Author: Darkreich

“Misquotations are the only quotations that are never misquoted.”- Hesketh Pearson

Hello Blogiteers!

I find myself in a conundrum of sorts these days, and it’s quite frustrating.

Things appear to be going well on the whole, and that kind of stuff tends to throw a flaming curveball in regards to my snarkitude, if you know what I mean. Sure, I like it when things are all happy and sparkly, but it’s definitely a hindrance when it comes to writing one of my saturnly venomous screeds. Nobody wants a fluffy piece from me, they want that skin-stripping kindness I’ve become infamous for, and that requires idiots to feed the machine.

Granted, it sometimes seems that the PAS provides a never-ending stream of them, ranging from Amy Silverman to Peter Bugg, but you can only hit that cache so many times before you get sick and tired of playing with the same chew-toy.  And in the case of my perennial favorite artsy punching-bag, the aforementioned Mr. Bugg, it seems that the SMOCA grant money he was awarded for his note by note *rip-off of another artists work was seemingly never utilized to bring said copied art project to completion.  *[allegedly] 

According to Sara Cochran, [then SMoCA interim director and curator] Peter was later hired on the strength of the following: “He presented an impressive number of original and exciting ideas for connecting with SMoCA’s loyal audience and reaching out to build new audiences who may not yet know that they need contemporary art in their lives.” Re-reading this puff-piece quote with my stereotypical cynicism, I find this particular tidbit hilarious.

Not only does he have said alleged reputation for blatant plagiarism, his knack for dropping the ball is so well known that its rumored he’s in the running to be the next quarterback for the Patriots, as evidenced by his inability to bring it to fruition. Maybe the next time he [allegedly] copies somebody else’s project, he’ll hopefully replicate their work ethic as well.

A truly ethical professional can dream, I guess…

Speaking of the exact opposite of a true professional, [at least when it comes to dealing with her readers and insubordinates, anyway] it seems that somehow I managed to slip around Amy Silverman’s all-seeing Eye of Sauron and get my name in the ol’ Phoenix New Times* despite my previous assertions that they’re still the Pennysaver with Porn at best.
*[Link: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/music/heres-what-its-like-to-write-an-album-in-a-month-8215956]

Seriously, pick one up and count the number of ads versus actual content, and you’ll understand why they remind me of a coffeehouse newsletter. The most recent one I condescended to view happened to be 1/3rd as thick as it was just a few years ago, and it’s painfully obvious that their ongoing demographic really has a thing for strip clubs, car stereos, and shoddily written articles from ASU’s outgoing Walter Cronkite School of Journalism’s “not quite there yet” class.

It does strike as amazing however, that she’s managed to keep that rag on the merest of life support, so I will give her that, but your strongest skill set as an editor shouldn’t be where the art of dark necromancy comes into play. Your job is to shape the written word, not go do body shots with Anubis, even if you do share similar views on fashion and makeup tips. Just saying.

Gah. No need to pontificate any longer in regards to Editorzilla and the twits whom she pettily lords over, or the hipster impotence of SMOCA’s human Xerox. When a plane crash is imminent, the best thing to do is cover your head, clear your karma, and brace yourself for the inevitable. This Artbitch desperately needs some new scratching posts, and that right quick.

Speaking of which, and to nobody’s surprise, my complaint against my former doctor was dismissed by BOMEX with no explanation. Sure, I did get a nice form letter signed by their head shill regarding their “decision” but as to why that asinine decision was made, I’m still out in the cold. Apparently, asking why there should there be an answer given (from an agency who claims to protect the public) is the new rude. After all, I’m only the one whose life and job were horrendously affected, and it’s not like their mission isn’t to protect the doctors who sign their paychecks, a fact made evident when you look at how they handle things. As I’ve oft noted before, it’s never a good idea to let a skulk of hungry foxes guard the henhouse, unless your ongoing craft project has an immediate need for slightly sticky feathers and bones.

You may remember that initially, I praised BOMEX investigator Leah Rossow’s dedication to her job, but it seems that my sense of optimism at finding a competent worker within their gargantuan bureaucracy devoted to whitewashing the truth was both baseless and premature, given the eventual outcome, which as I noted- was unsurprising.

I guess the old saying is true after all: everybody has a price, and in Mrs. Russow’s case, it seems hers allegedly comes in the form of a low-wage paycheck. To be clear, this isn’t a case of the stereotypical “he said / she said”- all the salient and unprincipled behavior that my doctor displayed was well documented, and yet… she was given a hall pass to eventually go maim or possibly kill someone with her obvious incompetence*. *[Allegedly]

But as I stated in my last screed, I really am done with this. I’ve publically said my piece, stated my case, and moved on. However, it’s also true that I rarely leave monuments of ineptitude standing without taking one last parting salvo, which in this case- was an email directed at Mrs. Russow and her apparent acceptance of ignoring the obvious.

To quote myself:
———————————————————————————————–
“Thanks for proving my point that BOMEX is bought and paid for. I guess hurting your patients is perfectly fine when you know that the so called regulators are in your pocket.

BTW, the blog posts, where you’re mentioned has over 5k hits, and I’ve answered over 200 emails regarding my case.

Not surprisingly, they all agree that Dr. Paar should be held accountable, but when the people you’re supposed to investigate pay you, objectivity is questionable at best.

Go read the blogs, as they are hilarious:
http://waynemichaelreich.blogspot.co

Ironically,  I actually wrote nice things in regards to your dedication, but I guess I’ll have to alter that in a future piece, as you’ve shown where your loyalties lie- protecting the doctors, insidious actions be damned.

There is one query I do have though that only you can answer, and that is this: How much did it take for you to be bought off?

And how do you sleep knowing that you put patients at risk? You, and the agency that puts profit over patients can go to Hell, which is ironic, since you’ve helped so many victims remain there.

Morally bankrupt. Devoid of ethics. And lining your pockets on a base of suffering, 

 May you live in interesting times,
Wayne Michael Reich”
—————————————————————————–
Personally, I think I come off as rather warm and fuzzy. Much like one of those noxious caterpillars you used to see on the so-called “Learning Channel” before every show started using “Boss” in it’s title, regardless whether the content was about cakes, white trash, or mermaids. And don’t even get me started on those homophobic twits from “Duck Dynasty” or the horrendous stage moms from “Toddlers and Tiaras”- we’ll be here for days. Days, I tell you.

So what’s a slowly evening-out Artbitch to do? Well, if you’re me, you talk to people like I’m known to do incessantly, and you pay attention to the stuff that filters through the world of the Internet. It’s sort of analogous to being a spider in the middle of a web, waiting on it’s next meal.

Normally, that’s how it usually goes, but unfortunately. this time around there were a few spanners thrown in the ol’ works, and they were huge ones. First: mainly due to my neuropathy, I was dismissed from my new job, [btw, I would have made the same decision if I were in their place] then I got sick. Really sick. Take nausea, fold in flu-like symptoms, intersperse in a highly-puzzling series of head rushes and waves of exhaustion that literally are bringing me to my knees.

Top off by adding in the usual depression that goes with being unemployed, and what you’ll have is quite possibly the worst cookies ever, no matter how many chocolate chips you’ve supplemented to the mix. So given all that, it’s not too surprising I’ve been way behind the 8 ball lately in regards to what’s been going on in the PAS- after all. it’s kind of difficult to run with the herd when you’re unable to get off the couch without cursing whatever God you’re presently blaming your issues on.

Stupid Krom. And after all those nice things I’ve said about you to Conan? That just hurts, bro.

Blasphemy aside, it’s been exhausting trying to respond to all that’s been happening in (and to) my life the last couple of weeks, so you’ll have to forgive me for trying to circumvent some of the crush, as quite honestly- a lot of it is either beyond my influence or my experience. And since I’ve managed to land a new job recently despite my ongoing health issues, my free time has been somewhat crunched.

So, what’s up?

There’s a massive brouhaha involving a proposed BID District currently in downtown, and the most recent debacle concerned a seditious comment by RoRo landowner Erick Baer where he allegedly called the artistic community “parasites”- two items that you’d think would provide adequate grist for the Artbitch to mill into delightfully acidic snarkbread, but surprisingly this time around, I’m going to defer to the people already on the field of battle, and I’ll endeavor to keep my rationalization short.

In the case of the BID issue, quite simply put- I’m a novice when it comes to the arena of local politics, the structuring of such initiatives, and what the required process is in order to create one, so any input I have would essentially boil down to a word-bite at best, personal embarrassment at worst. Besides, Jon Talton [http://roguecolumnist.typepad.com/] is way better at this kind of thing than I am, so my normally ravenous ego has no issue getting out of the way to let my betters do what they do best with effortless grace.

Addressing the next issue, the alleged comment by Erick Baer, the situation gets a tad bit murkier, depending on who you talk to. Some claim his remark was taken out of context, others claim it runs exactly as it reads. So which is it, exactly?

Well, lets add some framework to my take on what’s going on and start with the basics: Mr. Baer owns the following properties within the RoRo- a single family residence rental property at 809 N. 6th St., and a vacant lot at 815 N. 6th St.. The most truthful assessment I could apply to Baer is that he falls within the parameters of a “long-term community investor”- that is someone who goes into a area, buys a property to renovate. and then sells it far down the road when the market conditions are favorable, basically betting on a win from what others would consider a loss- all perfectly ethical and reasonable, depending on your modus operandi and inherent objective.

As stated in an article via the *Phoenix New Times, Baer made his assertion to the Arizona Senate Finance Committee in regards to the proposed (and eventually defeated) Roosevelt Row BID application. To quote from the article: “Roosevelt Row property owner Erick Baer submitted a public comment to the Senate Finance Committee describing Roosevelt Row artists as “parasites that think everything is free.””  {http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/arts/arizona-governor-doug-ducey-signs-law-killing-the-roosevelt-business-improvement-district-8134294]

To be quite honest, when I first heard that, my blood instantly boiled, and a plan for getting him to willingly get inside my 1974 Ford van/mobile abattoir began to gel. My first thought was to tell him there’s an artist squatting on his vacant lot, say I’d be more than happy to drive him there, and watch the fun ensue when I *bust out my spattering smock and freshly sharpened matching chainsaw with it’s super-convenient insulated drink cozy.
*[A simple joke. A cup cozy on a chainsaw would be highly impractical.]

But this is the new and improved Artbitch, V2.5, and these days, I’m trying ever so hard to not go off half-cocked. Besides… have you priced quicklime lately? It’s almost high enough to make a man reconsider his hobby of killing clown hookers on the weekend.

Almost. A mans gotta have his down time, you know.

So, my first step was to draft an open letter, but due to a miscommunication on my part, I wound up sending it to the wrong people, which they addressed almost immediately- curtly, I might add. Oops.
————————————————————————————————————
“Hi there!
This message is for Erik Baer: I write a *blog dedicated to the Phoenix Art Scene, and as such, am currently in the midst of a piece regarding the merging of both the business and artistic development going on downtown.
*(http://WayneMichaelReich.Blogspot.com/)

Recently, you referred to the art community as “parasites”, a statement that for obvious reasons, has offended a wide swath of people. Now, while its well-established that I’m pro-art scene, I’m also known for being pro-accuracy when it comes to getting the details right. 

So to that end, I’d like to offer you the chance to either clarify or expand on your pov, and the best way to do that is to get it from the source, not the internet or offended masses, who to be fair- may not be willing to provide the balanced overlook this subject demands.

(Disclaimer: I’m harsh, but I don’t selectively edit, I don’t misquote to score points, and your response, whatever it may be, will go straight from your mouth to my pixelated page as is.)

Now, I am aware that you may not be interested or comfortable in broaching this topic, but at the moment, I’ve received over 100 emails regarding your comment, and just recently had a very animated lunch with several key players in the scene asking me to write something in response.

While this subject does intrigue me on several levels, I’d rather have all sides represented before I start crafting, for as I said, Im all about getting it right.

If the concept of telling your side interests you, please feel free to peruse past blogs at the web address above, or please read the published magazine articles at my personal site: https://waynemichaelreich.com
(Just click on the “Media” link, and follow the path.)

In closing, I thank you for your time and hopeful future consideration.

Sincerely,
Wayne Michael Reich
——————————————————————————————————————–
The response? Well, I did send it to the wrong people due to the fact I sometimes have the brain of a goldfish, so naturally, I heard nothing back. But thankfully, the stars sometimes align and reward you while overlooking your past idiocy, because Karma likes to shake it up every now and then.

It just happened that a few days later, I was cruising the ol’ Facebook and literally “bumped” into him on a thread regarding Donald’s Trumps gaggle of gold-digger wives- I know, I know, who cares about immigrants doing yet another job Americans won’t do, but it did allow the possibility of he and I getting together for a polite conversation.

After posting my main email address, I waited for a follow-up, and got…. nothing. No big woop, life is busy, people have other issues to deal with, and it’s not like I exert a great deal of influence within the grand scheme of things, so why would someone who seemed rather vehement towards the PAS and it’s Creatives be open to talking to me anyway? Looking at it from another perspective, I can understand perfectly well why some people wouldn’t want to have coffee with me, as for some in the scene, it would be like sitting down with Lucifer himself- especially if I’ve already written about you.

And I’m also certain that “Googling” me probably doesn’t show me in the best light, either.

Let’s face it, while I’m no Walter Winchell, I’m hardly a Gretchen Carlson either- I do possess some chops, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this, now would you? So trying to be as tactful as possible, I sent another query via Facebook, and hoped for the best, which never came. These are the days where you seriously just want to gorge on ice cream in your pajamas while watching Milla Jovovich kill zombies, because it’s fairly obvious nobody thinks you’re pretty anymore.

So, since [at that time] I couldn’t get my info directly from the source, playing devil’s advocate to surmise what he meant seemed to be the only logical way to go.

The truth is that if wasn’t for the artists powerfully transforming RoRo into the creative center it’s poised to become, some of these carpet-bagging profiteers from Portland wouldn’t be here in the first place, a fact that’s being willfully overlooked by the developers and others of their ilk, such as their PR guys. It’s ironically insulting that they love the art scene enough to use it as a marketing point, and as a milking station for selling themselves as being community-based, but they don’t see the slur in snidely deriding what was built long before their collective arrogance arrived, which is quite simply infuriating.

I have no issue with someone who’s playing the market, hoping their land purchase/white elephant will eventually payoff, or anyone wanting to develop a specific area, but when that decision is intertwined with disrespect for the people who are partially responsible for their good fortune, it raises my hackles something fierce. Without the Artists, there IS NO ART SCENE, period. And treating the most vital part of the machine as either unnecessary or as sponging is sheer conceit, at best and worst.

The majority of the non-local developers and speculators hoping for a big payday and nothing else, are in essence, the lowest form of cultural vulture, feeding off, as well as on, the hard work of the artists they scorn.

None of the Creatives I know are artsy free-loading bedbugs, they’re passionate people who bust their asses at a level that demands respect, no matter what the imported from Portland leeches think. In my humble opinion, anyone casually deriding the entire creative community when they’re currently nursing off their teat like a starving calf, is in my humble pov, possessing an intellect more suited to a Trump rally, which is to say that they’re most likely hovering academically somewhere just above a baked potato.

But as I said, this is the new and improved Artbitch, V2.5, and I’m trying to exude less cynicism these days, which to be quite honest- is getting damn near nigh impossible in this, the irreparably jaded era of 24/7 belittling and skepticism. However, even with that pessimistic bulwark in front of me, I’m still fairly optimistic that the good outweighs the bad in the end.

Apparently, that luminous outlook rubbed off on somebody connected to the universe’s head office, and I was sent an early *Santiago Day gift, in the form of an unexpected Facebook communiqué from the aforementioned Erick Baer, wherein he requested a chat to discuss the issue at hand.
*[Google it.]

Personally, I was hoping Baer would turn out to be someone I could really dislike- it’s been a slow summer for me after all, and this gig doesn’t really work unless I have someone to eviscerate. The most ideal situation for me is that I would have found find him *running a Ding Dong counterfeiting ring out of a hollow volcano, surrounded by underpaid dancing minions.
*[That’s a joke. Please don’t sue me, we all know that a hollow tree is where the pastries get made.]

However, when I arrived for our sit-down at The Grand on Central, that wasn’t the case- in his sixties, blunt, and incredibly energetic, Baer struck me (in my humble opinion) as a fairly straight shooter, and wasted no time explaining how the blow-up all happened. He’s also a founding member of Downtown Voices, [www.downtownvoices.org] a Phoenix-specific advocacy group.

