Suggestive...

Maybe my mind is in the gutter...


But doesn't Swedish Touches sound like the title to a 70s stag film? Same thing could be said for Delectably Danish. 

However, Norwegian Touches just sounds wrong. Maybe it was the years of Prairie Home Companion, but it evokes disturbing images of a drunk Garrison Keillor doing something inappropriate. 

Perhaps that is why other parts of Scandinavia aren't featured as places of adult film industry. The Faroe Islands doesn't sound sexy. And Finn Touches sounds like it crosses the realm of decency all together by involving sea creatures. 

That's a big Ten Four...

Image via Wikipedia

I was asked to fill out a little survey about my myself, my likes my goals, and whatever assorted miscellanea that comes along with the introductions of the first week of school. When asked what my favorite movie was I couldn't think of any particular movie that caught my fancy. So I stated wrote down Convoy.


Maybe it comes from my Grandfather being the fleet manager for a bunch of trucks in upstate New York. Maybe it is because Kristofferson kicks ass and sticks it to the man throughout the whole movie. Maybe because it has a whole bunch of truckers driving across the country basically being bad asses breaking out their friends from redneck jails and other misadventures. Maybe it was the catchy song.

Just look at the poster. 

Does that not scream "FUCK YEAH!" You see, without movies like Convoy we wouldn't have Optimus Prime. In fact Optimus Prime would have been a School Bus or something wimpy, but the Convoy proved that not only were Mac Trucks the tool of the working man, they were objects of struggle for the common good just like the Transformers are always struggling over oppression. Of course the Transformer movies sucked. And you know why? Because, Kris Kristofferson wasn't in it driving Optimus Prime in a giant Transformer convoy across this truckin' land being a bad ass and kicking Decepticon and Sharticon ass. 

So if you have the opportunity to see one of the most awesome movies about truck drivers, the working man, struggles for equality, and 'Merica, then get Convoy. Or you could watch Transformers and have your childhood destroyed by really bad acting and a lack of lack of Rodimus Prime being arrogant and knowing that Optimus is really dead. 

We salute you Rubber Duck. Ten-Four big buddy, keep them bears off my back...

Welcome to Oregon: Letters from Children

Homemade cards by children are some of the most interesting things to read and observe. Usually those children have been instructed to create something for such a grand and momentous event that they will never understand until they are adults, but still they craft well-intentioned messages filled with informative pieces of tourism advice and truly inviting pieces of information. Whether the knew that the messages they wrote were intended for people uprooted by one of the largest natural disasters and government fiascos in modern history, it is hard to say. And whether those same children knew that none of their messages actually made it into the hands of Hurricane Katrina victims is also unknown.

After the storm, after the levies broke and houses and lives were washed away throughout the Gulf Coast, the abandoned high school across the street from my apartment was re-opened as a Red Cross shelter. The people of Portland anticipated a few hundred "storm refugees," maybe more, maybe less, to be bussed in as soon as the evacuations took place. Portland was, of course, only a few thousand of miles away from landfall of the storm. So who knew when people would show up?

And while eager news men waited in their vans for the first from Louisiana to arrive. A huge chain-link cyclone fence around the school. I asked a police officer who had given his time to patrol the block during this period what he thought of what was going. He told me that he decided to volunteer in uniform on his days off, "But, you know, I think it is all bullshit with this fence...You know, there is a serious need for the people who lost their homes, but look over there two blocks away. We have a whole bunch of people living on the streets right here...And we have the fence up to keep them out. Shouldn't we give them shelter too? The church over there tries to help. But we should really be helping out all who come for help." I thanked the officer. His candid honesty was refreshing while everyone doted over the anticipated guests while ignoring the needs so apparent in front of them.

The Katrina victims never showed. The Red Cross signs came down a week later, cots were packed away, but the cyclone fence stayed up for many months. The letters the school children of Portland wrote to welcome our new residents were put into a box and shoved into a space in storage to be forgotten for years the way ephemera and good intentions that never actually succeed are often forgotten.

