was modern, clean, untouchable, like something on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post, its driveway sealed, smooth as Persian silk. Inside the attached two-car garage sat a Lincoln and a Thunderbird. The spread was a dollop of Beverly Hills in Pawtucket, RI.

Mr Maroni, an amateur jazz musician, kept a set of vibes in his studio. He could improvise cogent swinging choruses of standards like, "How High the Moon" and "A Night in Tunisia." As a young bachelor in Boston he'd been a denizen of the bop scene, sat in with visiting luminaries like Stan Getz and Fats Navarro without disgracing himself - still a cocktail party conversation point-of-pride for him. But that was some time ago, the early-fifties. Today he had a wife and kid, a thriving architectural business in Providence. Ending a long day, he spat a mouthful of Colgate foam into the bathroomsink, rinsed, turned off the light on his way out.

Beside his special tree, Warren pulled back a rock and grabbed a six-inch hunting knife, the kind with a serrated edge, removing it from its leather sheath. He'd stashed it there weeks ago, after nicking it from Anderson's Hardware.

For the first time that night, the clouds cleared, revealing a full moon, the stars shining bright. Crouching, Warren crept across the silvery lawn, his shadow sharp, the blade glinting.

At Lisa's window, Warren peered in, watched her sleeping, the sheet kicked back, her slim legs bare and apart. Blonde hair spilled, obscured those limpid green eyes. His breath caught as he stared at the girl for a spell, left hand clutching the knife, right hand on her window sill. Through the screen he could smell her room, could smell her: she was so close, so very close, but he had to get closer, next to her, on top of her, inside her, she moaning in ecstasy, begging - begging like a hungry dog! - for more... Unconsciously, his hips began to gyrate, hump...

Dizzied by her moonlit beauty, so perfect in every way, Warren began to cry. He whispered something.

Then, hearing a sharp metallic click behind him, he swung around instantly, his knife hand jabbing and slashing, blindly through the tears, into the night.

Still Lifes: Series 2

2011-12-30T13:48:00.006-05:00

As 2011 draws to its close, a special treat for you - and you alone! - Dear Reader: four variations on a still life theme, and a bid for a Happy New Year!

Pretty Poison: Series 3

2011-12-18T14:08:00.006-05:00

Pretty poisons. all in a row, there to tempt you...

Pretty Poison: Series 2

2011-12-15T07:24:00.006-05:00

Series 2, in Technicolor... and glorious B&W; in kandy kolor... and blanc et noir.

Security...

2011-12-14T16:26:00.002-05:00

In these anxious times, you can depend on securityPLUS. Simply give us all of your money, and we'll take it from there, rest assured.

Pretty Poison: Series 1

2011-12-13T14:39:00.006-05:00

Here are the first four images for a new series, Pretty Poison, it taking its title from the 1968 film starring Tony Perkins and Tuesday Weld.

Bring Your Checkbook!

2011-12-11T18:21:00.003-05:00

Hear ye! Hear ye! Come one! Come all! The KAC doors fling open Monday, December 12, 2011! A print jubilee!

Andy and Me

2011-12-11T09:03:00.013-05:00

In the early-eighties I worked at the Dia Art Foundation in NYC, beginning with menial chores - part of the Brasso crew for Walter De Maria's Broken Kilometer, weeding the Earth Room - graduating to night security guard and, eventually, gallery supervisor (read: day guard).

As a night guard, I had the entire Broken Kilometer at 393 West Broadway and the (connected) offices on Thompson St to myself. Of course I snooped through the office drawers, vast flat files of art and papers, a huge Barnett Newman silently observing. While searching, I found a small Warhol, one of the airmail stamp paintings, complete with papers. How easy, I thought, to simply put it in a bag and leave with it some morning. Would they ever miss it? Maybe not. And if they did, it might not be for a long time, years even. I could take it home, bang a nail in the wall and hang up my very own (tiny) Warhol, bask in its glow.

But what if the absence was noticed? Right away? They'd call in the FBI! Everyone would be given the third degree. I'd crack, no doubt.

Okay, but what if I created a forgery, bought an old airmail stamp, had a silkscreen made to the painting's dimensions? Easy enough to do. Then just replace the real with the fake. (They can even keep the pedigree - at which point the phony becomes the valuable and the original becomes worthless?) Not a heist, exactly, but a conceptual art project? Hm.

Anyhow, it was much too ambitious for me, so I never did it. (Or did I? So, long ago, hard to recall...)

Working for Dia had several perks including the annual Xmas party.

One year it was held at Philippa and Heiner's Manhattan townhouse. Being Sufis, they required us to remove our shoes at the door. Then, in stocking feet, we padded upstairs to the festivities. In a brightly lit corner, the rich friends and famous artists sat, the rest of us mingling about. I was standing by myself when Andy Warhol came upstairs. He walked over and introduced himself. We talked only very briefly before Heiner appeared out of nowhere, hands gently placed on Andy's shoulders, gliding him to the official corner, René Ricard waving, "YOO HOO! ANDY!"

What did we talk about? At the time, I was an underground cartoonist, so I mentioned that I knew John Holmstrom, Warhol having had a cameo in Punk magazine's "Mutant Monster Beach Party" fumetti.

(BTW, contrary to the strict house rule, Mr Warhol never removed his Frye boots - and no one asked him to. Royalty has privileges.)

These days I can go to the Munson-Williams Museum in Utica where a Warhol electric chair painting hangs, and, when the guard's out of the room, graze my fingertips across its surface, pick up a current from the heavens, my feet grounded to the floor.

Pop Grids

2011-12-07T09:37:00.004-05:00

Here is a new series, variations on grid patterns with a Pop accent. More and more, I enjoy working with a grid within a square, using circles and squares. Other inspirations come from unexpected sources. For instance, the blue and the yellow-green came from an ad I saw in the background of a scene in a 1980s episode of "Murder She Wrote" on Netflix the other night. I made a note, wrote down: blue and yellow-green.

Happy Holidays, 2011...

2011-12-01T06:48:00.002-05:00

I'm wishing various and sundry a Mod / Pop holiday season!

Still Lifes: Series 1

2011-11-29T18:01:00.004-05:00

Variations on an interior theme.

EMERGENCY!!!

2011-11-27T09:03:00.004-05:00

EMERGENCY! DEATH! BLOODY MURDER! FIRE! FLESH BURNED TO THE BONE! TOXICITY! A HORRIBLE ACCIDENT! IT'S TERRIBLE! CALL 911! HORRIFYING! THEY'RE STILL ALIVE?! I'D RATHER BE DEAD! EMERGENCY! THEIR GUTS ARE HANGING OUT! DISGUSTING! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!!!

Colors & Forms: Series 23

2011-11-22T06:28:00.002-05:00

A composition... set in time... suspended in animation... for the ages... just around the bend... a memory of a ghost, footsteps down the hall... or so it would seem.

Colors & Forms: Series 22

2011-11-19T07:18:00.008-05:00

Further adventures in geometry, something I flunked as a teen - and still would today.

These are inspired by the logo for Square Stamping Manufacturing Company in Barneveld, NY. The first image is a pretty direct nick, basically just color changes. The rest are extrapolations from the previous.

When I saw the sign I thought, "That's modern art. On canvas in a gallery or a museum it's minimalism a la Ellsworth Kelly or Sol LeWitt."

The company's original building next door has a sign with old-timey lettering that looks like something that could've been done by cartoonists Robert Armstrong or R Crumb.

BTW, besides Kelly and LeWitt, some of the artists who influence me are Richard Paul Lohse, Stuart Davis, Paul Klee, Auguste Herbin, Joan Miro and the Pop artists, especially Andy Warhol. All are constant sources of inspiration, along with many others.

