Stuck in Spokes

Here is just a quick pic of one of my striped boards caught in the spokes of this old bicycle tire rim. I think Rabbit tried to pull it out one day, but it is wedged in there pretty well and won't come out without a fight.

The "Real" Thunderdome

Here is an overview of Thunderdome at the Albany Bulb. I like to refer to this as the "real" Thunderdome, and here's why: up in Sonoma County in a little, squalid suburb known as Rohnert Park, there exists a place that some people like to call Thunderdome. This place, basically just a house full of poor and stinky SSU students, has no real reason to have such a distinguished moniker. I think the people "living" there thought it pretty neat to name what is just your typical party-house Thunderome. They obviously have no reference point, and have never seen the M. Gibson vehicle Beyond Thunderdome. But when I think of it, there was a guy living at the place called Deli Platter, and another who was a dead ringer for Gareth Keenan from Office fame called "Luce". So what I'm saying is these people were already kind of loopy and self-absorbed. I have no idea how they came to call their home Thunderdome.
I think the bulb offers the most authentic Thunderdome, aside from the actual one in the film, of course. If you look closely, you will see pieces of OCD art in this picture. There is no Master Blaster governing this Thunderdome; just a few ragged bums and the occasional balding man bumping around in there putting his artwork up for none to see.

Big Jilm at the Bulb

So this is "Big Jilm" at the Albany bulb. I go to the bulb often. I could write volumes about this place because it is so special to me. I started going down there on a regular basis about 2 years ago. The place is filled with mystery, and best exemplified and portrayed in the 2003 documentary Bums' Paradise. I suggest viewing it if you can find it. The bulb is named as such because it juts out into the bay and forms a light bulb sort of shape. The bulb is essentially a peninsula, but calling it the bulb is much better. The bulb is filled with junk, tons of thousands of pounds of junk; twisted and rusted rebar extent out of broken concrete chunks, and some just shoot straight out of the ground like ancient tentacles reaching for the sky. Natural vegetation has grown over most of the debris and has created this sort of urban garden. The place smells of fennel and dust. People like to walk their dogs at the bulb, and they claim it is one of the last places in California where you can walk your dog without a leash -- "Save off leash access" is what the fanatical dog walkers always proclaim. If I had a dog I'd walk it down there too, I guess. Anyway, the bulb is great and beautiful, and someday it won't be there anymore when the powers-that-be decide to finally renovate it and make it into a safe "park". I dread that day. For now I will enjoy the bulb as much as I can and add my two cents by taking some of my OCD art down there. There are very few places like the bulb anymore. Go down there and give it respect. And if you run into a man called Rabbit, ask him about Bums' Paradise and he'll give you the low-down.

The Goon Squad

So the goon squad was in full effect yet again today. Per usual, I went out on my 3:30 pm break to walk up 4th Street and around the block. As I was exiting the office building I sensed that the goons were present. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner there they were in all of their moronic glory. This group never ceases to amaze me. They huddle together and laugh and giggle and whisper whenever anyone walks by then. Actually, they kind of remind me of a pack of teenage girls -- standing in formation as school lets out and gossiping amongst themselves while the lesser beings pass by. What a joke these guys are; hardly intimidating, like most gangsters when they are alone, but within this group they form some kind of lame power and mostly prompt annoyance rather than trepidation. I believe they would like to have the power to scare people, but they come across as goons and that is what they will remain.
I completed my walk and while heading back toward the office I noticed the goons were still there. I like to ignore them entirely, like they don't exist, and when I walk by they always laugh. But the joke is on them because they will never leave this place. When this place finally shuts down, and there is no more work to be done, each goon will cower in fear and loneliness and make his way out into the harsh light of the real world - it'll kind of be like a high school graduation for them. I wonder what goons do when they finally realize just how useless their lives are?

Controlled Substances

This is Controlled Substances. This piece was made several years back, one of the first drum head collage endeavors that I embarked upon. I didn't know what this was going to start, and didn't even know of Chartpak graphic tape at the time. I was essentially cutting out images from mine and Sarak's vast collection of Time Life Science books. I'd paste them up on the old drumheads and apply a thin layer of Modge Podge on the top. Sometimes the images would warp and bubble due to the "Podge", I'd become really upset when this happened and would almost throw the entire thing in the trash and ask myself, "What the hell am I doing?" Anyway, I don't seem to have this problem when using Chartpak. Thanks, Tony, for bringing me my first ever batch of Chartpak - it started an obsession and keeps me very busy these days. More collage, and cut-out art coming soon too. I haven't completly abandoned that medium yet. Boognish.

Diffuser

This is "Diffuser".
I can't seem remember my dreams these past few weeks, I know I'm having them, but upon waking, I can't recall one single detail from them. I used to always remember my dreams. Sometimes I'd remember them for years and years. To this day I recall a dream I had when I was very young. It involved some sort of Uncle Sam type figure and a large audience watching, he was performing tricks or something, and at the same time pointing to people in the crowd and saying, "I want you for the US Army" Fucking weird to say the least. So yes, a few weeks ago I woke up from a dead and dreamless sleep to construct the Diffuser. Even when I mounted it on the wall it still had some forgotten dream residue spilling all around its edges. Fuzzy, yet bright.

Memory Orb (Summer version)

The Memory Orb serves the mist in a heated daylight hour on 22nd St. When evening hits the lingering dust will tell us, golden and diffused, that we'll sleep under buzzing insect trees this night and count endless stars 'cause it is so dark, and the eyes can focus on one single and ancient dead sun to block out the rest of the lights and make it just one, just one. The Memory Orb can do this, it does this.

Day of the Chicken

The chicken is clean, the chicken is happy. This photo originally appeared in Alstroemeria issue #1. Shit, that was a long time ago, maybe around 1998?? This photo is even older, approx. circa 1996. My sister, Kari, was in 4-H at the time and she raised a sheep, pig, and a gaggle of chickens to show at the local fair. During a summer spent languishing in the 100 degree heat of Lancaster, CA I assisted my parents in this absurd endeavor of washing a few select chickens for the fair. I think one of these damn things even won something.
Where was Kari this day? Who knows? Probably hanging out with her friends, and ignoring the task of having to spend an afternoon washing chickens with ma and pa. Why the hell was I here? Must have been the heat warping my mind. Great days for the chicken element.

These Boots Were Made For Smokin'

In the summer of 1997, I found these smoking boots in my backyard. I have no idea who or what inhabited these size 11 ropers, and furthermore, who "blew away" the wearer of these boots. Could have been Dirty Harry, could have been Josie Wales, could have been SHC. At any rate, it was a rare find indeed. I quickly ran into my house, grabbed my camera, and snapped a photo before the smoke subsided.