The old highschool was revived just briefly for a few weeks by the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art: TBA Fest. Various artists took over the building creating installations in the old classrooms while other art occurred throughout the building. One exhibit included these forgotten cards. 

I stood at the display case reading the letters, thinking about the events and the fence. And eavesdropped on the overfed aging yuppie art patrons remember make comments about how moving this piece was.

"Is this real?" a lady with gray hair, sparkly jewelry asks with a hint of disbelief. 

"Ah yes. Remember dear, this building held the hurricane victims," her obese husband responds proudly. He sounds proud of the letters, proud of Portland, proud of being a wealthy art patron, proud that this very school held so many lives hurt by such an awful storm.

"Oh that's right, I forgot they lived here." She responded.

And with that, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "Actually, none of the survivors of the hurricane set foot in this building. The Red Cross was here for less than a week, and one they were told this place was not going to be used, the city locked the building up." I walked away at that point. Leaving the art patrons standing there looking at all of the empty gestures of welcome. I figured I could say more. I could tell them that I watched what happened at the school from my very window, but they didn't care. My comments would be put in a box and stuffed into a basement only to be forgotten.

Old Postcard...

Postcards are a strange entity. And perhaps the postcard something that might entirely disappear since people don't seem to use the postal system anymore except to occasionally mail "unknown white powders" to senators and television personalities they do not like. Of course you can't really do that with a postcard which probably add to its ephemeral qualities.


This particular postcard was mailed to me by my Grandmother when I was in kindergarten. When I was little, I wanted a pet skunk. At the time, I had heard that if their scent glands were removed, skunks made great pets. Of course, I seemed to be the only one to think this was a great idea.

And so this postcard hung on my wall for the next fifteen years.

Okay...

Well enough of this sentimental bullshit, next week, more evil monkeys, more weird diseases, better posts about sex cults, and stick figure comics.

Getting to know your Transvestite Super-Powered Sentient Steets

Yep, you heard that right. Ah, weren't the 90s great for wacky ideas with comics? They were kind of like the 60s except with more blood, g-strings, and considerably fewer giant props. Anyway, drawing off of the 60s era of comics we have the ever lovable Doom Patrol. Well, sort of...


Gone is Mento. Negative-Man has gone through some odd transgender fusion with his radioactive being, a strange ape-faced little girl has joined the team, and well Robot-Man is the only one that kind of looks like his old self. Thank you Mr. Morrison. But perhaps out of all of the strange characters added into this realm of freaks and outcasts that were cooler than the considerably more wimpy and emo X-men (there I said it, the X-men suck), is Danny the Street.


And as the title of this post states, Danny is a sentient street.

Danny is also a transvestite sentient street. 
Imagine if the Castro District could talk to you by re-arranging the words on any hanging from any window, marquee, or street post...Danny is kind of like that. Also Danny can teleport to any other city in the world and beyond because he likes to travel. In fact, Danny loves to travel and loves to pick up the odd and outcast of the world who all live in the hotels and hostels of this pleasant all-knowing avenue.


Kind of cool. Kind of weird. Kind of the most awesome concept in comics since ummmmm...giant props. Makes you wonder what types of drugs Grant Morrison has access to. Also makes you k ind of want to travel.

The loose-leaf Who's Who is just filled with lots of gems like this. Back before Vertigo was a separate imprint and the more "arty" characters such as Sandman and Swampthing could appear with Superman and Batman. Personally, I love the art in this profile. And I really want to get a Robotman Doll. Cliff Steele never looked cuter. 

Woodtoots

As my parents tell the story, I was three years old at the time, and I was watching the news with my mother and father. The lead article of this evening broadcast was a feature about the numerous unlicensed vendors that were opening shop out of the back of large trucks, wide moving vans, and trailers selling an assorted variety of objects from rebel flags, sun glasses, to the objects pictured below.

My parents had been watching these fly-by-night flea markets of illegal wares come and go for a number of months, this news really wasn't news at all. It was just a common feature of Union Avenue and Sandy Boulevard. However, my reaction at the sight of cinder block squirrels was unexpected.