And even worse, he admits he did say that, right off the freaking bat.

Goddamnit. Son of a yak herding inbred, I was hoping for a demagogue, and instead, got someone who didn’t duck or shy away from my rather pointed questions. With this kind of open discourse, it’s only a matter of time before I start posting recipes and life-hack tips. For instance, did you know you can use clothespins as toothbrush holde…

NONONONONO! I’m the Artbitch, and I’m gonna get ruthless here, no matter what.

Except… Baer spent quite some time explaining his frustration with the defeated BID proposal, making a strong case regarding [in his words] several “vagaries” within its structure, along with alleging that the process itself isn’t truly transparent, the notification procedure strikes as somewhat selective, and that the appeals process is deliberately complicated and bureaucratic to deter dissent.

Continuing, he echoes opinions I’ve voiced numerous times over the years: that [my take] Phoenix tries on identities like a high school girl wanting to impress people, that there’s no sense of gravitas or authenticity as presented by the new developments, and that the Arts community would benefit greatly from a true advocate in their corner, not someone who’s in “bed” with the developers.

“They want Utopia” he says, “but have no idea what it signifies.”

If the BID allegations are accurate, I do think these are issues that should merit further investigation, but this is so out of my skill-set, that it requires someone who truly understands the politics and intricacies of the situation, and that person is so not me, if I were to be brutally honest- I’m a snark, not a diplomat, and this can of worms would eat my face if I dared to step up into it’s ring,

As I stated earlier: “I’m a novice when it comes to the arena of local politics, the structuring of such initiatives, and what the required process is in order to create one, so any input I have would essentially boil down to a word-bite at best, personal embarrassment at worst.”

Regardless of my walking the waffling line, the conversation was interesting to say the very least, especially in regards to one of the aforementioned properties he owns, that being the vacant lot, which he’s half-jokingly suggested should be named “Parasite Park“, after the street-art someone [we all know who, wink, wink] plastered all over it. A graphic btw, that Baer claims both he and his wife actually liked, mainly for it’s superior attention to detail. 

So to the artist responsible; kudos, you done good.

As it turns out, vacant lots in Phoenix are taxed at double the rate of developed properties, PHXs rationale being that they necessitate a larger share of city services, such as police, fire, etc., by dint of not being fully realized. Now whether or not this is statistically true, it still presents as a tad bit

hypocritical, considering the City of Phoenix allegedly owns over 800 similar lots themselves. Past the tragic issues regarding the homeless and an occasional brush fire, I can’t really see this as a concern past the claim of a blighted urban landscape, which while a truly valid point, is not as simplistic as it sounds.

Especially when the city taxing you for it is essentially doing the same thing as you, and even more annoying when your property has been put up for sale as Baer has done, and you don’t get any takers. Just an aside I thought was interesting, given the fact that Downtown Phoenix is being swallowed up by developments that look as if they were designed by a Bauhaus student with a fetish for architecture that looks like a shoebox got busy with a WalMart behind a Taco Bell dumpster, an issue I’ll cover in the next blog, btw.

Back to the brouhaha. As our three hour conversation unfolds, Baer expresses both remorse and shock at the controversy that his “heat of the moment” remark generated, for as he puts it: “In the grand scheme of things, I’m small potatoes, I’m really nobody.” In fact, the blowback spurred on mostly by the earlier referenced article via the Phoenix New Times- a commentary that [according to Baer] didn’t feel that it was necessary to grant him the opportunity to expound upon his incendiary statement took him totally by surprise.

There’s a truly valid reason I gleefully call the PNT the “Pennysaver with Porn”, and it’s not just because it’s catchy as all f**k. No, the explanation lies within the fact that if they spent less time trying to stir the pot and more time getting all sides of a story, maybe they wouldn’t have to sell so much ad space to businesses you can’t take your kids to, as you awkwardly avoid the question of where you really go every Wednesday night after work. Let me be clear- I’m NOT blaming the writer of this piece- if anything, I’m betting dollars to donuts that the bad call on the details can be laid at their editors *feet, as it’s just the kind of salacious detail that they drool over. 
*[hooves, talons, tentacles, what have you]

Darn. And my aversion therapy regimen was going so well.  Oops. My bad. Back to the narrative.

Baer, as I stated earlier, comes off as a straight shooter, an attitude I can easily relate to, given my penchant for being blunt. And directness seems to be a trait that Baer possesses in buckets, if not truckloads. Another attribute I tend to like in a person, no matter what side they’re on. In the end, I’m just a big softy, I guess.

As our talk progresses, Baer informs that his real issue truly lies with a few specific individuals who, as he put it rather succinctly, claim to represent the PAS, of whom he flatly states: “nobody voted for them to be the Art King and Queen, and they sure as Hell don’t speak for me.“. Those familiar with the PAS already know who I’m talking about, and despite my past screed regarding one of those people specifically, I really don’t have too much interaction with them in the circles I run in, nor do I really pay either much mind. Different levels of the food chain and all that, you understand. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure if I have a level, so much as a niche that others overlook.

Now before you go burning me in effigy or sticking pins in a likeness adorned with a lock of my luxuriant ponytail, pause to remember that I’m just the messenger, and that my health insurance is non-existent, so take a moment and think before you start sending me the usual barrage of hate mail, snarky comments tossed out at art openings, and veiled threats passed via Chinese whispers.

Continuing, Baer hones in on what he claims he meant to say originally. before he,  “phrased it badly due to my being so damn aggravated by some of the people involved.” I’ll give you two guesses as to whom those persons might just be.

Just two simple speculations. Key word here is two. Dos. Twosome. Duo. A pair. A set. Two of a kind. Uno times Dos. You get the idea, methinks.

By way of disclaimer, I have heard that said persons don’t think much of me, if at all, but to be fair- that tidbit did come fifth hand, and they’ve never been anything less than professional when I’ve run into them publicly, so for all I know, they could either have a shrine to my destruction hidden in a hall closet, or both could be huge, yet closeted, Artbitch fans.

A snarky boy who’s just looking for his forever family can dream I guess, but the reality is more likely that they have no actual idea who I am. [See “small fish, big mouth.”] Not that I’m taking sides or anything. After all, I don’t want to wind up buried alive under the reclaimed wood floor-boards of a combination vegan coffee boutique and art gallery, and I’m way too set in my habits to start hanging out in a Starbucks anytime soon.

As I said earlier, I’m just the messenger, and this isn’t Sparta, so let’s all step back from the pit full of earth, water, and the piled corpses of Xerse’s unfortunately mouthy emissaries, before we all do something I’ll regret.

But… it does have relevance to something I’ve been grousing about for years, and that is this- we have way too many cooks in the kitchen in regards to the PAS, and some of those can only boil in a bag, if you know what I mean. Don’t misinterpret my take, it’s truly heartening to see so many 602 cheerleaders as of late, but let’s be real for a moment- some are here for community, some are here for charity, and some are here strictly for the commemorative plaques.

Granted, a strong argument could be made for my inclusion into one, if not all three, of these sub-groups, depending on your pov, but I’ve never claimed to speak for anyone but me. I have my own corner of the artistic turf, and I defend it like a man obsessed, but I’ve never assumed that anybody respects that or what I try to do. In my opinion, there’s really no clear and unifying leader who speaks for and within the PAS, but there sure are a lot of generals who think they’re in charge, no matter what the in proximity evidence or gentry may say.

And yes, I can already hear the smug detractors rallying cry: “well then, why aren’t you more politically involved on the local level then, oh great internet snark?“, and my retort is as basic as you can get- quite simply, I’ve always been an irritant to committees and agendas, and it’s usually more effective if I remain in the shadows. While I can lead, I absolutely abhor being the one who has to herd the cats, and my main skill-set has always been in serving as advocate, fixer, and occasional 2nd lieutenant.

As an aside, if anybody requires concrete proof that our artistic starship isn’t helmed by Captain Kirk but his fated to die redshirts instead, all we need do is look at the “success” of the PAS with a truly dispassionate eye.  Ready for a fun pros and cons list, faithful readers?

PRO: Roosevelt was named one of the “coolest streets in America”.
  [Source: http://www.bizjournals.com/phoenix/blog/business/2016/06/cushman-wakefield-names-roosevelt-row-in-downtown.html]

 CON: It’s as edgy as a glass of warm milk, and has been so gentrified, it’s essentially a vanilla wafer come to life, who just wants to brag endlessly about how natural his fake lawn looks.

PRO: Our “arts district” was also named “one of the top ten art districts in America.”
[Source: http://ktar.com/story/92043/phoenixs-roosevelt-row-named-among-best-art-districts-in-the-country/  ]

CON: Please explain how this can be, since FF is nothing more than a rolling street party, hardly any art gets sold, the Creatives in this town still require day jobs in order to survive, add in the lack of serious promotion of the PAS, a dearth of knowledgeable media exposure of what we do past a crap-sack of a free newspaper that even Circle K won’t carry, and to top it all off, could someone satisfactorily defend why we’re only open two nights a month?

Sorry, but in order to truly be taken seriously, maybe we should stop patting ourselves on the back over every middling achievement, and should ramp it up like the other cities, and for once- go kick some serious ass in regards to showcasing the talent we have and what it can do. Don’t think I’m blaspheming, but I’m pretty sure NYC doesn’t even knows we’re alive in relation to being on the Arts map. [Please send hate mail and death threats to the usual place, thank you.]

PRO: The new developments will put Phoenix on the map as a city in upward transition.

CON: Yes… because lifting architectural inspirations directly from Portland and LA will do so much to define our uniqueness in regards to other cities, because nothing screams “distinctive” louder than purposely making sure your downtown looks just like everybody else’s, everywhere else.

I’m not sure who the architects designing these abominations are, but it’s high time that somebody takes away their cad programs and architectural LEGO sets until they can design something that’s truly and perceptibly Phoenix, as wrested from the ethereal to the corporeal. And while some of these new developments are touted as a means to raise our national visibility, they’re also akin to a strangler fig being set loose in a verdant garden.

We may not notice at first that our community is being forced out, but we’ll definitely become aware of it down the road, another issue I’ll address in the next part of this blog.

Sorry. Sometimes tangents take me away like a pack of hungry pterodactyls. My sincerest apologies. Back to the original plot. Asked how he would phrase his declaration given the perspective of hindsight, Baer quickly responds with: “If I had to say it again, I’d say the BID process is itself parasitic- I’m truly sorry for the unintended offense, which was not directed at the community itself, but those certain un-elected people who claim to represent it.”

Wrapping it up, Baer exits on this statement: “There’s room for the People, there’s room for the Artists, but there’s no room for the Bureaucrats.”

But isn’t there, though?

Especially given that they seem to be the ones truly controlling the path and destiny of our future, devoid of any knowledge of what makes our creative nucleus tick. I recently ran into one of these beige-walkers being shepherded around the PAS by two of our local and I might add, kick-ass Creatives who had taken it upon themselves to show this individual (who’s involved with the *tax-break seeking Circles development) to showcase what exactly the PAS has to offer and what it represents.
*[They didn’t get it by the way. Schadenfreude rocks.]

Two things: first, I’m proud of how the two Creatives involved took it upon themselves to attempt an education upon the clueless, and I heartily applaud them. Personally, I feel it’s an overly optimistic endeavor, due to the fact the deal is done, the ink is dry, and if these developers couldn’t be bothered to do the merest of research in regards to where they’re building, why would they care now? If one looks at the situation with an unbiased eye, it’s fairly obvious we’re all being played like an Ozark harp, and we’re dancing to their tune- not ours.

And second: I think that Baer’s comment (poorly phrased as it was), does raise a valid if somewhat uncomfortable point, and that’s this: who exactly is looking out for the PAS, and what is their plan to stop the presently occurring strangulation of what’s been built? Does it consist of digging in our heels for an inspiring, yet hopeless last stand, or praying for a deus ex machina that saves all that’s established?

But that’s for the next installment of “As Our World Burns”, methinks.
And when I come back…

I run in Circles, discuss giplets and gravy, and wonder why Phoenix needs to burrow in Portland’s closet when we have an entire wardrobe of our own to choose from.

“You must never feel badly about making mistakes … as long as you take the trouble to learn from them. For you often learn more by being wrong for the right reasons than you do by being right for the wrong reasons.” – Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth

 

 

 

 

“They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but it’s not one half so bad as a lot of ignorance.”
– Terry Pratchett

Greetings, Blogiteers!

It has been a rough two months. I finally got a great gig going, evened out some of the medical issues I’ve been plagued with since my ex-doctor threw me under an entire fleet of buses, and then next thing I know, my position at work gets “dissolved”, and I’m being fired by text.

Granted, it was a very nice text, but still… yeeouch.

So after almost nine years of solid semi-dependable employment, I find myself with updated resumes in hand, looking for work, and finding zilch. On top of that bubbling cauldron of annoyance, my 1 ½ year old ASUS laptop is back in the shop suffering the same issue I just paid to have fixed, forcing me to once again, go back to my 14 year old IBM Thnkpad to help save the day.

I’m seriously thinking of buying her some bitching new stickers as a way to say thank you. As you can see from the photos, she’s a clunky retro piece of tech, but she still kicks ass. All that aside, my last piece detailing the travails with my ex-doctor hit home pretty hard, much to my sheer delight. If there is one thing I just love doing, it’s ripping the mask off of the incompetent and the untrustworthy, and exposing them to the light. Sadly, they don’t turn into powder or an ashen corpse ala the Blade movies, but it’s still fun nonetheless.

Because in reality, that’s all I can actually do, as evidenced by this recent photo of an Arizona doctor learning about a complaint being filed against them. Granted while this doesn’t depict my doctor, it does*cover her attitude rather succinctly. *[allegedly.]

More on this to come, but let us pick up where I last left off- the insipidly decorated offices at Paradise Family Medicine, where my ex-doctor, one Gypsy Faith Paar, inflicts her craft upon an unsuspecting and wholly trusting populace. As you may recall from my last narrative chronicling my being discharged from “Dr.” Paar’s care, I found myself at that time in utter mental disarray, due to her inexpressive and indifferent attitude.

The only way I could accurately describe her so-called bedside manner, would be to regrettably violate some tenet of Godwins Law, which is described as such: “Godwin’s law (or Godwin’s rule of Nazi analogies) is an internet adage asserting that “As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches- that is, if an online discussion (regardless of topic or scope) goes on long enough, sooner or later someone will compare someone or something to Hitler or Nazism.”

Now, in the spirit of all-inclusive fairness, I would say that comparing *Mrs. Paar [* As stated in my last screed, I’ll reserve the title “Doctor” for those who actually deserve the accolade from this point on] to Hitler are not only a stretch, but also greatly insulting overall. It’s a ridiculous assessment at best, and completely slanderous at worst.

However? I am pretty comfortable in assigning her an equality to that of some of his lesser subordinates, if truth be told. And no, I’m not referring to Dr. Josef  Mengele, I’m thinking more along the lines of his college roommate, Herschel. Nice enough guy, just not really qualified to practice medicine, so much as inflict it.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have, let’s call it a “thing”, for the darkness of human nature. When I was younger, I seriously wanted to be a criminal profiler- you know, like William Petersen in the 1986 film Manhunter, written and directed by Michael (TV’s “Miami Vice”) Mann?
[Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZd4YxCeODU ]

If one were to peruse my personal library at my home, they would see an expansive collection of the types of books expected in the lair of a professional artist and writer- tomes on the history of art and it’s creators, art techniques, artist biographies, and the like are all well represented. But as with most things concerning the human experience, there is also a dark side, and it just fascinates the dickens out of me, leading to my fairly dense collection of case studies, journals, and narratives regarding the histories of the criminally disturbed mind.

Thank whatever deity you revere that one can’t be judged solely by their nighttime reading selection or browser history, as my excuse of “I am a writer after all” would most likely fall upon deaf ears. And if I were to have my personal eccentricities factored in, my hide would surely be as tanned as that of George Hamilton on a Spanish beach.

So, where’s this train of thought going, you ask, and what does any of it have to do with my former doctor? Trust me- it’ll make sense in the end, as my account will touch upon some of the same topics covered in my hobbyists library: arrogance, narcissism, and a complete lack of empathy.

All the classic defining hallmarks of the egotist, or in this specific case, an individual who while failing the criteria to merit a fishing license, was somehow granted the privilege of obtaining a medical one. As a Creative, I’ve always ascribed to the concept of whenever you are asked to do something outside your comfort zone, always say, “sure I can do it”, and then go do some research on how to actually get it done.