Conversationally...

2011-11-18T07:49:00.004-05:00

Wither goest the conversation when it stagnates? At said juncture, a new conversation is called for, complete with a fresh vocabulary. Enter Bloc, a duo intrepid, mixing the brash with the anodyne, wondering where or when...

Mark Your Calendars!

2011-11-05T07:17:00.006-04:00

This is a promo card I created for Sculpture Space.

Sculpture Space is Utica, NY's international artist residency program, 35-years-old and going strong. The Sculpture Space site can be seen here.

1967

2011-10-30T08:09:00.003-04:00

Alcohol is "out" - too old fashioned. Today's switched-on youth are into pot and pills. They're turned on, tuned in and dropped out.

In their mod/pop/op styles they au go-go the night away to rock bands with bizarre names, the weirder the better: Big Brother & The Holding Company, The Freudian Slips, The Velvet Underground, Jefferson's Airplane, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Ultimate Spinach, Charlie & The Chaplains. Special fave-raves at the hippest discotheques this month is a "fuzz-box" group, Vanilla Fudge.

Only in 1967, kids! Only in 1967!

Sincerest Form..?

2011-10-21T10:53:00.016-04:00

Terry Richardson's photo of Kirsten Dunst in last Sunday's New York Times' T magazine (top) bears a resemblance to a famous series of photos taken by Bobby Grossman in the nineteen-seventies. Shown here are Bobby's portraits of Andy Warhol, David Byrne, Debbie Harry and David Johansen.

More of Bobby's fantastic work can be seen on his site.

All photos copyright the photographers.

USPS

2011-09-29T07:32:00.003-04:00

Last week I created a dozen icons, apps for an iPad version the USPS magazine, "Deliver." Here are my favorite nine of the batch.

A Day in Dubrovnik

2011-08-18T09:43:00.007-04:00

Here are four images created this week while listening to and being inspired by The Modern Jazz Quartet's 1987 album, "Three Windows," especially the suite, "A Day in Dubrovnik."

The Modern Jazz Quartet were like a Swiss timepiece, if a watch could swing. They enjoyed a certain degree of popularity in the postwar years. Indeed, they provided an apt soundtrack to that era for those in the know. If you're unaware of their eloquent and sophisticated approach to jazz, seek them out. Criswell predicts, you shan't be disappointed...

Today's Washington Post

2011-08-01T05:34:00.003-04:00

Here's my cover for Capital Business magazine in today's Washington Post. The topic is businesses "rebranding." Big shout-out to Meredith Bowen, one savvy art director!

Remembrance

2011-07-31T07:50:00.002-04:00

I really do

remember what you did.

And what you did

can never be undone,

hon.

Mister Puss

2011-07-05T09:41:00.002-04:00

Mister Puss extends a cordial luncheon invitation to all the local mice. He says, "Come one! Come all! You'll be most surprised to see what's on the menu..."

44

2011-06-29T08:57:00.002-04:00

Graphics a la mod...

Driven...

2011-06-25T07:21:00.002-04:00

Got some time to waste? Drive around aimlessly.

1105 Media

2011-06-15T08:17:00.004-04:00

Here is a recent job I did for 1105 Media, a trade publication. The topic is a server feeding a variety of devices for students.

Beatnik Silkscreen For Sale

2011-05-11T07:05:00.007-04:00

I am extremely happy with the job Bruce Hilvitz did on this three-color silkscreen, a signed and numbered edition of 100, for Water Row Press, they the publishers of Kerouac, Ginsberg, Plymell, et al.

My work aside, this is one gorgeous print. Bruce is a master craftsman, having worked with many great artists, including R. Crumb. Also, a big thank you to Jeffrey Weinberg and Water Row Press for making this happen!

To see more details and order one via Etsy, cick on the title at the top.

Today's Wall Street Journal...

2011-04-25T05:48:00.004-04:00

These illustrations are for the cover of The Journal Report section of today's Wall Street Journal, the top one for the print, the bottom one for the iPad edition.

The Letter...

2011-04-24T07:05:00.002-04:00

Boat Katzen: Tales of Brave Kittie

2011-04-23T08:18:00.001-04:00

Cityscapes: Series 3

2011-04-17T05:56:00.005-04:00

Colors & Forms: Series 21

2011-04-13T07:57:00.008-04:00

For Richard Paul Lohse, Pauline Boty and all the beautiful cats and chicks making the jazz scene in Copenhagen.

Colors & Forms: Series 20

2011-04-09T05:52:00.002-04:00

For Ornette Coleman, David Izenzen and Charles Moffett at The Golden Circle, Stockholm, Sweden, 1965.

Recent Work

2011-04-08T08:25:00.003-04:00

Two recent jobs, one for The Wall Street Journal, the other for CIO magazine, both incorporating approaches I've been using in my personal work.

Colors & Forms: Series 19

2011-04-07T08:23:00.005-04:00

For Linda Lawson and The Oscar Peterson Trio.

Colors & Forms: Series 18

2011-03-23T08:03:00.005-04:00

Colors & Forms: Series 17

2011-03-21T07:24:00.008-04:00

For Sonny Stitt and Sonny Rollins.

B&W: 4

2011-03-18T06:49:00.002-04:00

B&W: 3

2011-03-17T07:29:00.003-04:00

Colors & Forms: Series 16

2011-03-15T06:01:00.005-04:00

For Erik Satie and Stuart Davis.

Colors & Forms: Series 15

2011-03-13T07:49:00.005-04:00

For Morton Feldman and Ben Nicholson.

B&W: 2

2011-03-11T06:07:00.003-05:00

For Herbie Nichols and Shelagh Delaney.

Colors & Forms: Series 14

2011-03-09T06:55:00.006-05:00

For Emily Bergl and Beverly Kenney.

Smart?

2011-03-08T07:05:00.011-05:00

For today's Wall Street Journal, an illustration re how It's now easier to trade mutual funds on the go, as brokerages introduce apps. Is this availability a good idea? Well...

The top illo is the one used; the image below is one of several others I submitted. These days my MO has been to send in two to four virtual finishes as sketches. Working digitally, this is the easiest way for me to convey ideas.

B&W: 1

2011-03-07T08:27:00.003-05:00

For Stereolab and Patrice Lumumba.

Colors & Forms: Series 13

2011-03-06T08:37:00.005-05:00

For Bill Evans and Mary Quant.

Colors & Forms: Series 12

2011-03-05T04:50:00.006-05:00

For Sol LeWitt and J.S. Bach.

Colors & Forms: Series 11

2011-02-27T07:46:00.006-05:00

My attempt to capture, visually, some Antonio Carlos Jobim warmth amidst this bitter February...

Landscapes: Series 1

2011-02-25T06:36:00.005-05:00

Landscapes inspired by life in the Adirondacks.

Burst: Series 1

2011-02-22T05:45:00.009-05:00

For Ad Gottlieb and Charlie Parker.

Icons: Series 1

2011-02-21T09:00:00.006-05:00

The conversation of the highly trained.

Portrait of Zouzou: 4

2011-02-19T09:35:00.003-05:00

In the Antilles...

Portrait of Zouzou: 3

2011-02-17T07:10:00.002-05:00

La twisteuse...

Portrait of Zouzou: 2

2011-02-15T07:24:00.001-05:00

Swingin' London...

Portrait of Zouzou: 1

2011-02-14T05:59:00.002-05:00

This is the first in a series of portraits I've done of Zouzou (née Danièle Ciarlet): model, actress, singer, dancer, trendsetter, scene maker, libertine and revolutionary. She was born on November 29, 1943 in Algeria.

Colors & Forms: Series 10

2011-02-12T07:00:00.006-05:00

There's a spot in the USA where Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico meet. You can stand there and be in four states at once.