"WOODTOOTS!" I declared.

My parents looked at me wondering what this mysterious new word was. "What's a Woodtoot?" they asked as I became more and more excited pointing at the television screen as image after image of concrete deer, stone frog, and cement bunny looked back at me. 

I pointed at the television screen again, "A Woodtoot! That's what I want!" As I continued to chant this mystery word over and over, my parents realized tthat I had just witnessed the equivalent of a concrete child-size Disneyland right about two miles or so near their house figured this small amount of kitsch. To two young parents raising their only child, chasing concrete gnomes was acceptable pursuit. A concrete lawn ornament could be a three-year-old's play toy. I was overjoyed. I was going to get a woodtoot. 

The next day we set forth for the wide spot on Union to find the trucks and pulled up anchor. Next stop a stretch of Sandy Boulevard dotted dotted with prostitutes, johns, peepshows, and the tell-tale clotheslines that once held tiger-print rugs, pirate flags, and airbrushed pictures of pot leaves. But lines hung bare. And only litter and cigarette butts remained from the former vendors. Even on 82nd, between the used car lots, nothing remained. 

I sat in my car seat, tightly bundled in, as tears dropped down my face. Alas, I didn't get my woodtoot. And to my mother I declared, "My little heart is cracking."

As an adult, it is hard for me to not stop and admire concrete lawn ornaments when I see them. I can't quite explain it. Just as I can't explain how I came up with the word "Woodtoot." So don't question why there is a concrete squirrel in my bedroom. Seriously, don't.

Great Oregonians...

Image via Wikipedia

These days it seems like everyone knows where Oregon is located. But not too long ago, no one knew where it was. Washington State knew of us, and Californians were always trying to move up here. But no one from Ohio, New York, Florida, or even let's see, New Zealand new where this state was. But now, Oregon is kind of a buzz word.

So imagine how it felt to be an Oregonian to have our very own Senator put us on the map! You see, previously on the map of the US, where Oregon was located, there was a bunch of trees. And in fact the nation was introduced to a whole new term in for which we have to sit through painfully awkward and boring seminars.

Yes, Bob Packwood brought "Sexual Harrassment" to the great state of Oregon.  In fact, he pre-dated Clarence Thomas and Anita Hill. In fact, if someone said "Harassment" most men would respond, "Eh, her ass meant nothing, I'm a tits guy..." Okay so maybe not.

So back to the state of Oregon. We suddenly had a marvelous term associated with our state that didn't involve descriptors of forests, wood, owls, loggers, or flannel. All of those things nixed and replaced for three simple words: "Deep passionate kissing..."

Now on that map, where once stood a lonely stand of trees, a mysterious pair of menacing hands appeared, lustily grasping for warm flesh.

And to that we thank you Sen. Packwood. We thank you.

This Monkey isn't Evil but this who thing who Who's Who Entry is kind of Weird...

Angel and the Ape...Hmmm, where to begin. Well, this profile page is kind of odd and I guess and the art definitely could use some deconstruction which will be provided a little further in this post.

Angel O'Dare and Sam Simeon first appeared in DC Comic's Showcase which was a comic book known for launching new characters into the print world. Some of these characters developed a legacy, some faded into obscurity. As part of a light-hearted humor comic, Angel was a private investigator and Sam Simeon an exile from Gorilla City. For the ridiculous trivia buffs, i.e. continuity nerds, Angel is also the sister of the comic book hero Dumb Bunny, super-strong, super-attractive, extremely stupid member of the Inferior Five.

Anyway, so these two have become partners and they both work cases in which super-heroes are their primary clients.  The characters have been re-booted a few times and make cameos here and there. The last appearance that I know of was during a group shot in Infinite Crisis. They don't do anything in this comic... they stand with a bunch of other heroes in a group shot. The title was re-launched in the Vertigo realm with more adult themes and considerably less camp.

So let's play pick about the art...