While this works great for creative endeavors, I wouldn’t recommend it for anything involving the mechanical or the medical, but that common sense approach hasn’t stopped my ex-doctor from charging ahead, Alien chest-burster style. To quote the late Kurt Vonnegut:

“If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you’re a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind.”

And where my former physician is concerned, her aptitude at half-assing her job is akin to Donald Trump’s ability at alienating every gender and race on planet Earth within five minutes of him speaking his mind. Sure, it’s an impressive skill-set, but it’s really not something one should brag about, in my humble opinion. My ex-doctor on the other hand however, still maintains that same level of delusional hubris in my modest estimation, and her supercilious quirk literally, as well as figuratively, nearly crippled me in the short term.

But as usual, I’m putting the bleach way ahead of the bottled blonde, so let’s get right into it.

When we were last together, I had just been icily informed that I probably shouldn’t make plans to catch the upcoming Captain America movie, as my kidneys and liver were failing, and according to the peroxided authority that was then standing before me, I was, and I quote: “dying before her eyes”, which she as a physician, wasn’t going to have on her [ha, ha, wait for it…] “conscience”.

How dare she. I didn’t sit through the dreck that was Iron Man 3 so that I could fall behind in regards to the Marvel Universe. So after being talked off the ledge by the practices’ receptionist, I then spent another 45 minutes sitting in my car in the parking lot getting my metaphorical s**t together, as one is wont to do.
  
After a few hours spent reestablishing my equilibrium of calm, my hysteria was slowly replaced by an emerging sense of pure white-hot anger- there’s a way to deliver horrendous news like that, and a merged giggling condescension is definitely not the way to do so, just in case anybody asks.

Trust me on this.

if I were to be brutally honest, the first thought I had as to how to handle said sense of fury was to drive back to her office, get her alone in a room, and start punching in the middle of that conceitedly smirking face until I could see the first rays of daylight radiating on the other side. Now for the very public record, I would never engage in, or advocate for, any form of violence directed at a woman or women in general, as it’s a barbaric response to the situation, no matter how you try to justify it.

if I ever feel the need to “hurt” a woman, I’ll do it in the most direct and mature way possible-  I’ll make sure she sees me walking out of a shower wearing nothing save my official Motorhead shower cap and Britney Spears water wings.

My ex-fiancé is still going to therapy, and that all happened when I actually had abs. But considering that I’m also not allowed to launch people using a trebuchet, it did, at first, seem like the most practical and workable solution within my grasp. Fortunately, the fact that I was 30 miles away during the rush hour and way too pretty for prison, helped remove that gratifying option from my bag of go-to tricks. Instead, I decided to take the high road and do what I’ve been told reasonable and mature adults do- that is, complain to a higher up about what I felt was an unconscionable breach of ethical behavior.

I think you already know what the next joke I’m going to make is, as you’ve all seen it before- the one where I note that my sense of optimism isn’t pulling it’s weight? Yep, that’s the one, and it’s still true, now more than ever. My birthday is coming up soon, so if anyone wants to buy me a new one, feel free- I don’t even care what size or color it is, as long as it actually works.

As some of my more loyal readers may know, a doctor’s office isn’t like your typical business- the options that exist for you to complain about your local Fillabertos, really doesn’t carry over as to where the medical profession is concerned. You really only have two options when it gets right down to brass tacks, and those are these: the office manager for the practice, and BOMEX*. *[Board Of Medical Examiners]

I’ve noted dealing with both entities in blogs regarding my previous doctor, [See the Archive] and not-too-surprisingly, zip has changed in regards to the current situation- both place the protection of the doctor long before the safeguarding of the patient, and both actively whitewash the issue for the benefit of the practice to the detriment of the public that filed the complaint in the first place.

And both in the long run, present as morally bankrupt.

Whether you believe it or not, I do know what you’re thinking: “Bob Ross called, and he wants his broad brush back”- and normally, I would agree with you. On the surface, it would seem that I am issuing a rather sweeping edict in regards to a particular profession, but I assure you that as someone who’s become very intimately involved with the bloated narcissism that masquerades as healing in this country, I’m being almost chillingly diplomatic.

Look at it from this POV- if you graduate last in your high school class, they’ll most likely call you an Assistant Manager at Arby’s, but if you manage to graduate last in your medical school, they’ll still call you “doctor”- puts it all in perspective, doesn’t it? Now, I’m not suggesting even for a moment that Mrs. Paar was in the lowest percentile when her degree was optimistically handed to her,  but given my experience in regards to her personal ethic, I would hazard a guess that she also didn’t win any prize ribbons in the bedside manner segment of her med school contest.

On the upside, I am pretty confident that if her school had ever offered an overbilling for services actually rendered curriculum, she would totally ace that, and as we all know- that’s really the main concern for most doctors in this country- getting paid first, caring about your actions later, if at all. And when you know your misconduct is going to be sheltered from the prying eyes of the public via your employer and fellow colleagues, it’s easy to see why most physicians are so utterly arrogant.

If I knew for certain that my actions wouldn’t be held accountable, I’d probably be drag racing through Scottsdale Fashion Square on a daily basis. Wearing nothing but glittery combat boots and a smug sense of invulnerability. It’s no stretch of the imagination to extend that worldview to my ex-doctor. Minus the boots that is- she’s always struck me as more of a practical wedge kind of gal.

Back to the action.

So as I mentioned, I decided to call the practice and issue a complaint, via Teresa O’Brian, the office manager, which in turn, led to a 45 minute phone call wherein I rehashed what I felt was a severe, if not obvious, lapse in ethical behavior. Pitching square down the middle, she neither confirms or denies absolution on behalf of Mrs. Paar, but she does seemingly agree to my terms that I want resolution within the week. 

Cue that defective sense of optimism again, it’s working overtime. While drunk. And speed-balling meth through it’s eyes. Noting that Mrs. Paar recused herself as my doctor without providing me a referral to another one, she states that she’ll “take care of it”, an assertion that I note isn’t actually her duty to handle, since it was under Mrs. Paar’s purview, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

The promised email with the referrals arrives the next day, and is directly responsible for the choice of my current doctor, who so far, kicks ass in ways Mrs. Paar couldn’t  begin to touch with her glacial indifference- but I’ll highlight this disparity further down the narrative. As I await the official response from Theresa regarding Mrs. Paar’s behavior, I draft the following email as a follow-up and send it two days after filing my complaint:
————————————————————-
“Mrs. O’ Brien-

Thank you for giving me the info that should have been the responsibility of my former doctor- I do appreciate it.

Regardless of your professional actions, I am still infuriated at the callous disregard displayed by Mrs. Parr in reference to her dismissal of me as a patient. I say “Mrs. Parr”, because the title of “Doctor” should not be bestowed upon one who’s bedside manner is as warming and comforting as an ice floe populated by rabidly carnivorous grizzlies.

Everyone I have spoken to regarding her actions have been universally appalled, (the phrase “WTF?” being used more than once) and if this person is considered a viable asset to your practice, I feel sorry for your soon to be diminished client base

Per our conversation, three options remain open to you in regards to how you wish to rectify this situation. Please feel free to choose accordingly as to what you feel is in your best interest.

No matter what route you wish to eventually pursue, please be advised that I WILL be filling a formal complaint with BOMEX nonetheless- not that they’ll actually do anything, and not that this complaint will ever be made public, since it’s doctors covering for other doctors, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of not knowing what (if any) actions they’ll take, since I as a patient, aren’t allowed to know the outcome of the complaint I file under their guidelines.

I wish my industry worked like that. It must be nice to have made sure the rules protect only your interests while still getting to treat people like the insignificant cash cows your industry now likens us to.

So you can relax. In the end, no one save outside my vast circle will ever know that your office has employed a heartless, gutless, and I might add, highly condescending practitioner of medicine.

Hopefully, her “practicing” medicine will eventually lead to that glorious day where she’s actually competent at it.

In closing, I thank you again for all your help. As I said- it is truly appreciated.

respectfully,
Wayne Michael Reich

PS: Extra kudos go out to your tall brunette receptionist who unlike your doctor and her just as thick nurse, seemed genuinely concerned about my mental state after Mrs. Parr’s indifferent delivery of potentially devastating news.

If I had attempted to leave in such a highly agitated state, I’d probably have wrapped my car around an SUV- so please let her know I really do appreciate her taking the time to “talk me down” and not charging me for the six minute “consultation” that Mrs. Parr felt she earned.

Your receptionist is a rock. Mrs. Parr should crawl back under hers.”

————————————————————-

See? Direct. Appreciative. Giving credit where it’s due. And ultimately, chock-full of warm fuzzies. I’m telling you, when my days of blogging and writing a magazine gig are done, I’m so writing a kids book. Maybe something with a dragon. Or Zombies. Or zombie dragons. I smell a Newberry Medal!

Un-surprisingly, It’s also kind of well known that I’m really not good at biding my time in regards to waiting on the resolution of simple issues that I feel should be rectified quickly, and this situation was no exception. One thing that had been bugging me in retrospect was how smoothly Mrs. Paar had kicked me to the curb with nary a trace of emotional upset on her part, and with both time on my hands and hi-speed internet access at my disposal, I decided to take my gut instincts out for a drive, and see what the ol’ Google had to say about my most recent of the exes.

Did I ever mention that sometimes my gut succeeds where my optimism fails?

In short, I did find more than a few things. Not the mother lode by far, but enough nuggets to let me know Mrs. Paar isn’t exactly walking around with a spotless reputation. Naturally, I felt the need to share these tidbits with Theresa, since as we all know by now, resolving problems is kind of my niche, and since I was [according to Mrs. Paar] “dying before her eyes”, I was under the impression my time walking this ball of mud was growing short, and I really didn’t want to die with an unfinished “to-do” list.

Or an undeleted browser history. All kidding aside, don’t forget to clear it. Your family will thank you. So, a mere two days after I sent off my first electronic missive, I cast forth this:
———————————————————
“Mrs. O’Brien-

Just thought you’d find this interesting.

These are public reviews of Mrs. Parr’s professional demeanor. As I noted to you during our phone conversation, she seemed rather “smooth” in how rude she was regarding her recusing herself as my doctor. Seems I’m not the only one that feels that way.

Unprofessional behavior, misdiagnosis, and a frosty haughtiness do not a doctor make.
[Link:http://www.vitals.com/doctors/Dr_Gypsy_Paar/reviews]

Here’s the first one:

Uncaring by Patient who will not return on Jun 5th, 2015

“So if you’re looking for a practitioner who brings you back a half hour after your appointment and keeps you waiting another 15 mins while she discusses her own baby crying at night with the other staff,who wants to get in and out as quick as possible, who thinks it a burden to prescribe your meds,whose staff will NOT return calls, and who personally won’t return a call either, then you’ve come to your dream physician. For me it was a nightmare and I am a health professional. My dog gets better care at the vet.”

Yee-ouch. Here’s another one:

Feb 13th, 2015

“Not at all a fan of Dr. Paar. 100% agree with other reviews that she did not listen to my issues I came in for, nor did she even pretend to care. Moreso made me feel bad about my issues. Instead she “diagnosed” me with several other illnesses that are not related to what my visit was for whatsoever and truly made me feel emberassed and discouraged for coming to see her in the first place. I will never put time or money into her care again. Word of advice, if you are needing a family doctor specialist, very easy to go see someone else or if need of a specialist, find it yourself instead of wasting your time here.”

Dang. That was cold. But this? Wow:

worst DR I’ve seen in my life by upset pre-med student on Nov 26th, 2013

“Nice lady, but this is not her field. She absolutely does NOT deserve to have her license, a disgrace to the medical community I’m sorry. I went in for physical and she diagnosed me with a heart murmur at the age of 20, I went to a cardiologist to spend hundreds of dollars on tests for them to tell me my paperwork was “boring” and nothing was wrong. Again I made the mistake to see her, she tested me for STD’s which was irrelevant for my reason going to her. S

he told me I tested positive for IgG herpes 2 and had me leave the office in a panic, telling me I have herpes. I immediately made an appt with my gynecologist and showed her my results, she told me “we haven’t tested for this in years, 96% of the population tests positive for these antibodies. Can only test for herpes if theres lesions”. Ive NEVER had a lesion in my life , and Dr. Paar “forgot” to mention that to me. Thank God I’m attending medical school next to replace these noctors . I will not be seeing her again, anyone else is more than welcome to see her and pay a 25 dollar co pay to get scared and misdiagnosed.”

That felt oddly familiar for some reason. Here’s two oldies but goodies:

Dec 3rd, 2012

“I’m surprised that Dr. T with his great reputation in our community has decided to bring on a person like Dr. Parr. She is short with me every time I go in to see her and will never try and fix an issue or illness herself. She always refers me out. She will make you wait 45 min. Then give you only 5 min. Of her time! She is rude and a waste of time and money!”

Oct 22nd, 2012

“Im a healthcare professional myself and was horrified at the way I was treated, I overheard her snapping at the staff and waited over an hour past my appt 45 min of that wearing see thru paper, that was fine as I assumed that she had a patient she needed to spend extra time with – but when she got to me she was not nice and told me right away that she didnt have time to discuss my severe depression at a well women check, the exam should cover all areas of concern and I had to really work myself up to ask about medication for depression and she made me feel horrible and was very demeaning in the way she spoke to me, She made me late for my patients but even with being severly depressed and running late I was able to make my patients feel as tho i cared about their issues and not only to I assess all body systems as well as depression at each visit I am kind and compassionate even when Im running behind schedule.”

By the way, this took me all of five seconds to unearth this information. Why wasn’t this a concern for your hiring manager? I’m thinking BOMEX will definitely take an interest in my complaint now, as there seems to be a rather clear pattern of behavior here. But more interestingly, what else is out there to be found once I really start digging? This is just ONE website- there are literally scores of others I’m going to start scanning as soon as my schedule permits.

I’d suggest you do the same, and give serious thought to terminating her employment before her callousness and incompetence lead to a patient either dying or pursuing the wrong course of treatment due to a misdiagnosis. Speaking of which, there is also one curious thing I was thinking of last night while testing my blood sugar, which oddly, is well within normal parameters for the last three weeks despite Mrs. Parr’s insistence that I was “dying before her eyes”, and that is this:

If I’m so sick, [REMEMBER: I’m “dying”, according to your practicing med student] then why oh why did she not offer any follow-up advice, like oh, I don’t know… something along the lines of:

“GET YOUR DYING A** TO A HOSPITAL!!!” or even, “Get a new doctor ASAP!” You know, like a DOCTOR OF MEDICINE is supposed to do?

Does she think the Hippocratic Oath is a Disney character?

I’m thinking the answer here is “yes”, but let’s not quibble over her inability to follow through on the several years of specialized training that obviously didn’t take. Even if this type of behavior occurs randomly, one outburst is still one too many, and mark my words- she will eventually harm her patients, whether it is by her indifference to their problems, or by her misdiagnosis causing them to seek out treatment that may eventually do more harm than good.

But hey- I’m an ex-patient, so my opinion probably doesn’t matter for much in the long run- after all, I am “dying”, so maybe it’s the fear of the unknown that’s talking.

Who knows? In closing, I look forward to your decision in rectifying this matter come Monday, and I wish you a relaxing weekend.

Respectfully,
Wayne Michael Reich”
————————————

Once again direct, but this time around, I added a scoop of helpfulness, and who wouldn’t appreciate that? Mrs. Paar maybe, but you’d think her office manager might take an interest. As I’ve noted numerous times before, it seems that in every office there’s always a lackey whose man job is to mop up messes as a means to keep said issue/s out of the public’s eye. While this human Sham-Wow is not always an indicator of unethical corruption, it’s definitely one of the things to look out for, and Theresa is hardly the exception to this rule.

True character (in my opinion) has always meant that you tackle problems head on and in full view- a naïve approach, to be sure, but in the long run, honesty is always the best policy, a concept that allegedly strikes both Mrs. Paar and Theresa as completely alien. Despite the worrisome issues I discovered using the simplest search parameters, neither Theresa or the two doctors who own Paradise Family Medicine [Dr. Colume and Dr. Katz] ever addressed them directly. In fact, they completely ignored them altogether. While I do understand the legalities of why they’d remain mute in regards to the topic, I would at least think that enough red flags had been raised to at least warrant an investigation past the obligatory lip service phase.
[See: “sense of optimism” See…. Oh you get the joke, already.]