My images of late are something of the same: a place where Synthetic Cubism, Pop, Op, Geometric Abstraction and Minimalism converge.

Colors & Forms: Series 9

2011-02-09T06:00:00.008-05:00

Usually, I post new work without an explanation, allowing the pictures to speak for themselves.

Today, a little verbiage.

Lately, I've been using dot patterns: as statement, as decoration, as mesh, as veil. Maybe the best movie I've ever seen is "Persona." In it, Bergman uses veils and curtains to great visual and metaphoric effect.

Also, with the years I'm increasingly attracted to squares and circles, those perfect shapes; and to grids, both as a device to create a tight order and as something to break away from.

Jazz: Series 1

2011-02-05T05:38:00.006-05:00

Colors & Forms: Series 8

2011-02-03T08:40:00.005-05:00

Colors & Forms: Series 7

2011-02-02T06:19:00.005-05:00

Colors & Forms: Series 6

2011-02-01T06:28:00.004-05:00

Colors & Forms: Series 5

2011-01-31T05:56:00.005-05:00

Colors & Forms: Series 4

2011-01-28T07:26:00.005-05:00

The Monster Mash...

2011-01-27T06:59:00.002-05:00

It was a graveyard smash...

Colors & Forms: Series 3

2011-01-26T06:33:00.008-05:00

More variations based on a grid.

Colors & Forms: Series 2

2011-01-24T06:35:00.008-05:00

Four variations based on a grid.

Colors & Forms: Series 1

2011-01-23T04:33:00.005-05:00

Targets: Series 2 (Diptychs)

2011-01-21T07:23:00.007-05:00

Targets: Series 1

2011-01-18T06:42:00.005-05:00

I love targets, those perfect confluences of function and design. In my graphics I use them at every opportunity.

Targets are prominent in two of my favorite (sometimes overlapping) art-social movements: Mod and Pop.

Here are some targets by me.

Book Cover

2011-01-17T07:54:00.010-05:00

Last year my picture, "The Lost Mystery," was used by Saggiatore, an Italian publishing house, for the cover of "153 Ragioni per Essere Ottimisti," edited by John Brockman.

Below is a photo by Nat Finkelstein of Brockman in the 1960s with Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan at The Factory.

Cityscapes: Series 2

2011-01-14T06:34:00.005-05:00

Katzen: Series 3

2011-01-13T05:38:00.004-05:00

Katzen: Series 2

2011-01-12T07:50:00.004-05:00

Katzen: Series 1

2011-01-09T08:04:00.004-05:00

Airplanes

2011-01-08T08:17:00.005-05:00

Cityscapes: Series 1

2011-01-06T07:10:00.005-05:00

The Wall Street Journal

2011-01-05T07:31:00.002-05:00

This is my illustration for today's Wall Street Journal, an article about finding the right financial advisor.

The Washington Post

2011-01-04T05:35:00.003-05:00

This is the New Year's Eve cover I illustrated for The Washington Post's Weekend section.

New Year / New Images

2011-01-02T05:11:00.007-05:00

Holidays...

2010-12-16T04:28:00.011-05:00

I detest holidays, festivities and mirth,

as well as much on this good, green Earth.

The human race?

It's a terrible place,

an utter disgrace,

a teeming atrocity of overwhelming velocity.

Other than that, everything's A-OK.

Happy Holidays!

Testing...

2010-12-08T13:41:00.005-05:00

This is my latest illustration for Patrick JB Flynn at Rethinking Schools magazine. The topic is standardized testing and its gross inadequacies in evaluating teacher performance.

WFMU

2010-12-02T10:57:00.010-05:00

Over the years I've done several illustration jobs for New Jersey's free form radio station, WFMU.

Here are my three favorites. From top to bottom: for a brochure, a T-shirt (50th anniversary) and a bumper sticker.

Sculpture Space

2010-11-11T10:01:00.006-05:00

Sculpture Space is an avant-garde and international artist residency program tucked away in Utica, NY. I'm happy to say that I'm on the board.

We're gearing up for our annual holiday show. We hope to see you there!

Sculpture Space Mission Statement (adopted 4/29/04)

Sculpture Space is an international residency program that provides specialized studio workspace for professional artists whose focus is sculpture. We are dedicated to the belief that art, particularly sculpture, has the power to strengthen our understanding of the world around us. We are committed to providing artists with the time and resources to fully explore their creative potential. Sculpture Space also seeks to expand public awareness of and support for contemporary art by creating opportunities for artists to share their work with the community through exhibitions, lectures, and educational outreach.

War is Good Business: Invest Your Kids!

2010-11-10T11:05:00.006-05:00

This is an illustration I did about three years ago for Patrick JB Flynn at Rethinking Schools magazine. The article was about the US military's recruiting efforts targeting inner city youth who are especially vulnerable to the lures and lies because of their poverty.

Like Dali's memory, the problem persists. A new administration, an "adventure" revved up in Afghanistan, and war wasn't even a campaign issue.

The Mirage by J.D. King

2010-11-07T06:14:00.007-05:00

It caught her eye, made her brake, that mailbox: a little log cabin, its red flag at attention, practically saluting her. Putting down the blue Schwinn, she walked over, opened the box, pulled out a letter addressed to an APO. From a pocket of her khaki shorts, Tammi produced a chrome-plated lighter, flipped it open, flicked, held a flame to a corner of the envelope. When the burning paper got too close to her fingertips, she let go, the smoking ash dropping to the roadside.

She led her bike by the handlebars down a sandy driveway to the house, a pre-fab log cabin: the mailbox all grown up. Too funny! On the right sat a black SUV with caramel panels, a yellow Support The Troops magnet on its butt, a tin of Skoal on the dash. The sign in the yard read: The Longs.

No barking. That's good.

Up two steps, on the porch. The screen door was closed, but the real door was wide open. Peering in, blocking August noon sun with hands cupped to her temples, she could see the living room, the dining-area, sliding doors to a deck, Lake Kayuta beyond. She rapped her knuckles on the doorjamb. Nothing. She knocked hard. Still nothing.

When she pulled, the screen door opened.

In the living room, she said, "Hello!" Silence. She turned a radio on, then off, proceeded to nose around.

On the mantle, an array of framed photos: perky mom; beefy dad; two young boys; a soldier in desert camos, boot on a Jeep's bumper; some old folks; everyone smiling for the camera. Say cheese, douche bags. Looking around the living room, a flat-screen TV, no books, some magazines: People, Field & Stream, Us.

In the kitchen, Tammi opened drawers, poked through cabinets, scouted the fridge, grabbed a bowl, a spoon, milk and a sealed box of Sugar Pops. She opened the box roughly, like an animal, poured cereal into the bowl, then milk. Leaning against the sink, she ate. The kitchen smelled faintly of spices. She should've been nervous, anxious about someone coming home, but she wasn't. If need be, she'd feed them a story. People are dumb, they'll buy anything.

After the snack, she went down the hall, into a bedroom on the left: bunk bed against one wall, Sponge Bob and Harry Potter posters opposite. Seeing a toy car on the floor, she crushed it under heel.

Next, the other bedroom, past the unmade bed to the dresser, she rummaged drawers. Stashed under dad's socks, some cash: three twenties, one ten, a five, four ones. She put the dough in the same pocket as the lighter. In another drawer, a loaded .38 revolver. She held it with both hands, mimed Hollywood action poses, saying, "Pow! Pow! Pow!" before placing it on the dresser.

Rifling the bathroom medicine cabinet she found a treat: almost a dozen codeine tabs in a green bottle. She popped the container in her other pocket, along with the tube of coral lipstick she used to gesture a smile face on the mirror, an oversized version of the ones she drew in place of the dot over the "i" when signing a love-note.

