New Art

 

There's a WHOLE bunch of new art inside...

Who has time to be bored? Not me!

Today was not really an art day. I diddled around with the Gimp for about an hour, then my writing muse slapped me upside my head. I have written six articles for my blog today about all kinds of things:

• Impeaching Trump 
• Chicago and Music being in my bones
• A bit about a portmanteued proverb I love 
• One about nicotine addiction
• One about god, or the idea of god, or whatever
• And this one, which only kind of counts

It was a productive day.

I really am an eclectic freak. Playing uke and recorder, doing digital art and zentangle and making jewelry, and writing from my gut. Between all that, I talk to people, make new friends, share a gazillion memes, play computer games, and more. And when I go to bed, I read for at least an hour before turning out the light.

I don't have time to be bored. Considering that I'm basically housebound and can't really leave my bedroom due to the difficulty involved in hauling my carcass from room to room, my life is incredibly rich and full.

I am a very fortunate old crone.

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

No Time For Nazi Shit

[Verse 1]

You crawl out of the gutter with your bargain‑bin hate,

Waving plastic flags like it’s 1938.

You scream about “purity,” we scream “get a clue,”

’Cause the future isn’t waiting for a coward like you.

[Pre-Chorus]

You want a world that’s small and petty,

We want a world that’s free

And every time you open your mouth,

It’s fucking blasphemy.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you can’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Verse 2]

You hide behind symbols you barely understand,

Pretending you’re a soldier in some holy homeland.

But we’ve read the history, we know how it ends

Your empire of delusion collapses again.

[Bridge]

We’re louder than your slogans,

We’re brighter than your lies.

You can’t drown out a chorus

That refuses to die.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets that we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you won’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Outro]

So keep your brittle hatred,

We’ll keep our rebel fire

’Cause every time we shout you down,

The world climbs one rung higher.

More Zentangle

 

Punk Lyrics: Nuremberg For Today

[Verse 1]

You signed the orders, you built the hell,

You watched the bodies drop and said “Oh well.”

You called it legal, we call it war

And we’ve got receipts, you corrupt little whore.

[Chorus]

The trials are coming, better learn to plead,

For every stolen breath and every dirty deed.

You wore the badge, you played the part

Now the reckoning’s here, and it’s tearing you apart.

[Verse 2]

You caged the kids, you fed the lies,

You let the sick die while you monetized.

You laughed in court, you rigged the game

But history’s a bitch and she remembers your name.

[Bridge]

No more silence, no more spin,

We’re carving your legacy into rusted tin.

Every file, every tape, every bloodstained page

Will scream your crimes from a burning stage.

[Chorus]

The trials are coming, better learn to plead,

For every stolen breath and every dirty deed.

You wore the badge, you played the part

Now the reckoning’s here, and it’s tearing you apart.

[Outro]

This ain’t revenge, it’s righteous fire

A courtroom choir and a funeral pyre.

We’ll drag your name through every verse

And bury your legacy in the motherfucking dirt.

Mogen David's for Donna Zentangle

 

Clickety Clackety!

I have never been good at saving up my money for purchases. But there was one time, when I was about six years old...

Back in the late 60s or early 70s, I collected returnable bottles and turned them in for the 5 cent bounty, and saved my 25 cent a week allowance. I busted tail to buy a pair of clackers, and after several weeks of hard work and no penny candy from Max's Smoke Shop, I had the $1.49 I needed to buy my clackers. I knew which pair I wanted, too, gorgeous royal blue with gold glitter inside the balls.

So I trotted off to Woolworth's to buy my clackers.

And the shelf was filled with Nerf balls.

I asked the clerk where the clackers were, and was told that they had all been recalled, because they would shatter and glass would fly and hurt people.

Man, was I PISSED.

Ever since then, I have wanted a pair of clackers.

Looks like they're back, but with an acrylic ball instead of glass. So I ordered some.

Because the inner child MUST be placated.

Zentangles r Us

 

This is my first zentangle in seven years. I am getting back into the art form.

Much Butt Toy. So Prostate Stimulator!

Demi Moore with her Golden Globe.

They really need to change that design. It's so very...

Sex toy shaped. Not currently being sold, but after this fucking photo of Demi looking delighted by it, they will start making them and selling them. 

Who the hell passed on that design?

Adolescent Adoration and Adult Music Taste

Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers was such a handsome man in the 70s, and still is, really. 

Even when I was ten and had just discovered boys, I leaned toward older boys who had a more MAN look to them than that pretty adolescent boy stage where they could just as easily be a girl. For instance, all my friends wanted to marry Luke Skywalker. I wanted me some Han Solo. Han looks like a MAN, not a teenage girl.

Reblogging Michael Jochum - Sticking it to Ted Nugent

(Note from Jenn: Michael had me in absolute stitches with this one. Nugent is such an arrogant prick, and I love that Michael screwed with him some.)