Whoa, is it really 2 AM?. Looking at the old word count thus far, I see I’ve hit exactly 4,534 at this point, so I think it’s time for a break. And when we come back…

I fire my sense of optimism and replace it with sarcasm, deal with a short bus Renfield, realize that two wrongs not only make a right, they also validate a hunch, discover exactly how much pain it takes to drop an Artbitch, and put the final nails in my ex-doctors metaphorical coffin.

“The more ignorant, reckless and thoughtless a doctor is, the higher his reputation soars even amongst powerful princes.”- Desiderius Erasmus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I guessed that he was one of those ambitious young physicians who more and more fill the profession, opportunists with a fashionable hoodlum image, openly hostile to their patients. My brief stay at the hospital had already convinced me that the medical profession was an open door to anyone nursing a grudge against the human race.” – J.G Ballard, from “Crash”

 *[In Greek mythology, the Rod of Asclepius, also known as the Staff of Asclepius (sometimes also spelled Asklepios or Aesculapius) and as the asklepian, is a serpent-entwined rod wielded by the Greek god Asclepius, a deity associated with healing and medicine. The symbol has continued to be used in modern times, where it is associated with medicine and health care.]

 Greed and blatant narcissism are the true impetus empowering most doctors these days, and we as a society seem to be utterly helpless in halting this slithering abuse of our trust. The more I deal with certain aspects of our remedial health care system, I begin to understand why the symbol of doctors is a serpent wrapped around a staff- if the venom doesn’t kill you, they can always use the wooden pole to beat you into submission as they attempt to steal your wallet.

Sadly, doing the right thing unbidden by the simple act of accepting personal responsibility for professional mistakes, is as alien a concept to the modern doctor as delivering a coherent speech is to Sarah Palin. Look, I get it- we live in a decidedly litigious society, where nobly admitting guilt will get you sued more often than not, but as a rule, most people are just as good with a sincere show of remorse as they would be with a settlement check.

But I’d guess this is what happens after you outsource those jobs to a Lithuanian day-care center, if truth be told. Sigh… and my profit margin was looking to be huge this quarter, My first two visits were routine and relatively uneventful, despite a strong push to visit specialists that she had been informed were out of financial reach, due to my lack of health insurance. On a related note for any future doctors, your response to such information should NOT be the blithely stated: “well, it has to happen”, unless you’re also about to give your patient a winning lotto ticket in lieu of a bill. Just saying.

First on the to-do list was launching the much-needed dental work, [noted in the last blog] followed by the aforementioned tightening of my Diabetic protocol belt, and lastly, the elephant leech in the room: my job. As much as I wanted to leave, it’s hard to do so when you’ve invested eight and ½ years of your life into something, even it’s for the best- which this most arguably was.

“Nothing’s more disgusting than a guy who steals another person’s ideas and tries to claim them as his own.”  -Joe Rogan

 Hello Blogiteers!

Things have gone seriously awry as of late, let me tell you. The great John Lennon once famously stated that “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans”, and boy- did he ever hit that nail on the proverbial head.

With Thor’s hammer, no less.

Originally, the subject of this blog was going to be my favorite go-to punching bag, a local artist whose catalogue raisonné makes the work of Jeff Koon and Damien Hirst come off as deep by way of comparison. A person that at best, is the closest Phoenix will ever get to having it’s very own artsy Kilgore Trout*.  

[*It’s a Vonnegut reference- Google it. And then go read all of his books- I highly recommend “Bluebeard”, as it’s chock-full of really artsy stuff, and the main character has the best name ever: “Rebo Karabekian”- a moniker which by the way, I have been informed by my GF Ashley, is not allowed into the baby name lottery if we ever decide to have kids… which we’re not, so don’t start picking out those play-dates anytime soon.]

For those of you who are regular readers of my humble little screeds, you probably already know who that person is, for much like the rules set forth in Highlander, there can be only one, thank Odin for small favors. I am of course, talking about an individual who on more than one occasion, has “paid homage” to somebody else’s idea and claimed it his own, while simultaneously adding nothing of substance* whatsoever [*allegedly.] No matter how you slice it, the term “homage” is artist code for “I have no original ideas of my own, but hey… that already established one over there looks nice.”

So Blogiteers, please give a warm welcome and show your love to the Master of Mimicry, the Ambassador of Appropriation, the Chancellor of Copying, the Hamburglar of Homage, SMOCA’S very own in-house Artsy Shoplifter- you know him, I loathe him, the one, the only,…

PETER BUGG!!!! {sound of crickets… a lone tumbleweed rolls forlornly by…}
Um, loyal Blogiteers? It’s customary to clap right about now. Sigh… never mind, I’ll just dub it in.

WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!!WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!! WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!!WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!!  WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!!WOOHOO!CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP!!

ARE YOU READY TO ROCK, DETROIT?!?!?!? Ooops. Sorry, I accidentally grabbed my 8-track copy of LIBERACE PLAYS LIVE. My apologies. However, this swanky album still rocks… sure, it cant touch Thompson’s Twins “A Product of (Participation)”, or even come close to the sonic awesomeness that was Sigue Sigue Sputnik, but what can, really?

A question for another time, I guess. As I said just a moment ago, the original subject of this blog was going to be my favorite go-to punching bag, the aforementioned Mr. Bugg, due mainly to his recent career move, covered here by my favorite bestest buddy, the Phoenix new Times.
[Link: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/arts/scottsdale-museum-of-contemporary-art-hires-peter-bugg-and-christina-davis-7648310]

For those of you unwilling to read the slopfest that continues to constitute the “journalism” in our local Pennysaver with Porn these days, I’ll give you the high notes: basically, Peter has been hired by the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art [AKA: “SMoCA”] to serve as their new curator of programming, a full-time position that will allow him ample room (if tradition holds) to refine other people’s ideas, while simultaneously dropping the ball.

Sure, I’ve bagged on both before, but when I read the following statement, I found that for a brief moment, I was almost overcome with a happily familiar and unadulterated feeling of pure rampant snarkiness, akin only to my discovering a cache of refrigerated Ding Dongs safely tucked away inside my sock drawer- not that such a thing has ever happened, mind you, I’m just speaking metaphorically. And optimistically. Oh, sooo optimistically.

From the NT article:“We are very pleased to begin working with Peter,” Sara Cochran, SMoCA interim director and curator, says in the announcement. “His knowledge of contemporary art, experience in museums and with docents as well as his concepts for new and innovative programming really set him apart in the interview process.

He presented an impressive number of original and exciting ideas for connecting with SMoCA’s loyal audience and reaching out to build new audiences who may not yet know that they need contemporary art in their lives. We are anxious and thrilled to expand our efforts in this area under Peter’s direction.”

If I were to be brutally honest, over-inflated statements like this, bursting with a preponderance of sycophantic narcissism, typically inspires me to spend an entire day writing, chuckling to myself as I craft yet another literary Lemarchand’s box*
[*Lemarchand’s box is a fictional puzzle box or lock puzzle appearing in stories by author Clive Barker, or in works based on his original stories. The best known of these boxes is the Lament Configuration, which features prominently throughout the Hellraiser movie series. You’re welcome.]

As per usual, I took to my ASUS laptop to get my initial thoughts down on the pixilated page, and almost as soon as I did, my screen flashed, turned three different shades of enhanced grey, and went black. If I were a superstitious man, I’d almost believe that the Writing Gods were trying to tell me something- a celestial sign, as it were.  (And just in case anyone’s curious, there are only three Gods of Writing: Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, and that bad ass motherf***er who wrote “Good-night Moon”.)

After a few days of almost near-frenzied panic, it turned out that my motherboard was defective, which when all is said and done, will not have cost much more than a few days and some stinging (but not horrendous) pocket change when I eventually get it back from the repair facility. Fortunately, I had saved my draft to a thumb drive, and in an even better stroke of luck, I still had my 13 year-old IBM Thinkpad mothballed away in storage, on which this blog is at present is being produced. Running XP, no less.

Seriously. This thing is a tank, I kid you not. It’s Wolverine with a hard drive. However, after I started editing my draft, there was unquestionably something tangible missing, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t perceive what it was.

Let’s see…. snark? Check. Colorful language? Check. An “Arcade Fire” reference? Check. Insults involving skinny jeans and the intellectually skinnier ass that wears them? Check. A quote from Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment that reads: “He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-animated abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarize it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely.” ?  

Most definitely check. Oh wait- he’s a Russian author, so that should actually say “проверить”.
Most definitely проверить.

An actual point? Surprisingly, check.
Continued interest in finishing it? ……….. not so much.

As you might imagine, I spent some time wondering why this was, and the conclusion I eventually arrived at was this: I think I’m just sick and tired of constantly rehashing the acts of certain lauded idiots as they quicken their pace toward an inevitable destiny with insignificance. In the end, what would truly be accomplished by my notations?

Despite Bugg’s troubling history of well-known and obvious plagiarism, he’s still considered to be a valuable asset- granted, it’s at an institution that also considers pyramids of stacked fruit to be art, so take it as you may, but he’s still held in high regard, nonetheless.

And its not just pathetic- it’s farcically pathetic. So much so that writing about it would just seemingly add further inanity to an already preposterous situation. SMoCA has already shown it’s lack of ethics, which I’ve noted in previous scrawlings, now it’s lack of common sense in their hiring practices has come home to roost as well, and I for one, applaud their commitment to complete absurdity.

After all, it’s not everyday you get to watch an already troubled institution gleefully commit suicide, via an ironically dada-esque approach, and it’s even rarer that I would merrily sit back and watch without commentary, but in regards to my lack of remarks, it does make sense, nevertheless.

To quote the NT article: “In May 2015, museum director Tim Rodgers resigned following rumors that the Scottsdale Cultural Council, a nonprofit organization that oversees SMoCA, Scottsdale Public Art, and Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts, was looking to eliminate the directorship positions at each of the institutions.

These rumors of course, have been denied by Cultural Council CEO Neale Pearl. Cochran, who had been working as the museum’s associate director since February 2014, stepped in as interim director, and no plans to hire a permanent replacement for Rodgers have been announced as of yet.”

Given the (at this time) cautious direction set against a turbulent sea of administrative changes, how would my pointedly harsh comments affect the outcome one way or the other? In a nutshell, that answer would be a resolute “not in the least”, so for once-  I’m sitting this one out.

That’s right- the claws are going back into their zebra-print lined carrying case, and this here Artbitch is gonna kick back and watch the inevitable clusterf**k / Phantom Menace / train wreck from a safe and comfortable distance. There’s nothing that makes a professional snark happier than their vision proven correct, and I think my odds for being so are pretty high, considering how all the factors are lining up.

But given the crueler aspect of Fate, my odds for being miserably wrong could be astronomically high as well, so there’s that. And I couldn’t be more excited, in fact. See, I actually really enjoy it when I’m dead wrong, because it means that things aren’t as bad as I thought they were. That’s the inherent beauty of being a cynic- you’re either always being proven right or being happily surprised.

Putting it bluntly, I think I’m going to be proven right in the long run, but I’m a gambling man, so let the dice roll, and we’ll see who lands on black.  But I will ask SMoCA one metaphorical question as I leave the situation to unfurl itself as it will, and it is this: What exactly does a guy with a penchant for alleged intellectual theft and lazy-ass presentation bring to the table exactly? The ability to cement SMoCa’s rep as a prime example of what art isn’t?

I for one, cannot wait to see what will be foisted upon the unsuspecting public by the guy who brought us sugar-encased magazine covers, culturally vapid day of the dead prayer banners using other artists unaccredited photos, along with a series of “borrowed” internet pictures of celebrity vaginas glued to paper plates.

If I were still a child, this contemplation would rank right up there with Christmas.                                              Oh, who am I kidding? It still does.

But I do want to be helpful, so here’s some wholly original, completely fresh, artistic ideas that Peter can pay “homage” to: Dogs playing cards. Soup can paintings. Multi-colored silk-screen portraits. Drip paintings. Portraits of big-eyed children. A picture of a cat dangling from a branch with the phrase “Hang in there Baby”. Clown paintings {everybody loves clowns! After all, SMoCA hired one* *[allegedly} Black Velvet paintings of Matadors. Smiley faces. The Mona Lisa as a Punk. Barbarian Warrior Queens holding Swords. Anything with a Disney logo…

I’m begging you, Peter- take out Walt’s Kingdom of Treacle before they make the “Frozen” TV Series. That abomination needs a lit tiki torch shoved right through its blue icy heart, Van-Helsing style, and with your gift of sucking the ccreativity out of anything you touch, our collective nightmare could end once and for all. And relax… you don’t have to thank me. Even if you used my ideas, we all know that you’d just claim them as yours anyway, so let’s just cut out the middleman and move on, shall we?

2000 words exactly to let you all know that I wasn’t going to say anything- that kids, is how you pad an essay, the thesaurus be damned. Heck, I use 300 words just to say “hello”, so you can just imagine how refreshing this is to let my fingers run amuck after some well-deserved time off.

Amuck, amuck, amuck.

But despite that brief foray regarding an entertaining, if not outright absurd cultural benchmark, the real reason why I’m writing after a several month hiatus is due to an unforeseen, yet oddly familiar, problem presenting it’s obscenely grasping palm yet again. For the third time in less than a year, I find myself in the mire of the medical backwoods looking for a competent doctor once more.

Sigh… compared to this unending aggravation, going to Peter Bugg’s house to view photos of his most recent vacation would be a joy- due mainly to the fact that they probably would’ve been shot by somebody el…  NO!!! I AM NOT DOING THIS. As delightful as it would be to take one last swipe at the Regent of Replication, I’m gonna stick to my guns. Besides… by the time he inevitably death-spirals into the giant fruit pyramid, I’ll have had plenty of time to write up a whole new slew of jokes and compliments that come with knuckles.

And if he doesn’t, there’s still always his “art” to make fun of. Ahh… long-term planning can be fun.
Moving on.

To be honest, I really thought that after my last two blogs [see the archive] regarding an unfortunate series of experiences with two less-than-useless doctors, I truly felt that I had at last achieved traction in the battle against my Type 1 Diabetes, bolstered by the following- I’ve had a massive amount of dental work done over the last four months, removing several areas of necrotic tissue that were definitely compromising my ability to stay healthy, This is a huge problem for most Diabetics, something I was ashamedly unaware of. Three root canals, four cavities, and two post and caps, all leading up to an embarrassment of even more procedures in the near future.

[PS: My Dentist, Dr, Randy Smith, (602-996-3993 for your information) absolutely ROCKS. Call him for your dental needs and feel perfectly free to drop my name. Plus, he has the best magazine selection I’ve ever seen- it’s almost orgasmic, and that’s not a word I put out there often, if at all.]

I’ve also severely tightened up my blood testing and insulin protocols, have pretty much (finally) managed to cut soda out of my diet, and have even exorcised certain trigger foods to the seventh ring of the foodie Gulag, and yes… that does mean that Ding Dongs are now the Holy Grail of Snacks, versus their previous status as the communion wafer of snacks. Sigh….

But even all that pales into comparison in regards to the biggest lifestyle change I’ve made, and that is this: after 8 ½ years, I walked into work one day and quit my job. My awesome, creative, slowly-strangling-the-life-out-of me-by-degrees, boss-created unnecessarily high-stress job.

And while it was terrifying to do so, mainly since I had no future employment lined up at that time, I still would consider it one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, next to my dating Ashley and buying that really bitching Jack Skellington mug two weeks ago. [Apparently, you can drink from it too, but why would you?]

See, right after I finished serving up my last piece of snark ala mode, I, (on a trusted friends recommendation) started seeing a new doctor, one named (wait for it) Gypsy Faith Paar– who’s affiliated with Paradise Family Medicine, a place I’d strongly recommend that one avoid like the clam special at Long John Silver’s on a Monday. I can’t speak for the other doctors at this particular practice, but in the case of “Dr”. Paar, I can only state my opinion that she’s a Doctor much in the same way that Dr. Pepper is- exceedingly bad for your long term health, completely overpriced, and chock-full of sugary acid.

Naturally, I’m kidding- Dr, Pepper by way of a side-by-side comparison, actually fares much better, and unlike my now former doctor, it at least doesn’t present itself to the public as something it isn’t. In my experience, that would be competent, professional, and concerned. My first clue that she wasn’t truly genuine should have been the fact that she’s named “Gypsy” and yet looks as if she should come with a best friend named Skipper, a pink Corvette, and a Dream-house play-set.
(Sexually ambiguous “boyfriend” sold separately. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Regretfully, I need to take that analogy back, as it was very rude (if not inaccurate) of me. Barbie by all accounts, is an amazing doctor, whereas my newest ex…. well, lets just say that her middle name implies what you’ll need plenty of to believe she’ll get the job done.