Sometimes Tammi sent love-notes to several guys at a time. It cracked her up. The lugs fell for that corny bullshit, even older lugs. Especially older lugs.

Back in the bedroom, she kicked off her Keds, stripped off her American flag T-shirt, bra, shorts and panties. Before the mirror, she held her breasts, one in each hand, admired herself, then snuggled into bed, fetal position under the covers, drifted into slumber, breathing the scent of Mama and Papa Whoever.

Close to a half-hour later she rose, did some stretches, then snapped out thirty pushups. "I should join the Marines!" Back in the bathroom, she turned on the shower, adjusted the temp to nice-and-hot, stepped in.

Water blasting, Tammi masturbated, not fantasizing about anyone, just getting off on pure sensation and the danger that, at any second, a stranger could burst in bellowing, "What the hell's going on?!"

Squeaky clean, she got out. Not bothering with the mat, a large puddle spread across the tiles as shook semi-dry, like a dog, her whipping hair splattering the walls. She sang, "Bomp! Bomp! Just a mirage, that's all you are to me..." Tammi'd heard the song yesterday, at her mom's, and it stuck in her brain like bubblegum to the bottom of a movie theater seat.

In the living room, still undressed, she picked up yesterday's Observer-Dispatch, sat down, adding a wet spot to the couch while reading about Utica's latest murder trial.

Bored, she tossed the paper on the floor, went out onto the deck, placed her hands on the railing, leaned forward, saw the pier below, gazed across the lake, took a deep breath, held it and thought, "Lake life is the greatest! Especially during the week when no one's around..." Then she trotted around in a wide circle, head bowed and bobbing, spanking her ass, mimicking a frisky race horse with jockey. The sun felt good on her bare hide.

Returning to the fridge, Tammi rustled up some cheddar cheese, whole wheat bread and a jar of red peppers. She made a grilled cheese in a black iron skillet on the old propane stove. At the dining-area table, the sandwich, with a leftover bag of Fritos, a can of Pepsi and two homemade cupcakes was a fine free lunch. Just as she was finished, was slapping her flat but full belly, a motor boat approached, cut its engine. In the surrounding woods, birds chirped. She got up, stood behind by the sliding glass door, saw the family docking at the pier, towheads hopping out, tying the boat to the landing, just like Pop had taught 'em.

In the bedroom Tammi picked up the .38, clicked off the safety, padded back to the kitchen, slid the door open, stepped out.

From the dock, a family looked up to see a naked young woman on their deck, her right hand on her hip, her left hand pointing a pistol at them. She yelled, "Think fast, motherfuckers!"

Just before Tammi squeezed off the first round, the older of the two boys thought, "Wow! She's beautiful!"

(This story appeared in Obsolete Magazine #2, Rich Dana, editor.)

Like a 45 on 33 by J.D. King

2010-11-06T07:40:00.005-04:00

Only two days after Brian met her at a cocktail party he walked out the front door of his home on Cape Cod and left it all behind: the ocean view, the bank account, the credit card, the mortgage, the car payments, the debt, the wife, the three kids, the kit, the caboodle. With nothing more than the clothes he wore, he strolled down his street, a condemned man who'd slipped through the noose like a greased pig. At the corner he got in the passenger side of her Jaguar, she stepped on the pedal and they left prim puritan New England; sailed Midwest cornfields and prairies like a speed boat; went up, then down the Rockies. When they hit the farthest end of California, she took a sharp north, barreling up 101 to Canada, the Pacific on their left. It took his breath away: the Pacific, and the whole damn thing. He had balls.

Unlike his wife, she was perfect: beautiful, smart and rich - an heiress.

On their way west, they rode two-lane blacktop, slept in rundown motels, ate at roadhouses, honky-tonks, taverns and diners: real America. At forty he felt like fourteen, everything was new. He was in love! He'd fallen in love with her, he now realized, as soon as he saw her at the McKyvers. He marveled at how he'd been expecting another dull affair, then - bolt out of the blue - he was having the affair of the century.

"So, what do you do? Or more to the point, what would you like to do?"

"Oh, I don't know. I teach. English Lit. Here at the community college. But I always wanted to write, really write. Real stuff, novels. The Great American Novel. But, I don't know..." Scratching his head, he took a quick swallow of the gin and tonic in his sweaty blonde paw. Early-September's heat and humidity suddenly became oppressive. He loosened his tie, but sweat ran down his forehead. He removed his fogging glasses.

"It's never too late - provided you have balls," she said, winking. His gaze traveled from her to Joan across the crowded living room, yammering about recipes, no doubt, then back to this tall woman looking straight into his eyes with a stare that hit his heart like an arrow. Brian had never heard a woman say "balls" before. He liked it. "What's your name? You must be new around here."

"Louise, I'm a friend of the Baxters. I'm visiting for a few days, we're old college chums, Yale."

"Harvard," he said. "I'm Harvard. Rah." She smiled at his dry Rah. He dug her smile. Like the wink, it wasn't innocent. Something latent stirred.

He looked back at Joan, and behind her, framed by a large picture window, the Atlantic Ocean: broad and briny, deep and always stormy somewhere. Wheels turned in his head, rusty wheels. As it turned out, they only needed a drop of oil.

The next day, Brian met Louise on the beach as they'd surreptitiously arranged. That's when he knew he had to start anew, to live forever in her green eyes, her raven hair, her raspy voice. He could listen to that voice forever. They made plans, right there, sitting on the beach, waves washing across their legs. He kissed her under the blistering sun more passionately then he'd imagined possible, then scurried home after cooling off in the ocean, up the back steps, in the kitchen, the screen door snapping behind him. Joan was making a pot roast. "Oh God," he thought. "Not one of her heavy, greasy, fucking pot roasts on a hot day like this. Is she an idiot or what?"

"How was the beach, honey."

"Fine."

"Is everything okay? You sound funny."

"Nope. I mean yep. I mean, everything's fine. Couldn't be better."

Joan took a few steps to the sink, farting on her way there.

"'Scuse me!"

"Ugh," he thought. "What a pig..."

The next day, before noon, he was on the road, gone like a coo' breeze.

Good fucking riddance to Joan and her ideas. It was her idea to marry right out of college; her idea to leave Boston for her hometown on quaint Cape Cod; her idea to have children; her nagging that forced him to forsake literary aspirations, to get serious, to provide for a family. He hated Joan and he hated his kids.

The three boys were precisely the sort of kids he'd despised when he was their age: jocks. All year 'round it went: baseball, football, basketball, hockey, wrestling, weight lifting. A fortune spent on equipment and stupid uniforms they outgrew in two months. And games to attend, surrounded in bleachers by insane parents screaming themselves into a purple lather.

A bunch of beefy lunkheads, the boys were, at best, C and D students who never opened a book unless forced to by school. Even then they opted whenever possible for the Classics Illustrated version, Cliff Notes almost beyond their intellectual grasp. Stan, Mick and Dick were 100% Joan's side of the equation, exactly like her shanty Irish brothers.

My boys, he stewed: noisy, head-butting, brawling buffoons. Their idea of fun is punching each other out, seeing just how hard a blow one could withstand to the stomach, the head, the kidneys. Every so often while he was reading, really absorbed in a book, he'd hear an OW! Followed by, "You lose, dickhead!" He wished they were old enough for the draft, could get shipped off to Vietnam to step on a booby-trap or intercept a bullet. Friendly fire would suffice, just glad to see you go, don't let the door hit ya in the ass on your way to the void.

As a teen, Brian had been their opposite: a bookworm, an egghead, Brian the Brain, the butt of jokes, taunts and pranks played by boys just like his boys. My three sons? Fuck 'em!