First there is the blatant Marvel jab with Wolverine's limp arm dangling into the picture. Then there is the oddly high body count for a DC hero that hasn't been labeled under the "Grim & Gritty" monicker, a la Lobo, Hitman, Azrael or others popular during this dark age of comics. And then there is the other 500 pound gorilla in the room with a topless Angel posing Sam as he sketches her.

Given that Sam Simeon is a comic book artist in the story, it wouldn't be unlikely that he was a real artist as well and would like to sketch the human or ape form. However, so when he is sketching the woman he has known since she was a pre-teen as she stands practically nude after killing a number of people, it kind of reeks of icky. They could have some weird inter-species love affair that goes beyond the realms of normal decency. But hey what do I know.

Been Too Long Since We Were Plagued by Evil Monkeys...

Evil Monkeys can have evil sideburns as is the case with this particularly evil specimen that plagues the hair stylists and barbershops of the West Coast of Asia. Most of the time, this evil simian comes in dressed in some form of human drag posing as an American President from the 1800s way back when beards and sideburns were savy, but as the stylist and/or barber starts to work. The Hamdryas begins to cry a mournful tale about drug abuse and a life trying to gain employment at Walgreens so they have access to better hair care products and menthol cigarettes...And then it attacks, often biting the hand trying to trim the sideburns of demise.

Fingerless hair stylists are a vengeful lot. Don't fuck with them or ask them about their encounter with this lesser known evil monkey. Just be aware, that their dislike of barbers and hair stylists is is only worsened by the scent of Barbisol and the sound of buzzers. Just be warned.

Know Your Villains: Starro!

Earth is most certainly doomed when Starro appears. As one of the DC Universe's most iconic villains, this menacing starfish, is well menacing. 

But let's think about evil echinoderm. Starfish don't have brains, that isn't to say they don't have nervous systems, otherwise they would be fancy rocks. They have a nerve plexus and a ton of legs that really aren't the five points we see and thing of as legs. They also have a gnarly stomach. In fact the starfish is practically all stomach. A starfish eats by ejecting their stomach out of their bodies and digesting their meals outside in. Kind of icky...Kind of menacing. Right?

Now imagine you are one of the Greatest Heroes on the Planet. Now imagine having some brainless thing stuck to your face trying to poke its stomach into your nasal cavity? You would totally be crying to Superman right now, screaming "ARRRFHHAHDHH, GET IT OFF...GET IT OFF...GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFFFF." I don't care how tough you think you are. 

Of course, Starro looks simple and silly. But that is what a giant space traveling spineless, brainless, stomach monster wants you to think. Or, it could be like the following...

150th: An examination...long post...sorry...

People have been asking me as of late, "What exactly is The Burnt Selena Project?" And my response to them is always good question...




...


...


...


Very good question...


Well, first of all, The Burnt Selena Project has nothing to do with what has often been referred to as "the poopiest colored crayon in the box." It also has nothing to do with a famous Mexican musician, although a latino musician was involved at the origin of The Burnt Selena Project. But these roundabout definitions of what Burnt Selena Projects is-was by explaining what it was-is not doesn't really define it now does it?


Eh...so a brief history is in order, or out of order...The Burnt Selena Project began with a friend named Zeke in 1998 in Ashland, Oregon as a peculiar recording project and a sort of off-shoot from the band Try and Step on Her. The aforementioned band came into their own fame after I left and they all moved to Portland, many have gone onto other awesome music projects form really good bands, i.e., ones you can listen to in public and enjoy not just in a basement in Nebraska I am not exactly certain how I would define it other than "bad" as in "not really listenable" or "maybe some stoned kid in a basement in Nebraska might like it." In any case, we made two recordings. These exist in four-track land out there in home recording ephemera land. Alas, Zeke moved away and except for a myspace message recieved about four years ago, I have not heard from him since then.


I soon realized that I was not really a musician. And with that realization, I knew that previous statements that  "I recorded noise" really meant that I was a jack-ass with a keyboard, amp, weird records to sample, access to a drum kit, and a a lot of time on his hands. Also I realized that saying I was a "noise musician" neither made me more appealing to the opposite sex nor popular with my peers, I just was another ass who really didn't know how to properly write songs. The Burnt Selena Project as a recording venture was dead, but hey, the 90s weren't over...and if you live in a college town, what do you do? Create a artsy comic!