Some context as usual, is necessary I see, so I’ll try to provide it per my customary gentle and kindhearted approach. But I think before we engage in any further ruminations, that a recess of sorts is required- not just to give your eyes a break, but to make sure you’re rested enough to climb the mother of all medical molehills turned Himalaya.

And trust me… it’s gonna be epic. Not grand spectacle epic, but pretty darn close. So…

When we return, I add yet another twit to my personal “smite” list, allegorically wrestle with the sub-Paar, meet a bureaucratic stone-walling Renfield immune to both logic and rugged charm, and discuss why being sold to Gypsies is still better than being treated by one.

“In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity..” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I think there is a sort of box-ticking mentality. Not just in the teaching profession. You hear about it in medicine and nursing. It’s a lawyer-driven insistence on meeting prescribed standards rather than just being a good doctor.” – Richard Dawkins

Greetings, Blogiteers!

What a beautiful day this is- I have a box of chilled Ding Dongs, a pitcher of ice-cold skim milk, and Big Hero 6 lined up in the ol’ DVD player. Can it possibly get any better? Hells to the yes, says I.

In fact, it’s been a stellar couple of weeks overall- my new doctor is kicking serious ass, the overdue re-organization and selective culling of my reference library went off without a hitch, and while cleaning my studio space top to bottom [so that’s where that egg salad sandwich went…] I even managed to find an assumed lost to the ages relic from the bad old days when I used to date nothing but strippers.

 

Photo Credit: (C) http://www.WayneMichaelReich.com
Model Credit: Aemelia Mc Morbid / http://www.modelmayhem.com/1850742

I’m sorry… did I use the term “strippers”? What I meant to say was that I used to court independent contractors of adult entertainment as a means of relaxation and fostering personal growth. My bad.
[Granted, it’s not the prettiest of shirts, but trust me… I earned that sucker, and it’s super comfy.]

On the art/professional side of my life, it’s also been pretty darn swell too- I had a great time hanging out with graffiti legend Such Styles [ http://i.instagram.com/suchstylez/ ] and his equally talented son CHAMP [ http://i.instagram.com/champ_styles/ ] at the Mon Orchid Gallery Street Art show a while back,  

and scratched a huge “to-do” off my artistic bucket list by finally meeting one of my creative idols, the one and only Derek Hess. [http://www.derekhess.com]
                                                                                                                                              

And as an aside, he was also nice enough to name-drop me on his website a few days later, much to my squealing eternal fan-boy delight. They always say you never want to meet your idols, because their feet may be made of clay, but in regards to Derek, that dude is speed-walking around in some seriously hardcore admantium* boots. *[Google it. You’ll be happy that you did.]

Factor in that my gig writing a monthly AOM column for PHOENIX Magazine has been a blast so far, and you can see why I’m all shades of hyper-mellow these days. Let me tell ya- in regards to my writing and it’s particular POV, nothing fuels my feelings of vindication better than being paid. Granted, it would be awesome if I could get compensated for this particular body of work, but ya gotta take the bitter with the sweet, I guess. I don’t know… maybe if I created a line of Artbitch related merchandise, I could see a return on my labor of snark. Just imagine the possibilities…

T-shirts. Mousepads. Inspirational posters. Coffee mugs. Pens. Refrigerator magnets. Dinner plates. Drink coasters. Underwear with Artbitch quotes instead of the days of the week. Bobble-heads. Pajamas. Ding-Dong scented car fresheners. Fannypacks. Novelty hats. Water wings. Body glitter. Phone cases. Kazoos. Yo-yos. Board games. Construction helmets. Bike helmets. Helmets in general. Watches. Soda cozies. Whatever the name is of that weird abomination blanket with sleeves whose infomercial you watch at 2 A.M.

Wait a minute, I’ve got it- the ultimate product: Life size inflatable replicas of me that you could punch in the face! Seriously, how awesome would one of those be? My detractors for one, could finally be able to do in the privacy of their mom’s garage what they’ve been claiming would happen to me if I they ever caught me alone in a dark alley- something I find to be truly laughable, as most of these internet bad-asses strike as the type that would hang out in the woods behind a child’s playground, rather than in a well-lit urban center.

And I, literally could talk to myself in those rare moments whenever I needed confirmation that my opinion was right. It’ll be a huge win-win all around. But my viral marketing will have to linger on the back burner, for a tale awaits, and that right quick. When we were last gathered around the metaphorical campfire, I was trapped in an ugly beige room at my doctor’s office, putting my mad Jenga skills to the test by constructing Parisian landmarks from tongue depressors and cotton balls. Good times for sure, but it wasn’t how I wanted to spend my day off, by any means.

Keeping in mind that at this point, I had already experienced a terrifying “low”, was still in some truly horrendous pain, and was invested to the amount of $251.00 for office visits without having seen any positive outcome, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that my nose was a wee bit out of joint in regards to my then current situation.So to recap… pain on a molecular level. Financially strapped. Feeling extorted into taking expensive tests before ANY of my necessary meds will be released. Disinterested doctor. Bottle- blond nurse who apparently drinks the dye rather than apply it to her hair.

And there was this: during my not-worth $151.00 consultation with Dr. Kapoor, she mentioned once or twice that I should take Cymbalta, a drug used to primarily treat depression, and occasionally fibromyalgia. To be fair, I was experiencing some epic melancholy, but when you haven’t slept good in months and your skin is so sensitive that even wearing a t-shirt hurts, it’s not too shocking that you’d be down in the dumps about it.

However, when I’m not in soul-shredding pain, I tend to be a rather darkly upbeat if somewhat cynical kind of guy, so taking an anti-depressive medication is complete overkill, to say the very least. In other words, help me get rid of the pain, and I’ll be singing as if I were competing on American Idol.

[It’d be epic… mainly because I don’t think anyone’s ever covered the Motorhead catalogue in the fashion it truly deserves.]

But here’s the rub- Cymbalta is not only expensive, but it also has some seriously unpleasant side effects: nausea, dry mouth, constipation, diarrhea, [seems contradictory] fatigue, insomnia, and loss of appetite. Given the knowledge of what could possibly happen as a result of taking this drug, I say “screw that“- I’d rather be depressed, thank you very much. Ding Dongs may not necessarily be the best way to treat a deep blue funk, but at least they don’t back you up like rush hour in Detroit. The question I have is this- why would she suggest an additional drug [that’s she’s never mentioned before] when I already have one that’s been working almost flawlessly for the better half of a decade?

Granted, my dosage obviously needed a tweak of sorts, but why mess with a regimen that’s already proven, when the perceptible priority was to reduce my pain? You’ve got something that already works, stick with it, and just increase the dosage already. Keep in mind, she had a 150 mg additional “tweak zone” to work with, so it wasn’t like I was maxxed out in regards to this particular drug.

And this got me thinking as to why that was. I’m not going to go as far as saying somebody’s palms are getting greased by a sales rep, but it does seem odd. Just a random thought.

Now, when last we were together, I had just called Nurse Shaun’s direct line and left a detailed message reminding her not to forget to fax the financial paperwork along with each filled out application, of which there were three. Overall, a directive that even a mentally-handicapped baboon should’ve been able to follow, am I right?

Well, let me just make a mental note that next time I need this done, to go and find said baboon, because there’s no way they could have screwed it up as badly as this blonde stereotype did. Not only did she did forget to do this for two of the most crucial medications, she then claims that she never got my message, because she’s “new here and my phone inbox is screwed up“.

Believe it or not, I’m actually a realist, albeit a cynical one. People and sometimes things, make mistakes. I DO get that, really I do. But the fun part is a comin’, and it’s a doozy. After this snafu of epic proportions, during which I had to redo the application process, I make a decision not to do the tests, due to the fact I couldn’t afford them- a problem that Dr. Kapoor never even attempts to help me resolve.

On a related note, my new doctor was able to steer me to a program whose testing costs were 90% less than Labcorp’s- a program that St. Joe’s has apparently either never heard of, or can’t divulge due to having a contract with Labcorp. Either way, non-insured patients like myself get screwed in the end.

Yep- that’s some serious Hippocratic dedication to your client base right there, isn’t it?                                 And don’t kid yourself- we’re cash cows first, patients second.

Naturally, I call Dr. Kapoor’s office to tell her this, and they direct me once again to Shaun’s inbox, where I leave yet another detailed message regarding my decision. Roughly twenty minutes later, Shaun returns my call and asks if the message I had just left was the previous one telling her to send the financial info, to which I say no, it wasn’t.

I then ask her if she had listened to my most recent message, and she says: “No, because I still can’t get into my inbox“. No pun intended, but hold the phone. Does anyone else besides me see the truly glaring problem here? She’s claiming that she can’t get into her inbox, yet she knew that I, and I alone, had left her a message. This, despite the fact that I called from a “restricted” number- IE: that number doesn’t show up even on lines equipped with Caller ID.

As one might expect, being the curiously playful child of the stars that I am, I just had to ask that if she was unable to access her voicemail, how in the Great and Terrible OZ was she able to ascertain that: (A) It was me calling, and… (B) that she had a message in the first place? Grant me this small tangent- since it’s initial discovery, scientists have stated time and time again that Hydrogen, due to its copious abundance, is the basic building block of the known Universe. I would strongly disagree. Stupidity is seemingly in much greater profusion than Hydrogen, and that, on the face of it, is what the Universe is apparently comprised of when studied in greater detail.

And there I was, phone in hand, speaking with it’s chosen representative. Fortunately for that moments entertainment, after a somewhat lengthy, if not awkward, pause, her response to being caught red-handed in a blatant (and no longer convincing) lie was simplicity itself: “Um… I’m new here.”

Seriously. That was her entire explanation, and it was sheer genius.

That phrase, “Um… I’m new here” could and should, replace the standard: “you can’t blame me, I was drunk” excuse for the entire Millennial generation. No details to remember. No witnesses. And best of all, no defensible way someone could get mad at you for not knowing the ropes- after all, you’re new there, right?

What kind of jerk would be mean to you just because of that? Donald Trump, for sure, but everybody else? They would just get with the program and chillax, trust me on this. The perfect alibi. Granted, I don’t think it would totally work if your wife walked in on you having a marshmallow and chocolate syrup three-way with Angeline Jolie and Milla Jovovich, but she wouldn’t be able to later claim at her trial for killing you that it wasn’t an original excuse, now could she?

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

Let’s see… I’m almost 300 bucks in, still suffering, have no pain medication, my paperwork is screwed up beyond belief, and I’m currently dealing with a woman who by way of comparison, makes Sarah Palin look like Nikoli Tesla. Yep. I’m officially done with this- it’s high time to get out the big guns and talk to a boss/supervisor.

My initial contact in the beginning of this process, was Nicole- who while professional and bubbly, couldn’t get past her script. No offense to her, as she was very nice, but I like my women to be more akin to the Groundlings and less like the Royal Shakespearean Academy. In other words, able to actually communicate without a physical libretto.

So, after some adorable back and forth, I find out that the office manager in charge of my doctor and her denser than depleted uranium nurse, is one Veena Dhillon, so I start touching base with her, bringing forth my grievances, assuming that things will soon get back on track and rolling forward.

Oh, eternally wretched optimism, when will you ever learn? Sometimes it’s like watching a kitten chase a laser pointer- you really want it to capture that insolent red dot, but you know in the end, it’s just wasting it’s energy trying to do so, and all will end in tears. Let me give you some context.

I’ve often been told that I have a tendency to be fairly (and uncomfortably) direct when I’m in the midst of addressing a complaint, as I don’t believe in skirting around the issue at hand, nor do I think that the application of treacle is an effective way of settling a problem either. Now, where I’m from (NYC) this is a fairly standard way of communicating- we all do it, and we do it rather well.

However, west of Texas and the closer you get to California, this method is considered somewhat intense, if not downright threatening, despite there not being one iota of threat or malice implied. The acronym for this form of horribly misconstrued perception is BATCA, which in layman’s shorthand, translates as “being a thin-skinned candy-ass”. Sufferers with BATCA have feelings of persecution, inability to think outside of their scripted box, and show an almost pathological capacity for rejecting common sense in the face of obvious facts and/or evidence.

In essence, I found Ms. Dhillon to be BATCA-crazy. When she and I get to discussing my concerns, she’s immediately dismissive, stating that she doesn’t “appreciate” my complaining about her employees, and despite my catching Shaun in an obvious lie, doesn’t “really see the need” to continue our conversation unless I adopt a “nicer” tone.

Oh for the love of Ding Dongs, was she serious?

For the record, I wasn’t yelling. I wasn’t using foul/vulgar language. And at no point did I suggest even remotely that her mother serviced longshoremen in between sets at the local strip club. I was firm, I was slightly sarcastic to be sure, but considering the amount of horrendous pain I was in [which had been thoroughly described at this point] it would have been ludicrous to expect me to be full of rainbows and unicorn glitter, would it have not?

But hey… I’m all about making friends, so I gave it a shot, nonetheless. Switching my tone to that of a prizewinner from The Price is Right, I finished off my listing of her staff’s incompetence and professional errors with enough sprinkles and icing to drop a diabetic at twenty yards. After I wrap it up, Veena’s measured and professional response was to jump right in and get all sides of the story in order to establish a baseline for a thoughtful course of action.

Well, that’s what should have happened- in a logical universe, anyway.

Instead, I am haughtily informed that the “doctor/patient relationship has been irreparably broken” because I dared to complain, and that in her [non-doctor] opinion, I should be discharged as a patient because she (once again) didn’t appreciate my tone when I dared to suggest that her perfect staff was anything but.

Off tangent: you ever meet anyone who makes you think to yourself: “This person will be the reason I buy a chainsaw and rent a large wood-chipper someday.”? Obviously, reassigning me to another doctor (as I suggested) was just too crazy an idea, as was  apparently her fully investigating the validity of my criticisms in the first place. See, there I was, naively assuming that an office manager actually manages an office, versus the reality where they play a game of cover thy incompetent minions’ asses.

To threaten complainants with the loss of their health care is a unique, and I might add, truly creative way to keep those negative quarterly numbers down. It’s almost downright Republican, to say the very least, and if I were a normal person, it might have worked.

Fortunately for you, my loyal readers, I am as far from normal as you can get- especially when you make a situation as personal as this. Throw my pain on top of my need for justice, and you can just imagine how far I’ll go in regards to acquiring personal satisfaction. If there is one thing I can modestly brag about, it’s the fact that I’m exceedingly good at getting to who’s really in charge of things- I don’t usually deal with the cubicle monkeys, I go straight for the biggest kahuna I can find.

Once discovered, I then make their life a living Heck, while simultaneously letting them know that all could have been avoided if only the people beneath them had done their jobs with just the merest hint of professionalism and personal interest. Not too surprisingly, this has generally resulted in my getting satisfaction, while also seeing some positive changes occurring within the power structure.

The ends justifying the means, as it were.

An amusing aside: several years ago, I had a minor problem with a cel phone bill, had called one of  my then-phone company’s Pakistan/Phillipine/India- based call centers, and by hook and crook, had ended up getting into a shouting match with the zombie on the other end. I finally wound up slamming down the phone, because I was getting nowhere, despite having asked for a supervisor several times, which is what had led to the argument in the first place.

Within minutes, vulgar text messages started appearing on my phone, all seemingly sent to myself from my own number. It wasn’t too hard a stretch to ascertain where they were actually calling from, so I did what one would be expected to do, and called the 1-800 service number to formally lodge a complaint. Over the course of a week, the messages kept coming, and despite my dealing with everyone from the phone jockeys to the physical store, the flow was relentless.

No matter who I talked to, the buck was passed, and excuses were rampant. BTW, I loathe rampant excuses, absolutely loathe them. Even more than I hate stale PEEPS, which is a hatred that burns with the heat of a thousand suns. But getting back to the point, it morphed into a crusade for Truth, Justice and the Wayne Michael Reich way, which comes not only with Ding Dongs, but awesome cartoons as well.

After just a few more days of phone calls, I hit the mother-lode: a retiring [and fed-up] secretary to the afore-mentioned Really Big Kahuna. She not only gave me this persons direct office number, but their private cel and home numbers as well.

Which of course, I did not use, as I am an honorable man…. until the following Sunday that is, when I called them at nine o’clock at night to explain my particular situation. Shockingly, they were actually somewhat upset, but after a few awkward minutes where my lineage was questioned repeatedly, I eventually managed to convey just why it was that I was talking to them- their lesser employees had passed the buck, and here I was, humbly attempting to deposit it.