Brian dreaded Sundays with Joan's family. Her four brothers, all middle-aged, still lived with their parents in the same beat house they grew up in, two to a bedroom; the front lawn trampled to packed dirt by their tackle football games. Brian's first visit to the Delaney's floored him. Prior, he'd never witnessed a home devoid of books. In their bleak house, TVs were the coin of the realm: two in the living room (so they could watch two games at once if need be), one in the kitchen and one upstairs in the pennant festooned den created from Joan's bedroom when she shipped out to college, and one in the bathroom. Pop Delaney and his "boys" never missed a game, even on the crapper. If it were possible, they'd have TVs installed in their cars.

The male Delaney peabrains, however feeble, somehow had the capacity to memorize acres upon acres of sports trivia (stats, scores, winning plays, all-time award winners, etc.) and recite it with an odd mix of pride and a shrug, a sort of victory lap with head bowed, one fist in the air, not two. Naturally, they looked down their sweaty noses at the pantywaist college boy who had zero interest in games.

Raised a Unitarian and currently a devout nothing, Brian was further shunned by the clan. Rolling with the punch of a Catholic wedding Mass and paying for parochial school wasn't enough, especially for Ma Delaney. No, according to her, Brian was speeding toward an eternity in hell unless he joined the Church. And as Ma pointed out, eternity is an awful long time to burn. A billion years ain't even a scratch on eternity's rear-end. She dared him to hold his hand over a burner for just a minute to see how that felt. Just go and try it. And that's only your hand and only for a minute. Imagine that pain all over your entire body - for eternity! One afternoon, Joan's oldest brother, Joe, took Brian aside at a family barbecue and said, "Why don't you just get with it? It won't kill you. Don't be a douche. Heck, you'll go to heaven, for cripe sakes. And it'd make my mother happy." He punched Brian on the shoulder and walked away, ending their man-to-man talk before baffled Brian could utter a word.

There was another time Joe attempted to relate to Brian, while a Bruins game blared on TV. Joe said, "I sorta see football like ballet, only not for ladies or homos." On one hand, Brian appreciated this clumsy attempt at bridging the Grand Canyon. But on the other, he was flummoxed, could only respond with a grunt before Pop Delaney shushed them.

The first time Brian and Joan stayed at the Delaney's, shortly after their honeymoon, but before they'd bought their own house, they slept in the den, on the pullout couch, after brushing away stray peanuts and Frito bits. Still tossing and turning at 2:00, Brian turned on the lamp and tip-toed downstairs trying to find something, anything, to read. That meant The Boston Herald. He brought it upstairs and tried to make a meal out of this stale crumb. Eventually disgusted, he tossed the rag aside, knowing the only reason that Joan's family got a paper at all was for sports, cartoons and the advice column. Jesus fucking Christ, how did a Harvard gal emerge from this primordial ooze?

Pop Delaney, Hiram, was the bottom of the batch, a self-appointed lord occupying his throne, a worn Barcalounger, in front of the twin televisions, pouring peppermint schnapps from a big bottle into a shot glass. His twisted angry mouth swallowing the sugary swill while pontificating about Tailgunner Joe. "He rousted them DC Reds, busted him some State Department Bolshevik ass, that's why them bastids cut him off at the knees, 'cause he gave them commies hell! If you ask me, we should've made him the goddam president! Hell, we should've crowned him the king of this once fine land!"

Why, Brian wondered, does the old turd bother with the formality of a glass? Why doesn't he just guzzle the vile slop straight out of the bottle? Or use a straw? Brian loathed that furious pink face grotesquely wizened by decades of alcohol consumption and the eternal flame of a Pall Mall between his right index and middle fingers, his digits stained deep-ochre to the knuckles. Hiram would hack and wheeze, then light another cig, and prattle on about the great god, McCarthy. Or Agnew. Or, oddly, JFK and RFK.

Trying to crack Hiram's armor, searching for a chink, desperate for some sort of entry point, Brian mentioned his own avid admiration for Bobby Kennedy. The old man simply stared at or through or past or around Brian, said nothing for a full minute before asking him which team Brian favored in the World Series. Dismissed!

There wasn't anything about Hiram that Brian didn't despise, from the top of Hiram's wiry red and white flattop to the soles of his scuffed work shoes to the whistle when he pronounced an S sound. All of it annoyed Brian to the point where his scalp itched, his teeth hurt.

"If Tailgunner was president today, we wouldn't have them looters and rioters running loose in the streets or on the campuses! Burns my biscuits! We give them black bastards everything, hand it to 'em on a silver platter and what do they do? They thank us, the hardworking taxpayers, by burning everything to the damn ground! Worse is the stoonts. I can understand the jungle-bunnies doing what they do, that's what they do. But these rich candy-ass stoonts is what really fries my ass! Send in the National Guard to bust some heads, goddamn! Shoot to kill, goddamn! Show 'em who's boss!"

Typically at some point in the monologue, Bryan winced to a CRASH from upstairs, his boys horsing around with the Delaney men, all in that good sporting fun unique to muscle-bound morons and rabid hyenas. Ma Delaney, bunioned feet propped up on an ottoman, would raise her Bud tall-boy, smile and quip, "Didn't need that vase!" Or, "Win-der busted? We could use some fresh air in this jernt!" How could she be such a doormat, her home trashed by these apes, and she makes light of it? Looking at at her, Brian could see what Joan was going to look like in time, his stomach souring.

Sunday dinner at the Delaney's was boiled hot dogs in Wonder Bread buns highlighted with taxi-yellow mustard, served on paper plates, eaten around the game (or games) on TV, Hiram breaking wind often and loudly, each time Ma Delaney, smiling an idiot's grin, holding up her beer can, shouting, "Yeah!" To which Hiram raised his glass in her direction, eyes still pinpointed on the television, yet gentlemanly enough to acknowledge her admiration of his prowess in effluvia. The dinner vegetable was a big bowl of Stateline potato chips, dessert an open box of Oreos.

He washes down hot dogs with peppermint schnapps. How? How can he do that?

In better weather, Brian would sneak out to the backyard and smoke a Tareyton or go for an aimless walk around the weary neighborhood of clapboard houses in need of paint, maybe down to the shore, looking across the Atlantic, wondering if he should attempt swimming to Spain. The worst that could happen would be death by drowning. Or sharks. Not too shabby, considering. And if he made it? A lifetime of Mediterranean siestas, fiestas and a flamenco dancer in knee-high black boots, high-flung hands click-clacking castanets, breasts thrust forward, dark eyes closed, a crimson rose clenched in sharp white teeth, a haughty curl to her fulsome lips. A thought. Then he tossed his cig to the sand and trudged back to the Delaney dump, hoping Joan and the brood would be ready to leave.

Why did I marry Joan? Because no one else would ever have me, the eccentric wallflower. She was the best I could do. And early on, there was a magic, a hint of romance, a fighter jet skirting the lower ionosphere of love, or at least a fairly intense like. But if I had any idea of where it would ultimately lead, I would've remained a bachelor, turned gay, joined a Tibetan monastery or the French Foreign Legion, anything but waking each day to her dull insipid kewpie doll face and the incessant racket of our lousy offspring.

It was in a motel in Sioux Falls, Iowa, around one in the morning, Brian and Louise in bed, drinking red wine, sharing a joint, that he declared he was going to do it, he was going to write The Great American Novel. He smiled, "I have balls!"

Louise said, "You know what? Tomorrow morning let's go out and get my guy a brand new portable typewriter, a ream of paper, some carbons and a few spare ribbons. Then you can get to work! You'll be famous! I just know it, darlingest!"