Thus Burnt Selena Project series of comics came out. To be honest, I don't remember the first comic or what the point of the first "story was." But Burnt Selena Projects took a new direction with Burnt Selena Projects Presents: Minimalist Crap Volume 1. This was the first of a series of stick figure comics that featured stories about the origin of coffee, acupuncture with a porcupine, selling tie-dye shirts to Amish people, and pop-art haircuts. Not widely circulated, if you find one of these xeroxed, hand-stapled issues, you have found a very random piece of ephemera that will never be really worth anything. In fact, if you need kindling, that might be the best use...ahem. The next phase of The Burnt Selena Project was a series of poetry from works created during 2000-2001. I made a number of these and they were handed out more widely. But print the typewriter was soon to be retired for one more attempt at music


After being asked to being asked to record for by my friend Ian in a lost session known as "German Tequilla," the Burnt Selena Project presented the Anomia Orchestra. This live improv session with spoken word and self-mutilation with hypodermic needles, labeled as a night of "Erotic Polka," essentially confused a lot of people. It contained a chorus of women randomly chanting, "I'm not your baby machine," and a very drunk poet friend of mine who I think had just been dumped who wore a gas mask and harassed any people who stayed to listen to the event. People later told me the event was, "different."


Time moved on...


Burnt Selena Project upped and dragged itself away from Ashland, ended up in upstate New York, educated a bunch of young poets, and then found its way back to Portland and became the overall title for most creative endeavors I take on. For a while when my primary occupation was decorating matchboxes and inhales for income, that was the Burnt Selena Project. Some of the poetry found in the chapbooks were published in more reputable places, and odd letters to President Bush the Lesser were published by McSweeney's online site. So the Burnt Selena Project is a thing...a mass...an entity unknown.


Currently, this is part of the Burnt Selena Project: The Wonderful World of Clutter. And I thank all who have been reading.  And while posts about taxidermy, comics, evil monkeys, collections, museums, ephemera, and roadside attractions will still come about, other special things with the Burnt Selena Project will be coming as well.


By request of Ne'er Do Well,  The Burnt Selena Project will be doing a presentation in the upcoming future on themes somewhat represented in the Wonderful World of Clutter. The future will also have some features from the past. I hope to resurrect some of the Minimalist Craps from the past so people can experience how bad these stories were. And of course, I am inevitably going to stroll across other oddities and ephemera from here and there and those things will end up here. So yeah...that's about it.


Please keep reading...
Please tell your friends to read...
Please...I crave the attention...

Four Uknowns...

As autumn comes around, some of my favorite wild mushrooms start popping up from the loam in the forest. This time of year yields wildly coveted chanterelles of many different varieties, matsutakes, lobster mushrooms, gemmed puffballs, and the start of truffles.

My first trek out this season didn't yeild much for edibles that I could readily identify. The gemmed puffballs were probably the most easily to spot. They are edible, but from every text and reference that I have come across, the taste is bland and unspectacular. I did find a large patch of lobster mushrooms. Unfortunately, I didn't take pictures of this patch.

I have yet to prepare lobster mushrooms I have found. I think my hesitance comes from the idea that the "mushroom" is actually a fungus parasitic fungus that grows on top of other species of mushrooms. While I am mostly able to identify the rusullas that are the common host to the parasite fungus, I am never certain if the orange musky weirdness have claimed something more ominous (as if some orange parasitic fungus that encrusts a living organism isn't ominous enough).

These other pictures of various mushrooms and fungi are of things I think are kind of neat even though I know nothing about them...

Bound for Glory...or...My Nerdiness knows no Bounds...

Book binding is a lost art. Yes, more books are being printed more than ever, but we are relying more and more on electronic media and electronic entertainment on a daily basis. So it brings me great pleasure to combine my love of hardback books and comic books into one realm...

My friend Lucas introduced me to the concept of binding ones comic collection. He has become an amateur pro at it and has been commissioned to do numerous projects for the readers out there. The following pictures are of my very first books to be professionally bound.