At that point, this individual became very interested in just who I had been talking to, and I cheerfully gave up all the names of the various managers that had been blowing me off for the past two weeks.

Unfortunately for my newest Kahuna bestie, I couldn’t for the life of me remember exactly who it was that had given me their private numbers in the first place- darn, that squidgy memory of mine. I’m still all shades of broken up about it.

Regardless, the promise of swift and ferocious action was made, my number was grabbed, and I was informed that it “will be taken care of” ASAP. Darn, I just love a good conversation with stimulating people, don’t you? Anywho… the next morning I was called by no less than three different managers, their apologies were made (one through obviously gritted teeth) and I was given a “credit” which reflected several months of my average bill.

That my loyal bitches, is how you drop the mic. BOO-YAH.
So why should this have been any different?

Well… complaining about medical related care is kind of difficult, and purposefully so. You can complain to the BBB, which isn’t going to do squat, or to the Board of Medical Examiners, which reviews complaints and issues judgments. However, since it’s doctors reviewing other doctors, unless you kill someone [3 seems to be the magical number where BOMEX wakes up and yanks your license] you can guess what the outcome will most likely be.

SPOILER: the patient loses, and BOMEX by law, will not/cannot tell you the course of discipline taken, or if any actually was. Isn’t that helpful?

So where is a ticked off Artbitch to go when he needs to complain about what he feels is a pressing issue? In my case, that would be the one and only Saint Joeseph’s Patient Relation Board, staffed by an amazingly friendly woman named Denise Bludis. To be fair, Denise also followed a script in how she dealt with me, but at least she wasn’t a rudely condescending cow like Veena had been, nor was she dismissive about the concerns I had brought forth.

All in all, a lovely person to deal with, given the situation.

However- if I did have to speak poorly about interacting with the “board” as it were, I would definitely suggest that the process itself really needs to be sped up. It took almost two weeks for my calls to be returned [I blame that on inter-office miscommunication, not her] and at least two more before a resolution was even discussed.

If there is an upside to all this, it’s that St. Joseph’s does take complaints like mine seriously- the only problem being that they take it so seriously that they won’t tell you, the patient, a damn thing, or even allow your complaint to be made public. All shades of a mini-BOMEX, where an unethical whitewash takes place under the guise of looking out for the consumer. Think about this for a minute: the average citizen has no idea how to find out what complaints their doctor has, or what, if any, action has been taken against them in regards to the same. It’s easier to find out how many health code violations your local Mc Donald’s has, versus being able to see whether your doctor is competent or not.

I’ll hazard the theory that when St. Joes is paying out a settlement for a severity of health issue or an actual death occuring from one of these incompetent lapses, they’ll give pause to rethinking their pre-established policy, but the jury’s still out on that one so far. During the time this brief dialogue occured, I also had the joy of receiving a certified letter from Veena wherein she whined about my nerve in complaining about her impeccable staff, accused me of using “verbally abusive” language, (told ya she was BATCA crazy) and then discharged me as a patient, without so much as a referral for a new doctor.

Yep. That’s who you want making medical decisions for you- an unprofessional ass-covering troglodyte who gets offended when you don’t belch rainbows.So to recap: $251.00 in, still in hideous pain, tests required to get vital medication, and now- no doctor. Back to square one. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00 Start from scratch. Best of luck, here’s your hat, bon voyage, arriveaderci. 

Naturally, I took all of this in with an even temper and good humour- the two things that are my stock in trade. Granted, if I was able to have my druthers, I’d like to take that letter, deep-fry it, roll it in powdered sugar, drizzle it with honey, and have a team of rabid gerbils hand-deliver it up Vreena’s overly generous rectum sideways. You know. Like you do.

Up until that point, all I wanted was to make sure my complaint was taken seriously and on the books- no careers ruined, just a course of some minor disciplinary action taken, that’s all. After the receipt of that bitchy little missive however, it became exceedingly personal. Nobody has the right to impact your health just because they don’t like your “tone”, and nobody has the right to keep money they didn’t earn for services that they didn’t provide.

In other words, I was now going out for metaphorical blood, and I was going to get it, come Hell or high water. The one thing I have noticed after dealing with so many different levels of the medical industry is this- there’s a huge disconnect between patients and the staff/doctors in most offices.

Think about all the times a doctor has kept you waiting with no explanation, or their office screwed something up- have you ever gotten a credit for your inconvenience? I didn’t think so. But if you’re late or have to cancel….  do you get where I’m going with this?

I can’t think of any other industry where filing a simple complaint is this much of a pain in the ass, can you? Well I for one, wasn’t going to just bend over and take it like I was the new guy in the prison shower, I was gonna get back what was mine- in this case, all the money I had spent on fruitless office visits.

The lingering question: how exactly was I going to do that? To be honest, I wasn’t really coming from a position of strength- sure, I was convinced that I was right, but I also feel the same way in regards to how Milla Jovovivch should come over to my house for a massage, and we all know that hasn’t happened……yet.

As I stated earlier, I tend to be a rather darkly upbeat, if somewhat cynical, kind of guy- there’s generally a lot of criticism directed at cynics, but it’s only because people don’t “get” us, and as to what brings us joy. That’s right- I said “joy”. Cynics at their core are ALWAYS happy. Not because we view the world through ash-colored glasses, but because we’re consistently being proven right or being pleasantly surprised, all the time. And I am a cynic’s cynic, thank you very much. I understand how the world works, and I comprehend exactly how it’s worker drones react when placed under pressure. The answer is simple. They crack like Kim Kardashian’s makeup when she smiles. And at it’s core, St. Joeseph’s is staffed by worker bees, not Queens.

Therein lies the exploitable chink in the armor. One of the major flaws in forcing people to stick to a script is that it doesn’t allow the drones independent thought- they have to get every decision approved beforehand, which is maddening when you’re dancing around a resolution. One step forward, two steps back, as it were. Fortunately, I’m German-Sicilian. We don’t dance so much as we march, forward and usually through, a roadblock.

As my Father once said to me: “German efficiency mixed with the Sicilian thirst for revenge… yeah, that’s a great combination.” There was no way in Hell these fraudulent and incompetent nimrods were keeping my money, for one simple reason:

THEY DIDN’T FUCKING EARN IT.

Now by this point, I thought that I had defended my case pretty well with Denise- seemingly genuine in her sympathy, she nonetheless held fast to the corporate line in the sand, albeit without being haughty or unprofessional. But regardless of what she actually believed, she was forced to defer to her so-called superiors, who so far as I could ascertain- just wanted me to shut up and go away without the money I felt that I had wasted.

Clearly, my devastating charm and ruggedly good looks weren’t going to cut it over the phone, so whether I liked it or not, it was evidently time for me to dig deep in the dark corners of my soul, pull out that dusty steamer trunk, open it up, and unfurl my inner Machiavelli. placed there many years before. Fortunately for me, it still fit perfectly, and all false humility aside… my ass looked great.

Sensing that I had nothing to lose, I suggest that perhaps the time had come for me to file a lawsuit  via small claims court as a means to get my money back- after all, I had gone though the proper channels, and was getting nowhere [no fault to Ms. Bludis, mind you] and that if I were forced to do so, would use my considerable self-promotion skills to bear, letting everybody know about their business practices.

As you might imagine, threatening a small claims lawsuit for an amount that was less than the cost of an I-phone went over just as well as Steven Hawking telling Mike Tyson he was about to get the beating of his life. Don’t quote me, but I’m pretty sure I heard Denise yawn- or maybe it was just a passing breeze… taking place inside her closed-off office. Stranger things have happened.

So I pulled my trump card, and casually added that there was always “Artbitch“. Just as casually, the response was: “I’m sorry, did you say Artbitch?”

“Yes. Artbitch. The infamous blog that covers a wide variety of subjects as long as it falls under the Phoenix-based art scene or my life? Artbitch. The blog that took the Phoenix New Times over it’s metaphorical knee and spanked them until they started covering the Arts more like a newspaper and less like a home-schooler’s pamphlet?

Artbitch. The screed that regularly reminds Phoenicians that Peter Bugg is our artistic version of Adam Sandler minus the charm, talent, and originality? Artbitch. Written by an amazingly talented, yet oddly humble visual artist who’s single-handedly changed the perception of Ding Dongs as an after-meal snack?

Artbitch… you know… the blog that…”  In the distance, the sound of crickets, and then: “I’m sorry… who, again?” Regardless of the fact she had never heard of me [how that is I have no idea- I am so talking to my PR department come Monday] I still felt I was on to something, and decided to roll the dice. After all, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain- in this case, that being two and a half Benjamins, and one sawbuck.

That buys a lot of Ding Dongs, by the way, and more than a few gallons of skim milk. Just putting it out there, that’s all. Undaunted however, I pressed on: “Sigh… never mind- anyways, the point I’m trying to make here is that I have a very select set of skills- in my case, that happens to be creative writing. People are always telling me that I’m a damn good writer, and at this point, I don’t think all of them are just trying to be polite. I’m thinking that maybe I need to write something about this whole mess.”

“Well, that is your right, Mr. Reich- and if you want to say someth-“

“In fact, I’ve been getting a lot of attention lately in regards to what I’ve previously written, the New Times slap-down being chief among them, so I’m thinking that if I could take on a major publishing chain and emerge not only unscathed but better known after the experience, how hard would it be to take on one unprofessional doctor staffed with a bevy of incompetent minions?

I’m no mathematician by any means, but I like my odds here. In fact, here’s where it gets interesting- there’s this major publication that seems really interested in my stuff, and I want to make my bones with them, so I need to come in strong, know what I’m saying? And I just had this wonderful idea… How about I pitch them a story regarding patient dissatisfaction with doctors and how complaints are kept hidden from the general public?

I could name names, give dates, really get into the facets of the narrative, which would be easy since I’ve kept really detailed notes… is that a story that you think people would like to read? I sure as heck do, and like I said earlier, there’s always my blog if that doesn’t pan out. Granted, it doesn’t have the reach of a major magazine- what does? However, what it does have is a  readership base who passes it around like cigarettes in prison. So at the bare minimum, I figure I could inform a few thousand people about why they should avoid you guys like the plague.”

What followed was a looooooooong pause. So long in fact, that I thought she had hung up on me. But like I said, Denise was nice. Professional. And definitely not stupid. That inherent intellect led to what I believe was a spur of the moment command decision, that being the following: “Mr. Reich? Upon looking at the situation, I think it would be in our, I mean your best interest to refund your money. You obviously feel that we acted in bad faith, so I’ll get it moving as soon as possible- you should see a refund in check form sometime in the next four to six weeks.”

[It actually got to me in six days. Imagine that!] And all it took was eleven phone calls, five messages, two veiled threats, and playing on the fear of everybody thinking that your business (and it IS a business long before it’s a calling) reeks of unethical behavior to get it done. But I wasn’t quite finished yet.

Yes, I had achieved satisfaction and gotten my money back, but the people responsible for this cock-up were pretty much gonna skate on by, a theory borne out by the letter that I received from Ms. Bludis a few days later which summarized the investigation of my complaint. Basically, it goes through everything I claimed very thoroughly [nice job, Denise!] but by and by, allows Dr. Kapoor, Shaun and Veena off the hook.

I think. Or it doesn’t. You know what? I’m not really sure, since after all, I the patient, don’t need to know or am allowed to know, what consequences (if any) they face. Wouldn’t want anyone to feel bad about themselves, you know- it’s very damaging for the professional confidence.

At the end of my conversation with Denise, I told her how much I appreciated her help, and how nice she was throughout this entire process, but could I possibly ask one last small favor, to which she easily says: “Yes“.

“When you talk to Ms. Dhillon and Dr. Kapoor, let them know this if you would… tell them that despite my getting my money back, I’m still going to write about this.”

“Well… that is your right… I guess.”

“Thanks, appreciate that. Also please tell them that I’m going to make them famous. And you… you have a lovely day.”

Once again, that is how you drop the mic. BOO-YAH.

“Whenever a doctor cannot do good, he must be kept from doing harm.” – Hippocrates

 

“When the doctor said I had diabetes, I conjured images of languishing on a chaise lounge nibbling chocolates. I have no idea why I thought this.” – Mary Tyler Moore

Hello Blogiteers!

Diabetes can be a real bitch. No… I take that back. Diabetes is the bitch.

Sure, my claws are sharp, but they might as well be made out of papier-mâché in defense against  the wellspring of pure evil that Diabetes can call to arms at a moment’s whim. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this disease is seriously trying to kill me. I know, I know… it sounds completely paranoid, but I’m starting to think that I might just be right.

Over the last few months, I’ve suffered a puzzlingly random escalation in my blood sugar numbers, an almost crippling bout of peripheral neuropathy, which in turn, has led to a painfully heightened skin sensitivity that makes accomplishing even the smallest of tasks exceedingly difficult at the best of times.

The best analogy I can think of to describe this sensation is that of a T-Rex with a bad sunburn trying to make a bed that’s full of hyperactive kittens… while standing in a lava pit. For those of you who are unaware what peripheral neuropathy entails, here’s the rough definition: “Peripheral neuropathy, is a result of damage to peripheral nerves, and often causes weakness, numbness and pain, usually in the hands and feet. It can also affect other areas of the body. The pain associated with peripheral neuropathy is generally described as stabbing or burning. Often, there’s tingling.”

Ah, yes… tingling. That would be a definitive upsweep in joy if that were only the sole symptom I was currently experiencing. For sake of clarity, imagine vengeful demons repeatedly stabbing you with red-hot knitting needles as you try to tie your shoes with your legs, arms and hands sheathed in fire, and you’ll get a much clearer understanding of what I’ve been going through recently. And yet… I’m still feeling fairly optimistic about this, the relatively new year of 2015. Sure, I could easily give in to my obvious discomfort, but I’m the Artbitch. I dispense pain, I don’t suffer from it.

In fact, it’s currently a quarter after midnight as I write this newest screed, and while it’s true that the only reason I’m up this late is because my bed-sheets feel like barbed wire on my skin, I’d like to call attention to the fact that I’m taking this particularly sour batch of razor-lemons and making 100 proof hard lemonade out of them.

If I have to be up half the night, I might as well be productive, and despite the fact that I’ve had to fire two doctors for refusing to follow their sworn duty to the basic tenets of the Hippocratic Oath*, I’m still soldering on. Throw in all the medical marijuana recipes that I’ve received from friends wanting to help ease my pain, and I’m pretty sure that I could open my own cannabis-based bakery. The wonders of modern science. It’s so much more than just Velcro and Shrinky-Dinks.

[*Seriously. Avoid Dr. Jatin B. Daas of Arizona Primary Care like the freaking plague. He won’t return messages, doesn’t “believe” in prescribing medication that you’ve been taking for over three years, won’t follow your pre-established protocol, has quite possibly the worst magazine selection that I’ve ever seen in a physician’s waiting room, and as an added bonus: possesses (in my opinion) the bedside manner of Dr. Mengele at a B’ani B’rith pot-luck*. [*Allegedly.]

And while we’re on the subject, I’d recommend that the office of Dr. Smita Kapoor at Internal Medicine Health Center at St. Joseph’s is also best avoided as well. Taking care of, and listening to, their patients isn’t seemingly something that interests them, so do yourself a favor and just visit a voodoo priestess instead.

That way you know they’ll be some tasty bomb-ass chicken soup waiting for you in the end, and let’s be honest here- who doesn’t love themselves some tasty bomb-ass chicken soup? Pasty-faced Vegans, that’s who. More on her operation in a bit.]

Minus my ongoing pain issues, it’s been relatively low-key here at the Lair of Snarkitude- the day gig framing art for galleries and their clients is humming along, my social life is fine, and I was tapped to write a small article for PHOENIX Magazine which should see publication sometime in the next few weeks, as well as being assigned two additional Q&A commentaries- overall, it’s shaping up to be an interesting year, to say the very least.

What hasn’t been interesting or fun has been the amazing amount of hoops I’ve had to jump through recently in regards to my medical care and the ongoing maintenance of my health, which as you may have already surmised- has been exceedingly problematic as of late. Some context- being a diabetic is a lot of work- you’re constantly micro-managing every bite you eat, endlessly testing your blood sugar, and let’s face it, constantly whining about the travails of being a diabetic  is known to consume up more than it’s fair share of energy as well.

You just can’t win.

If all goes well, hopefully one dies of old age before this disease kills you in all sorts of interesting, yet terrifying, ways. Heart attack/strokes. Liver failure. Low blood sugar. Kidney failure. Retinal failure. Circulatory system failure leading to the amputation of fingers, toes, and even your legs. Good times.