By noon, while Louise lounged poolside, Brian twisted a fresh piece of paper into a red Olivetti and said to himself, "Go! Do it, man! Spill! Ding-ding!" He commenced typing, loving the clickity-clack rhythm, like castanets in the hands of his mythical Spanish beauty, of the metal letters punching into virgin paper. Let it flow, tell it! He would create a portrait of a man, a good man, not a saint by any means, but a good man, married to a flabby shrew, living in a sterile seaside New England town with their little monsters: a tale that would, although specific to its time and place, operate as a metaphor for the human condition and slap a j'accuse to the face of the establishment. The shrew's name? Jean. The protagonist's name? Bryan. No, too close. Well, just go with those names for now, this is mach one. There's plenty of time to fussbudget later. For now, just write it, man! Tell your story!

He drank some good, strong, black coffee and took a toke. In a minute he was both jangled and dreamy. He stretched, tried to get his elbows to touch behind his back. Then he thought, "Go for it, man! Go for a thousand fucking pages! Go!" The dust jacket swam before his eyes, something serious and abstract, maybe a type treatment, no corny illustration. Then he drifted into a daydream about his author photo. He'd confront the lens, frown slightly, fist chucked under chin, maybe a pipe in his mouth, tweed jacket, paisley tie and of course, his trusty horn-rims. Actually, no pipe. Too cliché. And he'd hold the glasses, the end of a stem in his mouth, while he scanned the distance. And skip the tie, just a dress shirt with the sport coat. Or, better yet, a safari shirt, no jacket...

A title sprang to mind, "Repent, Said The Jester." Not bad, not bad at all... We're off to the races! Where do these ideas come from?

He took another toke, stood up, paced about the room and envisioned "Repent, Said The Jester" by Brian Stanton reviewed in the New York Times, The Partisan Review and The New York Review, back cover copy by a renowned author trumpeting it as the most important novel in a generation, the book that blows the lid off all the stinking suburban American hypocrisy and the meatheads in big ugly chrome-mobiles who populate it while peasants around the globe struggle and starve and dodge our napalm.

Then he thought about his faculty pals back on the Cape. Boy-o, if those milquetoasts could see me now! He rubbed his hands together, then typed away.

Thinking about Louise, his intense feeling for her, he wondered if he loved her just because she was so beautiful. Then he thought, if she lost an arm, I'd still love her! In fact, she could lose all four limbs and, still, I'd love her! I'd stick with her, I'd prop her up, make her comfy with pillows, feed her, tend to her! Somehow, someway, I'd find the words to make her laugh again. I'd kiss her and adore her!

For the first time in Brian's life, death was something to dread, and not his own mortality. A world without Louise would be like the Milky Way doused, as if the third pillar of the cosmos were yanked out. Infinity would tumble and collapse into itself. He'd known death, both his parents were dead, and a good faculty friend, John Farrah, keeled over one day in class, smacking the linoleum face first, dead before impact, the victim of a massive coronary. Those deaths left Brian sad and shaken, but life marched on. A world without Louise, however, was unimaginable. He planned to dedicate his first novel, all his novels to her. Each time it would read the same: To Louise Alverada, with my profound and eternal love and gratitude. Why not? The princess' kiss had turned the toad into a man, an author.

In a few hours he had five pages. Maybe it was due to his hangover, but the paragraphs lacked sparkle. They were okay, but... He crumpled them into a wad and tossed it in the waste basket just as Louise returned. She stood behind him while he sat before the typewriter, first kneading his shoulders, then running her fingertips through his thinning hair. "How's it going, my little Updike?"

"Great! Fine, just getting focused, the juices are starting to flow. Back in the saddle again!"

Brian loved the sex with Louise. It was wild, the other end of the spectrum from Catholic Joan and her rules about what the Church would and, mostly, would not allow. With Joan, sex was something tidy and tedious, ruled by centuries of decrepit Vatican City male virgins. In bed he could practically see black robed priests in the room with them, peering in the dark like voyeuristic vultures. Louise, thank God, was an urban sophisticate from a long line of radicals and freethinkers. And she grew up in Frisco, not on fucking Cape Cod. Most importantly though, she dug his jokes. The sort of sardonic humor Joan tsked or rolled her eyes at, made Louise bellow. He lived for that hearty lioness roar.

One afternoon, when she was out running an errand, he wept with joy sitting in front of his little typewriter.

They rolled into Laredo as the sun was setting, the sky vulgar with streaks of orange and purple, pink and chartreuse. Strolling the streets of the Old West, they marveled at just how gaudy Mother Nature can be. In a saloon they bellied up to the bar, ordered shots of whiskey and tossed them back like cowboys. He hugged her to him, close. They made out like teenagers.

In their room, in the wee hours, Louise sleeping, Brian got up and quietly slipped out the door, walking the black streets alone. Coming upon a park he went in and, in the deep empty shadows, found a spot and lay down, his face buried in grass. He inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the alcohol still coursing through his veins, his love of Louise, the clean smell of the earth and the fact that he was here, so far from Cape Cod and Cape Codders, by himself in a park at night, precious Louise a short walk away, sleeping.

After they'd nestled in Laredo for a week at the Sunnyside Motel, he'd managed to write nearly two-hundred really good solid pages, the first six chapters. It was inspired and trenchant stuff. He was delighted. The novel seemed to be writing itself, he was merely a conduit who sat at Mr. Olivetti's machine translating the words of the universe into something a 20th century intellectual could devour with joy. It was there, in Laredo, that he finally felt both confidant and eager for Louise to read "Repent, Said The Jester."

Lying on her stomach on the bed, feet pointed ceiling-ward and kicking a little, her first remark was, "Are we wed to this title?"

"I was also considering, 'Waiting For The Men To Die'."

"Hmm."

The next evening, while he was brushing his teeth, he overheard her sigh, "Well, a good editor can work miracles..."

In bed, the lights out, she said, "Sometimes one needs to look at everything with an entirely different perspective, like a 45 on 33. You know, like when you play a 45 RPM record at 33, a song like Rosie and The Originals' 'Angel Baby,' and, in the flick of a switch, the high lonesome voice becomes a knowing basso profundo, and that weird hesitation in the instrumental break transforms into this vast gulf where you're suspended like some sort of trapeze artist without a net, the crowd holding its breath in fear and anticipation. Sure, they'll cheer if you make it to the other side, but what they really crave, in the pit of their nasty little cobwebbed hearts, is to see you fall. They'd have a collective orgasm at your broken, bloody splat. Anyway, an entirely new world, Alice's looking-glass. The I Ching."

Brian didn't know from 45s or rock and roll combos or the I Ching, so he paused, a little too long, then said, "Well, I have been looking at everything - everything - afresh since I first saw you. What do you mean, exactly?"

"Oh, nothing. Come here, you..."

It happened a week later, their first morning in Vancouver, around eleven.

Brian had gone out to get a paper and was loving the day, the sun a dab of butterscotch, a crisp breeze encouraging his step as he admired this city. All the buildings were so tasteful whether modern or antique. The entire city looked as if it'd been art directed for a movie titled, "The Perfect In Every Way Town." Canada! You won't find them invading any Third World countries! Quite the contrary, they're only too happy to accept our true heroes, those boys brave and smart enough to bail on an illegal and immoral war. Our good twin. Louise and I should settle here, an apartment in Vancouver and a place in the country, maybe get some horses, cats and a golden retriever. I'll get in touch with Joan. And a lawyer, get the divorce ball rolling. If nothing else, I should get my ID stuff. She can have the house, the bank account. Fuck it, I've got my freedom, my balls.