I was thinking about the great guitar players we all love and admire—the Jeff Becks, the David Gilmours, the Mark Knopflers, the John McLaughlins, the Allan Holdsworths, the Eddie Van Halens. And then, while scrolling, I was tortured for five seconds by a clip of the Nuge playing live. I lingered just long enough to read one comment:

“Ted Nugent is one of rock’s most underrated guitar players.”

That comment unlocked a memory, one of my most vivid, and satisfying, professional remembrances.

These Boots Are Made for Walking

It was around 1986. I was one of those “in-demand session guys,” and I got called to play on a Ted Nugent song. At the time, I was deep into some illicit drugs that made me far more arrogant than I am now, and somehow even more opinionated, which seems almost impossible in retrospect. I was also, inexplicably, very into cowboy boots.

For the record, cowboy boots are not ideal footwear for someone with my foot size. But they were fashionable, and I was wearing them.

I arrived at Capitol Studio B. Naturally, Nugent wasn’t there yet, just his entourage: an engineer of note, a producer of some credibility, and assorted enablers waiting for me to start dialing in drum sounds at 9 a.m. I delivered sonic excellence, as was my habit. And then Ted Nugent finally strutted in.

He did his trademark pantomime of friendliness, pretending to like everyone in the room, before marching straight into the drum booth. He didn’t offer a handshake. He stared at my feet.

“Are you going to wear those cowboy boots when you play the drums?”

“Fuck yes,” I said. “I’m going to wear these cowboy boots while I play the drums. They’re what I have on my feet.”

He stared back at me with those milky, lifeless eyes and declared,

“Drummers don’t wear cowboy boots. You need to go home and change your shoes before we start the session.”

So I stood up, walked out of Capitol Studio B, crossed the parking lot, drove through the guard gate, and headed home to change my shoes, at his command.

Here’s the part Ted Nugent hadn’t thought through: he had no idea where I lived, or how long this little footwear pilgrimage might take.

On my way down Sepulveda Boulevard from my Gucci house in the now-gentrified Royal Oaks neighborhood of Sherman Oaks, I decided to enjoy myself. After all, this was his dime. I stopped for gas at my favorite 7-Eleven, where, fourteen years later, I would bump into O.J. Simpson, because America is nothing if not consistent.

I got hungry, so I swung by In-N-Out for a Double-Double with cheese, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Then I realized I was out of my favorite illicit substance, so I made a quick stop at a dear friend’s house, known professionally as “the dealer”to stock up for my evening with Teddy.

By the time I returned to Capitol Studios, four and a half hours had passed.

Triple scale is a beautiful thing when you’re a sideman. Sidemen don’t get the glory, but occasionally we get the satisfaction, and the invoice reflects that.

I walked back into Studio B without acknowledging Nugent, the engineer, or the producer. I sat down at the drum kit and played one of his stupid songs.

And that, in a nutshell, is how one of rock’s “most underrated guitar players” taught me that power is often loud, insecure, and deeply concerned with footwear.

—Michael Jochum, Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition

I fucking love AI sometimes

 

Sonnet: Donnie the Diaper Man & JD the Wonder Nanny

 

Donnie the Diaper Man, a grown-up squish,

Parades in Pampers, proud and full of pride.

He fills his Depends with a toddler’s wish,

Then waddles off, unbothered, dignified.

His throne? A beanbag, crusted, damp, and low.

His scepter? Teething ring from '92.

He grunts, then calls for JD - “Time to go!”

The Wonder Nanny storms in, wipes in two.

He lifts Don's legs with grace and seasoned flair,

While humming lullabies through clenched regret.

He’s changed more men than diapers, unaware

That Donnie’s leaks are just the warm-up set.

So let this tale of shame and wipes be sung -

A man, a nanny, and a very damp bung.

Discovering the News of the Day and Ditching the TV

Apollo 11 takeoff

As a kid, I didn't pay a lot of attention to the news, even though it was the sixties and seventies, and a hell of a lot of history was happening.

The first major event I remember was the moon shot. Not the landing, the takeoff. My Dad told me to pay attention and remember this, because it was history. I didn't even know what history was. I was four and a half. The smoke and speed of it all amazed me. We watched it on our neighbor's big black and white TV. Looking at color photos now, I think that that would have absolutely blown my preschool mind!

That's my spot!

Romeo thinks he is Sheldon Cooper.

If Cubby is curled up next to me and Romeo decides it's time to be on the bed, the little shit starts yapping at Cubby "You're in my spot! YOU'RE IN MY SPOT!" until I tell Cubby he needs to move. Then Romeo jumps up and curls up in the spot. For two minutes, before he moves over to lay on my pillow.

He's an absolute little shit. But he's cute, so I allow him to live.

Oh MAN this song KICKS!

 

Ban books, ban guns, ban apps and television 

Ban protest, ban sex and ban religion 

Ban drugs, ban love, ban being alive 

Ban them if they look at you a way you don’t like

Steven Livingston Seagull

Steven Seagull, master of Bullshito, is my target of choice for mockery today. Buckle up, it's gonna be wild!...