Let me tell you something from my unique point of view- if you have to pick a disease to be cursed with, get one that they write operas about. Granted, tuberculosis is always a solid choice, but I’m also highly partial to the route of wasting away via alcohol as well. Sure, it’s tragic, but at least it’s singable. In fact, I’m in the midst of writing one myself.

Working title: “Sweetblood, or hey- I’d love to have a Ding Dong, but… you know.”

The dancing Snickers bar dream sequence by the way, will be the show stopper, hands down. All creative diversions aside, the majority of my free time these days seems to be focused on battling my disease, and that, at times, can be just downright exhausting, both physically and mentally. I sometimes get panic attacks when I see a white lab coat, which to be honest. has really put a heckuva kink in those times when my GF Ashley and I like to play “naughty scientist and pizza delivery guy“.

One of the other irritants of being a diabetic is trying to find a doctor that actually understands the complexities of Diabetes, and all that condition pertains to, as most GP’s (general practitioners) don’t have the background knowledge to make a viable difference in your health, and when it comes to dealing with specialists who do know, AKA: Endocrinologists, it’s been my sad experience that they don’t really earn the over-inflated fees that they charge.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’m paying $250.00 for ten minutes of someone’s time, it at least better be with an Asian dominatrix wearing thigh-high boots who gives an amazing lap-dance while  letting me know that I’ve been a very bad boy and need to be punished.

What can I say… I’m a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures.

Fortunately, at one point I did have such a doctor- the aforementioned Dr. Smita Kapoor. I started seeing her several years ago after my previous physician started cracking jokes to my girlfriend about me “milking” my neuropathy pain for sympathy, rather than performing the job he was being paid an exorbitant amount to do.

Like all relationships, it was great in the beginning- my pain levels went way down, I was on top of my condition for once, and as an added bonus, she was easy on the eyes. Granted, that sounds incredibly sexist, but if you have to be poked, prodded, and examined constantly by a stranger, it might as well be an attractive one. But all things eventually come to an end, whether we like it or not. I lost my medical coverage, which led to my not seeing her for over a year, mainly due to the cost of the office visits- this in turn, led to the failure of my health, resulting in my most recent and unwilling hospital stay, where I once again discovered that the ICU ward at John C. Lincoln has some dope-ass vanilla pudding.

Seriously. You have no idea how freaking good that stuff is. It’s like creamed crack. On steroids.

So when I finally got back on my feet, I decided that it was time to bite the financial bullet and start getting back to seeing my doctor on a monthly basis as a way to wrest control of my life back from the fiery grip of Diabetes. That was the plan, anyway.

Sadly, when I contacted my doctors office, I discovered that she was in the process of leaving the group practice, and any further details as to where she was going to wind up were not forthcoming.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Chagrined, I decided that since I couldn’t do anything at that time, I’d just accept the physician who took on my now former doctor’s patients- that being the aforementioned Dr. Jatin Daas. Going in, I wasn’t worried, as there was a multi-year treatment history for him to reference, and being the eternal optimist that I am, I naively assumed that he would just follow the pre-established protocol.

One day, I have to really apologize to my gut for not listening to him like I should. I’m not sure in which manner this will occur, but I’m definitely going to have to get him something nice for all of his attempts at keeping me from being a complete idiot. When I finally get to meet my new doctor, he takes all of eight minutes to establish our new working relationship, and proceeds to re-up my prescriptions, one of which is a fairly low-dosage of the narcotic known as Oxycodone.

Currently, I take the following drugs daily for control of my Diabetes and neuropathy:
– Novolog (fast-acting insulin taken by injection)
– Lantus (slow-release insulin taken by injection)
– Pregabalin AKA Lyrica (for nerve pain)
– Oxycodone (pain control)
– Amitryptyline (a non-addictive sleeping agent)

Now, when it comes to the Oxy, it’s essentially a back-up medication to take the edge off my pain when the Lyrica isn’t cutting it, which is rare- in other words, I normally can make a 30 day supply typically last three months. But as of recent that hasn’t been the case, due to the hellish bout of neuropathy I’ve been battling.

Unfortunately, it’s been trying to become an essential part of my daily routine, and since my day gig involves the handling of expensive art while using sharp and stabby tools that can take your hands off if you’re not careful, I can’t allow myself to be too doped up either. Therefore, I generally “tough it out” and take the Oxy at night, as a means to help me stave off the ever-present pain, which if timed right, lets me grab two to four hours of sleep before the fire in my skin wakes me up again.

Even sleeping naked can be too much where my skin sensitivity issue is concerned, and if my GF happens to move, accidentally dragging the top-sheet across any part of my body, it’s a sure bet she’ll find me hanging from the ceiling, man-bat style come the dawn of the new morning. So, as I leave my new doctor’s office, I make the follow up appointment for a month later, and I go about my day, running errands, accomplishing tasks, and occasionally killing the random circus clown here and there.

You know… like you do? Granted, I was still in a lot of pain, but I did have the Oxy, and after all, I was going to talk to him about upping my dose of Lyrica during the next visit anyway. See, I have a theory- after five years of taking this drug, I’m convinced my body has become acclimated, and that the dosage needs to be “tweaked” a few milligrams upward in order for it to continue working as effectively as it has been.

But there upon the sunny My Pretty Pony horizon, a spanner in the works was thrown.

Roughly a week and a half before my appointment was to occur, I discovered to my horror that I was going to run out of the one medication that kept me from peeling the skin off my own face by seven days- that of course, being the Oxy, a drug that I had been taking without incident for the past half-decade. So, like any responsible adult, I called his office and left a message explaining the critical situation… and didn’t hear anything back for three days.

Thus began a game of phone tag that would make the Gods of Olympus themselves weep. Despite the fact that I had a well-documented medical history of neuropathic pain going back five years, Dr. Daas seemingly couldn’t care less about the discomfort that I was going through, or the hellish pain that I was on the cusp of experiencing.

Let me be clear- at no time whatsoever, did he even bother to return any of my messages personally, leaving that sensitive task to his head nurse, who to her credit, became more and more agitated by his unethical refusal to render any sort of aid regarding my situation. Not once did he offer to move up my appointment or recommend an alternative pain killer, but he did let me know (via his nurse) that he wasn’t “comfortable” prescribing narcotics, a small but important fact that I feel should have been told to me when we first met.

Forgoing an actual solution, he offered up (via his nurse again) the name of a pain specialist who charged $250.00 for the first office visit, couldn’t see me for three months, and then, to top it all off, didn’t actually treat diabetic neuropathy… AT ALL.

In fact, their practice was based on what their receptionist referred to as “Erector-Set” pain- the analogy being that if you were more metal than flesh due to an accident, then they were your go-to guys for said treatment in regards to the same. While she was truly sympathetic, there wasn’t really anything that they could do to help me whether it was in the short or the long term.I tells ya- sometimes, I really wish that I was a jazz musician, so that I could go do some heroin without anyone giving me real grief for it.

But as my circumstances seemingly became bleaker, there was a flash of white light on the horizon, a joyous trumpet-call from over the hills, the sound of a crash between a truck full of chocolate and a truck full of peanut butter- my GF Ashley using all of her redheaded Google ninja skills had found my old doctor, the one and only Smita Kapoor!
(CUE UPBEAT 80’s MOVIE MONTAGE THEME MUSIC, WHILE SHOWING ME DANCING IN MY BATMAN UNDERWEAR PLAYING AIR GUITAR IN A ROOM FULL OF POP CULTURE POSTERS!)

God, what an amazing feeling that was- not only did I have my old doctor back, I was able to get an appointment on the very same day that I was supposed to see the schmuck that was refusing to follow my treatment protocol- certainly, this was Fate dealing me it’s finest hand. It’s closely akin to an old high school buddy calling you up and saying: “Dude… my parents let me move back into the basement- so come on over and let’s get that wicked surf-punk ska house-mix Def Leppard cover band project going, and we’ll make some rock and roll myths happen!”

So, after setting up my new appointment with my old go-to girl, I then called up Dr. Daas and proceeded to fire him as my physician- granted, I had to do this via his head nurse, but she seemed more than happy copying down my thoughts on his inability to follow the tenets of his chosen career. And as an aside, she did this with an inordinate amount of personal glee, I’m happy to report.

You think that I’m a bitch on the pixilated page when you piss me off? You should really hear me on the phone [or see me in person] when I get going, as I’ve made Teamsters weep for their mamas, and yes… I AM that good. As for his difficulties in following my pre-established care, I’d normally state that “It ain’t rocket science“, but it might as well have been, since reading what was in my file was apparently a parallel to NASA being able to land the Space Shuttle on top of one of Neil deGrasse Tyson’s lawn gnomes.

But no matter, for I was about to get back on track while wearing black, and I was looking forward to it- picture a Christmas morning inside the Willy Wonka Factory while all around you the gathered Oompa-Loompas dance in their native and festive garb, and you’ll be close to the joy I was feeling at just the mere thought of getting my pain issues finally settled.

And when the blessed day finally arived, it went great. She seemed genuinely thrilled to see me, and even re-upped my pain meds, all the while chatting about how “we” were going to get back on top of my condition. Who-hoo. Yipee. Yowza. Sure, there was one small issue- that being I was told the office charge was going to be $100.00, and it turned out to be $151.00 instead, but at least I was getting to see the person most responsible for my continued health, so that seemed to be a small price to pay in the long run overall.
[Side note: this practice of adding additional fees after the fact for a standard office visit seems to be the newest way the medical profession attempts to gouge it’s hostage client base- I would love to see if any other business could get way with this, wouldn’t you?

“Yes, normally it’s two-seventy-nine for that Big Mac, but our counter-person did have to hand you a receipt, so now it’s four-fifty-five.”]

But back to my narrative. When I came in for the follow-up appointment a mere two weeks later, that breezy attitude had been replaced with the countenance of someone who had previously dated me and had the misfortune of seeing me naked. Clinical. Calculating. In a word, just plain frigid. As I describe how bad my pain is, she seems distracted, and I observe that she and her nurse (a bottled-blonde named Shaun) are taking subtle glances at their watches as if they had somewhere else to be.

Cutting me off in mid-sentence, Dr. Kapoor informs me that she wants me to get my blood drawn for a series of tests- one will be a full blood work-up panel (over $300.00) a urine/drug test ($200.00) and then she wants to see me in another two weeks for another visit. ($100.00-150.00) For those of you keeping score, I haven’t had any real cessation in my pain levels, plus that’s at least $650.00 at the bare minimum, and I don’t have any health insurance.

Not because I’m irresponsible or anything along those lines, I’m just still working my way through the tepidly bureaucratic mess that is the Affordable Healthcare Act- and while I can’t speak for you, I generally don’t have that kind of cash on hand at any given point, a detail which I made particularly clear to Dr. Kapoor. Several times, in fact. Brushing that aside, she informs me that I will need to find a way to raise the funds, as she cannot (and will not) re-up my pain meds without a current urine test, and as to my request for “tweaking” my Lyrica dosage, she states rather haughtily that she is, and I quote: “not in her comfort zone” for doing that either.

Let me clarify. She wouldn’t prescribe me the low-dose narcotic that she originally approved as a side drug to ease my pain, nor will she alter the dosage of the non-narcotic drug that is obviously not working like it used to. And for this, I get to pay her $150.00? I would have been way better off giving that money to the aforementioned dominatrix- if I have to be in severe pain, I’d rather that it be served to me while it’s wearing a black leather corset. Once again, I’m a simple man with simple appetites. Excusing herself, she gathers up her laptop and exits the room with Shaun, leaving me sitting there… for 45 minutes.

Interesting side note: when you’re stuck in a room with no magazines save for Good Housekeeping, [Happily, I did learn how to make cookies that are moist and delicious– the secret is butter.] and your phone only has 50% of it’s battery left, you’ll find it’s truly amazing what you can make out of tongue depressors when you’re tragically bored beyond belief.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, the Leaning Tower of Pisa! All kidding aside, I cannot even begin to tell you how infuriating it is to hear someone mewlingly complain that their “comfort zone” is being compromised when all your zones (and I do mean all) are in sheer f**king agony. Aww… poor baby- you feel uncomfortable.

Well, guess what, you self-absorbed bitch, when I wake up in the morning, my goddamn eyelashes hurt. So f**k your comfort zone, and f**k you as well. And as an aside, here’s a heads up: when a patient of yours is diabetic and you abandon him in a room for 45 minutes and he hasn’t had a chance to eat yet, he’s apt to have his blood sugar drop, so next time please make sure to leave him a glass of OJ or a peanut butter sandwich before you decide to go see the other six patients that you all cleverly scheduled for the same time.

Once again, I’d love to see any other profession that does this: “Hi, I’m from the cable company and I see you have a one o’ clock appointment, so I’m also going to be installing the other five houses on your block at the same time- this could take a while.” That’s right- I experienced a “low” when I was there, due to having to wait so long for them to get back. Fortunately, I always carry sugar pills and fast-acting glucose gel to stave off such an event. Thank the Lord, that I do, because when Shaun returns, she dismisses what could have been a very bad thing and doesn’t even once to think to check my blood sugar*- instead, she just blathers on about how Dr. Kapoor will “return soon”, because as I think I’ve established by now, I obviously have nothing but time on my hands.
*[When we did check it almost 30 minutes later, it was 114- which means I probably dropped into the low 60’s. That’s pretty bad, and could have led to my passing out.]

Granted, this is all occurring on my day off- what better way to spend my excess time than being trapped in a beige room with nothing but cotton balls, six month old magazines, and tongue depressors to amuse myself? If I only had access to a roll of bubble wrap and a box of packing peanuts… I could have kept my inner child amused for days.

Attempting to make the most of the down time, I at that point handed Shaun the other reason why I was there, that being my medical aid paperwork. The drugs that I require to function and stay upright, (namely the Lyrica and my two Insulins) are bloody expensive, and because of their prohibitive cost and the fact that I’m uninsured, I’m more or less forced to be on aid programs to receive them free of charge.

Each box of Insulin pens and a 30 day supply of Lyrica runs about $268.00 each, a price that has only been rising since the new insurance laws went into effect. Mind you, I don’t blame the AHA, I blame the drug manufacturers who saw it as a golden opportunity to gouge it’s client base. For instance, a vial of Lantus used to be around $90.00- not cheap, but also not break-the bank expensive either.

Heck, even without insurance, I could afford that. But now? Try $250.00 for a drug that I could buy from Mexico or Canada for less than twenty, the only difference being the zip code it’s located in. That’s what I love about this country- if you’re rich, you’ll be just fine, but if not- well, just pick out what suit you’d like to be buried in and what song you’d like to be played at your service.
[By and by, my choice would be Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” as covered by Sid Vicious- it is a train wreck full of awesome.]

Overall, the process for receiving this medical assistance isn’t that complicated- it typically requires filling out a one page application, providing proof of your financial status, and per the federal requirement, your doctor’s office faxes the whole shebang, along with a prescription for whatever drug you’re applying for, directly to the company who manufactures said drug.

Normally, a five minute procedure at worst- two if you’re firing on all eight cylinders. Now as a rule, I tend to keep things highly organized where personal paperwork is concerned, as it’s a combination OCD and German thing, and this was no different. Each application was individually binder-clipped together, and the areas that my doctor needed to fill out were highlighted with one of those neon yellow marker thingamajigs- in short, a masterwork of neurotic compulsiveness that even Helen Keller could have easily followed.

With her hands tied. So naturally of course, it got all shades of bolloxed up. Shaun exits the room once more, paperwork in hand, and when she returns almost 45 minutes later… none of the paperwork is filled out, which for some reason, she did not notice. Mind you, I could see this from across the room, but apparently, when it comes to the fine details, Shaun is far-sighted.
[For those of you keeping track of the time, we’re close to almost TWO hours for what should have been a half-hour visit at worst.]

Giggling, (I kid you not) she suggests that I should leave, and states that “they’ll take care of it”- not to worry. Note to self: whenever anyone offers to do this in the future, remember this day, and how badly they screwed the metaphorical pooch with a sandpaper condom.

After I reluctantly depart, I call Shaun’s direct line and leave a message reminding her not to forget to send the financial info for all three forms- granted, it says to do so right underneath the fax number printed on each application, but since she had already shown me signs that she was possibly three beans short of a burrito, I felt I should hedge my bets, and make sure, nonetheless.

Speaking of burritos, it seems that now would be a good time for me to take a pause from my tale and go microwave one, and then hit the sack. And when I come back..