He returned to the Barclay Hotel, singing as he took the stairs two at a time to their third floor room, a folded copy of The Sun in hand. He opened their door to find the white envelope staring at him from the ox-blood bedspread. Something was odd, he'd sensed it immediately, even as he shouted, "I'm back, darlingest!" There was no evidence of her except a lingering scent. He opened the envelope. Inside were ten one-hundred dollar bills, nice and crisp, and a note that read, "I'm off! It's been swell, but I may've misjudged? I find good-byes an unpleasant chore for all concerned. Here's a little something to tide you over until you find your footing. Best, Louise."

He drew back the drape and looked out the window, down to the parking lot. Her Jag was gone. He closed his eyes, shook his head a bit and looked again, but still no car.

The sun slipped behind a big gray cloud, erasing all shadows.

Anthony by J.D. King

2010-11-05T06:59:00.002-04:00

The diner being empty, I slid into a booth, ordered a grilled cheese with tomato, fries and a chocolate malt. It was delicious, I loved it. And I loved having the place to myself. No screaming brats, no idiots. I believe that most people are plastic or tin: cheap, breakable stuff. Once in a lifetime you meet someone who's precious.

Watching the parking lot from my window, the noon sun made the sandy dirt glow like gold. A good omen. I grabbed a newspaper from the counter, did the crossword - Wednesday, an easy puzzle, I finished it before leaving, no sweat. I always carry a pen, just in case I run into a crossword. I was a Scout. Be prepared. Also, I'd never borrow someone's pen. You have no idea where their hands have been. In fact, I handled the paper as little as possible. And even then, ate my sandwich and fries with a knife and fork. I wouldn't consider washing my hands in the men's room because, dig this, who's been touching the faucets? Where have their hands been immediately prior?

The waitress was a scarecrow, 80 if she was a day, missing a few teef. Disgusting. It was her birthday. I guessed her age as 39, ha ha. She said, "G'wan witcha!" I left a real nice tip, five bucks. I liked that waitress, and I wish her well. Every so often, I say a little prayer for her. It's not easy being old, and it's not easy being a waitress, they tell me.

My dad? He's not there, even when he's there. Talking to him, face to face, it's like he's in a house around the corner, upstairs in the attic, door locked, the key smelted. Don't waste your knuckles knocking. Or maybe he's on the moon, happy as clam by himself on the moon. My mom's not much better, but more of an actual pain. The first chance, I was out of there. I got a job on the railroad.

That was fine for a spell, then I found work in town, pushing a broom, then a pencil. Moving on up.

One day I said to heck with it, told the boss I was through, left him holding the bag. Buh-BYE! Loved that. Fuck him. Hard and running. Asshole.

I allowed myself three days to sell my junk. Except for some clothes, anything I didn't sell went to Goodwill. I stuffed my duds and a shaving kit in a small carry-bag and walked out of my apartment, owing the jerk of a landlord two months rent. I hate that guy.

Hitting the sidewalk, there was a spring in my step, the old wallet fat with twenties.

In a few blocks I spotted what I needed: an unlocked car. After hot-wiring it, I found a gas-station, filled the tank and hit the road, Jack.

I took the back ways, the scenic route, no plan, unless you call "just drive as far as ya can go on this one tankful" a plan. That was the rule, use up the tank, wing it from there. I was feeling lucky. No map, I just went. Turning on the radio, I found a good song.

After my little lunch, I just kept on trucking, then around six, out of gas, nosed the sputtering Pontiac into a ditch, grabbed my bag and made tracks.

I walked for hours. It was getting dark that June evening when I saw her house, a cabin, the first sign of civilization I'd encountered after an eternity of forest.

She was cutting the grass, using one of those push mowers, no engine, nice and quiet. And let me tell you, the smell of fresh-cut grass just slays me. Love it.

As I approached, kicking a 7-Up can, she said, "Hi!"

"Hi!"

"Whacha doin'?"

"Nothing. Just going for a walk."

"You look thirsty. Would you care for some ice coffee?"

"You bet."

Don't you believe in love at first sight? I do. Just like I believe in wishing on a falling star. I've lived for "some enchanted evening" almost my entire life, since I was three or four. I took that song to heart. And here it was, in living color. She was like a mirage, a Venus in blue jeans. Or Susan Dey in The Partridge Family. Or maybe Karen Valentine getting off that bus in Room 222's opening credits. Karen's expression when the doors slam in her face? That's Amy to a T, in a way.

Whatever. I call Amy "Perfection Plus." And we fell in love at first sight. Just like that. I call her Perfection Plus and she calls me Prince Charming.

We sat on her screened-in porch, sipping our ice coffees, bugs banging against the screens, trying to get at us. I told her I was starting a-fresh, no ties to bind me to the past, such as it was.

Insect life buzzed monstrously out there in the dark void, the sound an entity unto itself, a symphony of life.

She'd inherited a fortune, but desperately needed someone special to share it with, all that dough was worthless if she was alone.

We stayed up to daybreak and rapped about everything: our dreams, our thoughts, our disappointments, all that jazz. It was such a sweet and gentle time, the night breeze caressing us, a bees wax candle casting dim light. In a corner a spider spun its web while the insect multitudes droned. I'd never known anything quite like it. Ever.

The Carpenters are my preferred rock group, and my favorite song of theirs was "Solitaire," but now it's "We've Only Just Begun" because there really are so many roads to choose, yet I chose the exact ones that led me right to Perfection Plus, mowing her lawn.

I often wonder: What if she'd mowed the lawn the day before or in the morning, was indoors watching TV when I happened by? It's things like that that make me believe in prayer and astrology. You can't fight it. The universe? God? Bigger than us, my friend. We're so small in the overall scheme of things. Just roll with it, it's all part of a Big Plan. Give in, go with the flow. Surrender.

Be that as it may, we visited a preacher man at the chapel of love, tied the knot. That was a few years ago. Now we've got the little ones.

Driving around one day, I ran across this defunct amusement park selling off its rides, bought the carousel, ten cents on the dollar, paid 'em cash, then hired some illegals to deliver it, cheap. It's in our backyard. When evening arrives Perfection Plus and her Prince Charming relax on matching chaise lounges, with ice coffees, watching the little ones go 'round and 'round, laughing.

It's like a dream, really.

Family by J.D. King

2010-11-04T08:20:00.001-04:00

One afternoon when I was six, I walked into our living room, blinked at the dark, and told Mum, "When you're happy, I'm sad. And when you're sad, I'm happy."

Lying on the couch, a cold compress to her forehead, she said, "Just shut up!" before sending me to my room.

There was no threat of "Wait until your father gets home!" because Pup was always home, puttering about, in the orchard or running an errand.

In my room, I grabbed a pad of paper, drew a portrait of Mum in green crayon. Then, with a black crayon, I scribbled over it furiously, my tiny left arm pumping like a maniac's until, panting, I was through, the page a mass of black, the crayon a stub.

By the by, that routine? Of lying on the couch with a cold compress on the tortured brow? Her favorite "O! How I suffer!" pose. She had several, but that was the fave.

Brooks was born five years after me, a lifetime in childhood years. His paternity was always in question. Actually not so much in question. The milkman had curly red hair, too.

All Brooks ever did was whine and snivel and weep. When I was ten, my friends and I were headed to the flicks. Mum forced me to drag him along. "He's your brother!" (Well, kinda/sorta, Mum.)

Before the double-feature, a short. Some bald bastard in specs and a bow-tie lectured us about our good friend, Mister Molecule. Between mouthfuls of Jujubes and Canada Mints my friends and I yelled insults at the screen.

Little Brooksie piped up, "You're a monkey!" I turned in my seat and belted him in the stomach, knocked the wind out of the little snot, and hissed, "Just shut up!"

When you're on the Interstate, slamming into a big city, and you see some forlorn tenement - the wobbly, lone soldier still standing after its block had been ambushed by a criss-cross of super-highways - have you ever wondered who lives in such a sad place, who's behind the sooty lace curtain? C'est moi! What can I say? It's cheap. And there's a liquor store on the ground floor.