The three books I had bound are actually a collection of a few runs of comic books as listed below:

• Volume 1: Who's Who in the DC Universe: Vol. 1, 1-13.
• Volume 2: Who's Who in the DC Universe: Vol. 1, 2:26.
• Volume 3: Who's Who in the DC Universe: '87 Update 1-5;
• Who's Who in the DC Universe: '88 Update 1-4;
• Loose Pages From DC Comic '89 Annuals
• Who's Who in the Legion of Super Heroes 1-7

This two-page spread, for example, was originally taken out of a Swamp Thing Annual. And by taken out, I had cut the pages out of the book, tear apart the previously glued and stapled pages, and rip the cover off of what was probably some coveted comic.

This spread is actually the wrap-around cover of a Who's Who issue that was left whole, flipped, and re-folded as to make single splash page.

I chose to do the Who's Who books because of many reasons. One of my very first comics was a Who's Who. I think I insisted on it because there were a lot of characters in the book. And probably because I was a neurotic child more comfortable with a dictionary and encyclopedia than a Choose-Your-Own Adventure. That very first issue is collected in this book. Also, due to many reasons, Who's Who will more than likely never be collected as a series of books. Attempts have been made to do so, but various royalty agreements makes it difficult to complete.

So why bind comics? There is no real need to do this. Despite what people think, there are two types of people who get consumed in the realm of comics...well really more than two...but two for the sake of generalities. One type is the collector. The collector is a person who gets a book to never read it, the comic is an investment. If you do read the issue, you wear a glove and masks, and take care never to leave a crease. The other type of person is the reader. Their comics are dog-eared and worn. They may be in a box, but that box is beat up. That person has many copies of the same title because they have worn through their favorite issue so many times. They love comics for the story. They don't care about value. Readers get their stories bound. They want to have everything saved so they can read it over and over again.

I have a few other binding projects planned. The next two books will be Who's Who 4 & 5 collecting the loose-leaf edition of the comic released in the early 90s. The next biggie is to bind Green Lantern: Mosaic. I believe this is one of the greatest and most sophisticated DC story-lines of the early 90s by challenging notions of heroics, cultural and racial identity, and narrative. Finally, I am planning a three volume EPIC collection that binds the entire Crisis on Infinite Earths with all tie-in issues, related Monitor Appearances, Red Skys, and loose threads dealt with over the years. I am looking at 100 issues at this point, and that excludes the supplements I plan to add to make the most awesome epic even awesomer!!!

Ideas...

I was talking with a friend briefly this evening about things to keep a person occupied and I told him he needed a Rubik's Cube. And then I had what I think might be one of those prime moments of genius that only come along after hours of sitting at a spreadsheet trying to index one's comic collection: YouTube videos of drunk people with Rubik's Cubes.


With all of the inane video clutter out there of people doing stupid things on the internet, this would probably be a true apex of 80s nostalgia fused with frustration and the inevitable humor that comes along with excessive drinking. I have seen worse ideas filmed for YouTube purposes. 

Sometimes we call it Greshame...

Well, actually I don't think any one has ever really bothered to add an "e" to the end of Gresham and really tie our true feelings about the town together into a more precise name, but hey maybe I can start a trend.


My museum expedition has come to a close for the summer and I figure I should leave you with a striking image from my ventures.


This uncredited wall mural is from what I can tell, an image of Michael Jackson playing piano in front of a full moon before turning into a werewolf, zombie, or just plain dead. And while there have been plenty of tributes to the King of Pop as of late, we do need to remember, he was this country's number one weirdo for a long time. Well, at least the number one weirdo who hadn't been involved with murder, cannibalism, or politics.

Of course, this mural may not be of MJ at all. And perhaps the proximity of his death and my trip to Greshame made me make needless associations. Perhaps in Greshame there is a small but prominent population of pianists with jeri-curls and sculpted jaw lines. 

Or perhaps, Greshame is just a place where bad art collects like stretch pants seem to collect on the morbidly obese--bunched up in all of the wrong areas.