The day I got the news that Mum had hanged herself in the barn, I felt nothing. Then I thought, Maybe it'll hit me tomorrow. The next day I thought, Maybe next week. Or next year...

Still waitin'!

Today's Brooksie's birthday. I wonder what the hell ever happened to that guy?

The Hullabaloo Club by J.D. King

2010-11-03T06:50:00.011-04:00

Zit-face Zelda had no idea what a cruel joke fate was playing on her. Under the black lights of the Hullabaloo Club, the Clearasil on her face glowed in fluorescent violet splotches. She looked like a refugee from a grade-Z horror flick, and was oblivious to those laughing while she frugged a bit by herself, thinking she looked fetching in her spankin' new mini-skirt, Carnaby Street chic via Sears Roebuck. Because of the racket she didn't hear Nancy yell, "Hey! Halloween's over! You can take your mask off!" Regardless, the acne and the scorn wouldn't prevent her from getting preggers in a month or two, then scooted down to Puerto Rico for a dust and scrape, and while there, a bob, the beak becoming a button, a fresh Zelda for sophmore year.

On stage, a skinny quintet, The Wheat Germans: pageboy haircuts, matching vests, blue-jeans and green-suede Beatle boots, cranking out speedy, guitar-driven R&B that owed much to the exactitude of Mitch Ryder & The Detroit Wheels, less to the slop of The Rolling Stones. Serious, they didn't smile, their tab collars were snapped tight.

"SHE'S GOT BIG BLUE EYES AN' LONG BLACK HAIR!"

Off to one side, a few small tables and rickety chairs. Alone at one, a pasty-faced young adult with a duck-tail, tight pants and Wayfarer shades. Between sets, the singer joined him. They sipped from glasses of cola and chatted. A rumor was buzzing: they're queer, the greaser's the husband.

"I'M GONNA WAIT FOR THE MIDNIGHT HOUR, WHEN YER LOVE COMES TUMBLIN' DOWN!"

We smoked Marlboros and Kools, surreptitiously passed around a pint of Southern Comfort. Too young to drive, we'd be picked up at 11:00 by parents. Thusly, breath-mints gobbled like popcorn before closing time.

Near the stage stood two women, not teen-agers, maybe 21 or 22, Mary Quant hair, vampire mascara, white lipstick, double-breasted mod pantsuits with a hint of bellbottom. They looked like fashion models. What the hell were those angels doing here?!

A boy screwed up his dumb fifteen-year-old courage, walked across the empty floor and asked the more gorgeous of the two, in a lame imitation of Dennis Wilson, "Do ya wanna dance?"

"No."

He slunk to the nearest wall, tried to lose himself in the shadows, thanking God for shadows. A pal shouted over to him, "Shot DOWN! Loo-zuh!"

"IF YA DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO IT, I'LL SHOW YA HOW TO WALK TH' DAWG!"

More kids arriving, getting stamped, ushered in, c'mon, step lively, more behind you. The dance floor was beginning to crowd.

"TALKIN' 'BOUT MY BABY! AW, LITTLE LATIN LUPE LU! SHE'S A HI-FI BABY!"

The drummer slammed out a neat and nasty beat, the Fender bassist propelling him like a jockey slapping his horse to the finish.

"SHE'S MY GROOVY LITTLE BABY! WHOA! LITTLE LATIN LUPE LU!"

In a flash, the singer put aside the mike-stand, crouched, then leapt straight up, airborne, landed on one foot. On that foot he danced along the lip of the stage, to the far end, then to the other side, arms spread out as if he was riding a bicycle no-hands. Balanced like a gyroscope, he was dripping sweat like a waterfall, driving the audience into a frenzy. Some girls started screaming and crying. One dopey chick tried to grab him but was kicked back by a guitarist, sent flying, landing her on her butt. The wind knocked out, her eyes bugged as she gasped for air. Kids guffawed at her, kept on dancing and a-prancing.

"WHOA-OH! SHAKE IT, SHAKE IT, LUPE! OH! COME-UH! COME-UH! COME-UH!"

The HC was the place. Outside of the operator of the franchise, a potbellied mobster, no adults.

"AWRIGHT! JUMP UP! HIT IT! OOO YEAH! FEE-FEE FIH-FIH FOH-FOH FUM!"

Now the place was pounding with teens dancing.

"WEARIN' HER PERFUME, CHANEL NUMBER FIVE!"

The pug-nosed lead-guitarist tipped up his cherry-red ES-335 and fleet-fingered a very short fuzz blast through a Fender Bandmaster, gave it a quick, icy shiver with the Bigsby. His tongue stuck out a bit, like he was concentrating real hard on an algebra final, then his jaw went slack - suddenly he didn't have a thought in his chucklehead, nary a notion had ever wandered through that vacant skull, even by wayward, misread-map chance. Brain dead - but rockin'!

"GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY! AW, YEW SURE LIKE T' BAWL!"

A fist fight broke out in a far corner. The gangster was there in three fast strides, grabbed both boxers by the back of their Garrison belts, kicked open a side door and tossed them into the inky black. "An' don't come back, ya punks!" In the alley, the brawl picked up where it'd been rudely interrupted.

"SOKKA SOKKA SOKKA SSSSS-SOCK IT TO ME NOW!"

10:50, time to start thinking about heading out into the moist April night air, looking for Mom's car, grabbing a copy of GO!, the free pop music paper, on the way out. It'll give me the scoop on The Blues Magoos and Peaches & Herb.

"ANY DAY NOW-NOW, I'LL BE ALL ALONE..."

In the parking lot, Zit-face Zelda rode past, her dad at the wheel of the Lark, the windows rolled down. Nancy very deftly flicked her lit cig right past the back of Zelda's head, into the rear seat. She said to me, "It'll take a minute, but it'll burn the plastic, then the stuffing will catch and go up in blazes. They'll be heading home, wondering where the smoke smell's coming from, then woosh! What're they gonna do? The back seat's on fuckin' fire. Got any more of those mints?"

Wendie Wytch Says...

2010-10-31T10:55:00.007-04:00

... Have a Gloomy Halloween, one shrouded with despair, dustings of melancholy and dollops morbidity!

May your most cherished material possession break - beyond repair!

See ya at midnight in the blackest corner of the forest!

Vote Selfishly!

2010-10-30T06:43:00.008-04:00

Put yourself first! Vote Green Party!

Vote in favor of clean air and water, vote in favor of your health care, vote in favor of marrying anyone of your choice, vote against sending your kids to war, vote against your taxes being wasted on the endless war machine, vote against big money and big, mean multi-national corporations.

(BTW, here in New York State, the Dem and the GOP candidates for governor are adamantly pro-hydro-fracking, neither are concerned about your welfare. So, fug 'em! Hard and runnin'!)

No, Howie Hawkins and company won't win, but a strong Green showing cannot hurt, can only help. It'd be terrific if the Green Party became a force to contend with in NYS and the USA, just like in some European countries. But in order for that to happen we have to vote selfishly, as if our very lives depended on it.

(The illustration above originally appeared in Audubon magazine.)

All Hallow's Eve Creepeth Closer...

2010-10-26T06:39:00.002-04:00

Groovy ghoulies...

Diabolical demons...

Lost souls...

Rethinking Schools

2010-10-25T08:28:00.007-04:00

Rethinking Schools, a progressive education magazine art directed by Patrick J.B. Flynn, has been a steady client these past several years.

Pat's famous for giving his illustrators free reign, and it's always a pleasure to be given material of substance to work with.

Here is a recent job for Rethinking Schools about a young teacher being dropped in to his new role as an inner city educator..