Weinhards...

The many little gems in this broadsheet are hard to count. The H. Weinhards City Brewery advertisement stands out in particular as one who remembers the old brewery in Northwest Portland before gentrification took hold and it was gutted for a sports bar. I remember walking by as a kid, dodging used needles tossed on the streets, making eye contact and then avoiding eye contact with  various urchins and vagrants tucked away in the stoops and loading docks of the former industrial area. The air for blocks would smell of stale yeast, spilled beer, and a certain rotten piss smell that you find only in the saddest of dive bars and aging sporting venues that have troughs for groups of men to collectively urinate into and never flush. That is the old Portland that I miss.

To say they don't make ads like this any more is one of those cliche truism that stands out as a cliche truism. 

Unfortunately, there is little history behind this framed piece. Given the images and the print, I can assume that it is from around 1890-1900. 

Although the date at the bottom of this picture states 1831, I highly doubt this is the actual date of the image. More likely, the images depicted are tributes to more historical rail expeditions. Given that the former owner of the Toy Museum's collection was a rail buff, I can imagine that he picked this up during some commemorative jaunt. 

Still as a piece of commemorative advertising, a souvenir, the quality and imagery are impressive.  Ephemera still entertains...

I need to go to Ohio...

I never thought I would ever utter those words. Not until I strolled upon this video on the interweb this evening.





All I can really say is...WOW! I think this is truly the most amazing piece of creative video I have watched on YouTube ever. I don't know if these people did any other videos, but I am going to try to find out. 


Kiddie Kat I and II are particularly brilliant and disturbing observations on American culture...

Ave...Ave...Maria

I simply love concrete lawn ornaments...Concrete religious figures make me especially warm and fuzzy. This fine example of the Blessed Virgin was well out of my price range though. And would have evoked too many weird memories of Catholic school to be in my apartment.


One thing I must say, however, is that the Northwest seems to have a severe lack of bathtub shrines. I remember seeing these when I traveled on the East Coast and through the South. Basically they were up-ended bathtubs, with a statue of a saint, or of a jesus, or of a virgin mary, and some fake flowers. It was all quite gaudy,


Maybe we just don't get it over in this godless land of the Pacific...

Tragedy...

In this day and age of war, famine, and unrest, do you ever stop and wonder why such senseless loss has to occur in our own land? Even if you don't like angry midgets, what did you do to stop the wholesale slaughter of them for cheap entertainment?

A few months back, I mentioned concrete garden gnomes were actually memorials to angry midgets that had died in illegal fights. Well, it looks like I came across one of the famed arenas while traveling the other day.

More alarming is the number of female angry midgets that are now fighting in this underground entertainment circuit. Basically, we are leading to the extinction of a unique part of the human population.

I hope you feel guilty now.

Field Trip: The Museum of Glass

I have been a Dale Chihuly fan for years, so venturing to the Glass Museum as part of my August museum field trip month was a great deal of fun.

This Brady Bunch of glass vases and flowers actually stretches across a bridge that spans part of I-5. When sunny, which tis day was not, all the glass shines. But even here you can see how whimsical shapes and colors.

The interior of the museum is divided into one main gallery, a large gallery for rotating exhibits, and a huge theater for viewing their active studio. During the course of the year, working artist come to the museum of glass and use their facilities to blow new projects in their fancy kilns. Rarely do you get the opportunity to witness a working studio and one in which world class artists are assembling pieces.

It is hard to think of glass as being a large scale medium. We so often take it for granted, never thinking that when viscous, glass can be shaped into almost any form.

One of my all time favorite creations by Chihuly has been his "Sea Forms," in which he takes glass and spins and blows it into undulating shapes that look like they are moving with tidal actions. All resemble something off of a tropical reef. This particular installation of "Sea Forms" is about 20 yards long and suspended above your head. While viewing the work, neck craned upwards, people stroll bumping into each other not paying attention to where they walk. Then when they do point their heads and eyes forward, they inevitably stumble from the the blood rush and dizziness.