I get a Dear John letter, have a showdown with Marshall Dillon’s incompetent sister, dance a tango with a nice (but scripted) St. Joseph’s patient relation flack, and show the bitches who I be, using nothing but the power of positive thinking and my melodic voice.

“I don’t trust doctors. It’s not to say there ain’t some good ones, but on a general level, no, I wouldn’t trust ’em at all.”- Keith Richards

 

 

“In every artist’s life, it is inexorable that environment play a determining part”- Eric Walrond

 Hello Blogiteers!

I’m feeling pretty good these days. My blood sugar is slowly getting under control, I’m putting back on the weight I lost during my brief sojourn at John C. Lincoln Hospital, and I finally got to see “White House Down” via my newest and bestest buddy Netflix. It rocks, by the way. Just suspend your common sense regarding how the terrorists gain control of the White House, and you’ll be perfectly entertained.

Ten words: presidential limo gun battle, on the White House front lawn.
Life in a word, is just kick-ass.

And speaking of the subject of kicking ass, my last humble rant generated a slew of emails, most of them centering on my take in regards to art galleries versus art-spaces. As I expected, there were a few angry missives criticizing my devotion to fervent capitalism, but I still maintain that in order to be seen as a world-class art destination, it’s absolutely crucial that we present ourselves as total professionals when it comes to the marketing and fostering of our base talent.

But there was also the following comment left on my personal FB page, and it’s remarks like this that inspire me to keep writing: “Thank you for your words about art spaces and selling art. I’ve had some negative experiences, alongside some really positive ones. Sadly I let the negative ones carry more weight and Ive been treading water on my art lately. But after reading a bit of your blog I want to get back to some of my work.”

Years from now when this guy rules the art world, I’m gonna ask him for a favor. A big one. Most likely involving Milla Jovovich and a tub chock-full of marshmallow fluff. And people say it doesn’t pay to network? Pshaw, says I.

Back to the issue at hand.

To quote myself: “Picasso wasn’t discovered in a coffeehouse.” If we want to run with the big dogs, we need to get our lazy asses off the porch and actually get our shit together instead of endlessly talking about it. I’ve often (and publicly) stated the need for a subsidized mentor gallery program within the PAS, and if we’re ever going to make Phoenix a serious contender along the lines of cities such as New York and Los Angeles, it’s definitely one of the numerous things we need to implement, and that right quick.

If we want our metaphorical art-forest to continue to grow and prosper, then the need to make sure that for every tree that’s cut down, two saplings take it’s place is not only logical, it’s essential. All hail artsy HYDRA, as it were. Sadly, when it comes to the PAS, it seemingly feels that for every Eric Cox and Christine Cassaro we’re lucky to have, there’s six Peter Buggs, and they just keep reproducing like rabbits mainlining Viagra.

The inevitable poseurs and wannabes aside, we still have a long way to go before anybody of note sees this burg as an art mecca worth investing in. It’s not for lack of talent or passion, but the lack in marketing and leadership that continually sinks our ship before it evens get to unfurl it’s sails. As time goes on, I’m becoming less interested in the nuts [Joe Brklacich] and dolts [Peter Bugg] that comprise the inner workings of the PAS, and instead have been trying to visualize the long-term subsequent end goal- Phoenix becoming the go-to spot for serious art patrons.

While that may seem overly optimistic and perhaps even a little naive in relation to the reality we find ourselves currently in, I do believe it is possible. Still have doubts? Keep this in mind: Ben Affleck can’t act his way out of a brown paper bag, and now he’s freaking Batman. If the universe can let that happen, surely we can make our little art-scene commercially viable. And personally, I feel the universe owes us a big one, especially after letting that monstrosity of casting become a tangible fact.

I’d never thought I’d say this, but I really miss George Clooney.

My fellow artist and respected colleague Pete Petrisko recently opined over coffee that it was time for me to take on a more expansive worldview and concentrate my snark-fueled energy at those who are really to blame for the lack of the PAS’s progress- in other words, bigger and badder targets, and I’m inclined to agree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always found it highly cathartic to metaphorically flay alive those who’s ignorance goes right to the bone, but I also think it’s time I take this knack for creative writing and kick it up a notch. I’m not going to be one of those people who name drop, as I’ve always perceived it to be both tacky and somewhat embarrassingly self-serving, but in the last eight months I’ve had no less than four professional writers (and one highly respected magazine editor) inform me that they think my writing is, and I quote: “solid and damn good”.

Let me tell you, nothing makes me feel pretty inside like sincere compliments. In fact, I’m going to be applying for a Warhol Grant in relation to creative writing later this year, and if I don’t get it… well, there’s always that management position at Cracker Barrel to fall back on, I guess. Priorities over personalities is the tack I’d like to take over the course of 2015, as I’m getting slightly topped off having to deal with the seemingly never-ending barrage of human speed-bumps that infest the PAS, much akin to an artsy version of Lyme disease. And in retrospect, I feel I’ve done a lot for starting the discussion of what course the PAS should take for the future.

That’s me… your basic conversation yeast. But I’m also the guy who bitch-slapped the Phoenix New Times and it’s Mangling Editor Amy Silverman so hard and so publicly that they actually started covering the PAS almost like a real newspaper. Granted, their writing and coverage is still uniformly terrible, but at least they’re doing something, even if it’s only partially beneficial in the end.

Throw in my recent shaming of the equally unimpressive* (and wholly unethical*) art entity SMoCA, for their past rewarding of shameless outright plagiarism, and one could easily surmise that getting in my crosshairs is not the wisest decision that one could make. Especially if you’re unprincipled or by the dint of your actions, you impede logical progress. *[Allegedly.]

If truth be known, I loathe roadblocks, and when I encounter one, I tend to do one of the following: go around, go under, or more typically- go right through the middle of that f**ker like a chest-burster straight out of Alien. Truly diplomatic subtlety has never been my modus operandi, and I see no real need to start now. If there’s a crisis that arises, you don’t stick your head in the sand, you grab that sucker by it’s greasy little throat and make it your… well, I’ll let you chose your own metaphor.

People who tend to sugarcoat obvious (and solvable) problems have always been one of my major pet peeves, as there’s only two ways you can go when faced with an issue- the right way or the path so well traveled by the PAS, that I’m surprised that we haven’t trademarked it yet. Living in the 5th largest city in America would make one naturally think that we’re at least on par with other cities where community infrastructure is concerned, and for the most part, you’d be right.

We have a rapidly expanding transit system, new businesses are springing up like dandelions, and our convention center can hold an entire Comicon’s worth of Princess Leias and Thors, with room to spare. And let’s not forget all of the public art, whether it’s the Calle 16 project, Third Street’s murals, or that god-awful sky-condom mesh monstrosity that’s hanging in Downtown. Which, by the way- I would love to see aflame, if it wasn’t for all the public money that’s already been wasted on it.

Where are all the truly dedicated arsonists when you really need them?

Due to my hatred, I’m even open to suggesting the idea of giving Peter Bugg a shot at creating something new to hang there, but as we saw with his obviously plagiarized* [and sadly winning] entry at SMoCA’s Good n’ Plenty grant awards, I’d have to believe that he’d just take the original sculpture, turn it upside down, add glitter, and call it a day.*[Allegedly]

Sorry. That was just a tad bit rude and highly inaccurate. Peter would never use glitter, as it tends to possess more substance than his entire body of work thus far. Gah. I’m trying to take the high road, honestly I am, but the snark wants what the snark wants.

Unfortunately, when it comes to the subject of art, most people tend to regard it as more of a want, rather than as a “need”, a position that I’m obviously biased in regards to. If I were to engage in a debate with someone who was advocating this POV, I’d start by illustrating the financial impact that a successful art community can bring to the table, such as increased tax revenues, along with the sometimes overlooked benefit of the revitalization of previously depressed neighborhoods.

Think about Roosevelt Street some twenty odd years ago, and I’d have to strongly suggest you think harder about whether it’s truly a “need” or not. Without foresight, would anybody have built those overpriced condos there at that time? Definitely not. But all of this boils down to a pointless exercise in theoretical academia unless there’s a structured framework already set in place to support the development of an economically viable arts district. To construct a successful arts community, you also need the built-in convenience found in most major American cities, and that’s where Phoenix is constantly dropping the ball.

Deaf to the sound of opportunity knocking. Missing the boat. Arriving a day late and several dollars short, for lack of a better analogy.

Along with the myriad of previously discussed concerns, the PAS also suffers from another uniquely urban malady, that being the issue of sprawl. If you’ve ever been out on a First Friday, you’re acutely aware that seeing all that’s to be seen is quite the Herculean task. Forget the lack of convenient parking, the human lemmings gumming up the sidewalks, and the ongoing issue of half-ass presentation combined with limited hours that are to be found in most of our art galleries, and you could easily argue that one of the major thorns in the art community’s side in regards to progress is that it’s footprint is huge- not in presence, but in distance.

For those of you who are familiar with the layout of the PAS, think about walking from Modified to the Icehouse. In July. See the inherent issue? For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, it would be the artsy equivalent of the Bataan death march… with hipsters. I get chills just thinking about it. Unlike many metropolises, Phoenix is not, nor has it ever really been, a walkable city. There are some limited areas where this is not entirely true, but as a rule, you really do need a car if you’re ever going to get anywhere in this town within what passes as a reasonable time.

Call me crazy, but if you’re going to support the arts, then you need to be able to easily support all the areas, not just the one over-gentrified street.

While I’ll acknowledge that Roosevelt has become a central location for the PAS, I’ll also state that I find it as edgy as a glass of warm milk. I’m a traditionalist. I like my art and my artists the same way I like my great white sharks- hungry and slightly dangerous to the status quo. I’ll take gritty (IE: Grand Avenue) over white-bread any day of the week, and I’ve always felt that you can be both professional and cutting-edge without having to placate the white and uptight patron brigade. Gritty doesn’t mean that you have to phone-in your approach, in my view it means that you’re willing to take chances others would take a pass on, either out of fear or ignorance.

Come to think of it, they’re two sides of the same coin, but I digress. While RoRo and Grand are part of the PAS for all practical intent and purposes, they may as well be on separate planets given their unique nature and amount of space between them. Keep in mind that between these two art anchors are several various galleries, art-spaces, and artist studios, the majority of whom are off the beaten path, and you’ll see why I say that ours is a highly fragmented art scene, in terms of both leadership and location.

To be frank, it’s exceedingly detrimental to establishing a solid base of patrons who actually buy art, rather than photographing it with their I-phones. In addition, it’s also a tough haul for the artists as well, since unless you’re lucky enough to have enough room in your house/apartment /garage/cardboard box for a dedicated studio, you’ll have to rent a space- and in Phoenix that usually means a small (and overpriced) rat-hole, typically situated in an area that could be charitably described at best as a demilitarized zone.

Speaking from a wealth of precedent experience, most of what passes for studio space in this city could be considered an exercise in personal suffering that would make the most ardent of Catholics weep. My old space had no air conditioning, save for a 30 year old swamp cooler, one window facing away from any natural light, and was home to an ever-changing roster of field mice, assorted weird spiders, and roaches that I swear on all that’s holy, would just laugh in my face whenever I pulled out a can of RAID.

Good times. The rent for this slice of Lucifer’s paradise at the time was $425.00- which even then, was way steep. But I was an artist, and an artist had to have a separate studio space, and who was I to go against tradition? An idiot, that’s who. But then as now, the options open to artists seeking an artistic creation space were limited. If you look at successful art markets around the country, the trait they all seem to share is that the artists and the spaces that show their work are integrated into a concentrated area, which makes perfect sense in regards to both business and convenience. Phoenix, on the other hand, has no such cohesion when it comes to it’s art community, and that lack of planning is proving to be quite the hindrance for serious patrons and artists alike.

Some measures towards this problem have been taken- the Oasis project on Grand for instance, which provides low-cost housing for artists, and also possesses an on-site gallery to showcase the work of said Creatives that live there. However at this time, it’s still overshadowed by the entity that is the RoRo District, so at best, it’s a baby-step in the right direction. I’m not smack-talking the Oasis, mind you- I for one, think it’s a great concept. It’s close to downtown, the views of the city are terrific, depending on what side you live on, and it’s three minutes away from Grand Avenue Pizza, and that’s always good.

But at this particular moment in time, it’s a wolf without a corresponding pack, and if this model were pushed even further and harder throughout the PAS, I think there’d be a definite up-sweep in revenue and exposure for our art scene overall, and I can’t see anyone having an issue with that. Except of course, for our local contingent of art-hipsters, who most likely, will kvetch endlessly about how much cooler Phoenix was before it “sold out” and went all commercial.

Now in order for this to work, we definitely need to pattern ourselves on a system that seemingly has all the kinks worked out. We could look to the successful platforms that are already established in art centers such as LA or NYC, but pick only those parts that would work for us. However, as much as I would love to see this city become an art destination, I also want to make sure that we don’t become a weak-ass clone of either one of those cities. Granted, I’m not really certain what Phoenix’s true artistic identity is, but it sure as hell isn’t the detached coolness of New York or the toxic plasticity of LA.

Fortunately, it doesn’t have to be to guarantee our long-term success, and in fact- there’s a project that’s currently under development that Phoenix could emulate, and the beauty of it is that it’s literally in our own back yard. So where is this small, yet brilliant, beacon of artistic development?

Mesa … (crickets chirp…. a lone tumbleweed rolls by… somewhere, in the twilight distance, a dog barks.)  Yes. I said MESA, the ancestral home (as the joke goes) of Mormons, meth, and morons.

I see by your slack-jawed expressions that some form of explanation is required- fair enough. I live to bring enlightenment, if not clarity, to the masses as you know. However, my explanation is also going to be a tad bit awkward, especially when you take into account that Phoenix should be the one setting this particular bar rather than a city I’ve always compared to my Oma’s 1957 Hoover vacuum- grey-colored, completely industrial, and sucking like Ben Affleck in Daredevil.

Sorry. I still can’t believe that they gave him yet another super hero to completely screw up. Is it too much to ask that Hollywood stops screwing around with the things I love? What’s next? Jonah Hill as Wolverine?

And don’t even get me started on the new Star Wars movie- if JJ Abrams f**ks that up, I swear on my light-saber collection that I’ll take a cue from Jabba and toss him in the Saarlac Pit.

Oh yeah… I went there. Moving on….

As I was just saying, it seems that Phoenix’s ugly stepsister is apparently making some serious moves in regards to upping it’s artistic game by developing a true artistic presence, and as usual, we’re the ones who once again, are lagging a step (if not two) behind. I wouldn’t dare speak for you, but I for one, am getting really sick and tired of watching the other kids get the Evel Knievel Action Set while we’re stuck with a metaphorical lime-green sweater that we’re supposed to grow into.

Seriously. We’re the cute one- why can’t we have the nice things too? If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say part of the issue would be the puzzling attitude that Phoenix is somehow not deserving of such artistic amenities- an ignorant stance that personally, I find highly infuriating.

Let me clarify this point. Some time ago, I made the unfortunate decision to attend a presentation at the Mesa Arts Center, an absolutely gorgeous building, in Mesa’s quickly burgeoning Arts District. The speaker that night was promoting a self-help program (of sorts) aimed at artists who wanted to achieve a stable financial base in regards to the selling and promotion of their art- for the working artist, as it were. As someone who is all about the Capitalism, I can get one hundred percent behind the concept of educating Creatives in regards to how the big scary machine works- forewarned is forearmed, after all.

But as a rule, I’ve always believed that most self-help books and the like are typically nothing more than repackaged self-indulgent twaddle. If you can get something beneficial out of these types of programs, that’s great, but you shouldn’t have to pay for information that with the merest of research you could glean for free at your local library. That’s just my humble opinion, but if you’re one of those people who wants the legwork done for them, then feel free to open your checkbook and have at it. I, on the other hand, have always believed that personal growth requires both inner focus and even perhaps a little private discomfort to be truly trans-formative in the end.

As I sat there listening to this person’s saga about how they got to where they were now, two things became highly apparent- first, they weren’t an Artist in the traditional sense, their foundation was in the marketing and sale of art (which had been lucrative) and second, they were just a slight bit out of touch with their target audience, a fact which became even more crystalline as they described how exactly their self-help program came to be.

Most Artists aren’t in this gig for the money, shockingly enough. We usually have to chase it down like Cujo going after a bus full of pre-schoolers, and that’s on a good day. The option to relax and engage our sense of inner contemplation is usually not in the cards, typically due to lack of money and/or time. How to pay the electric bill gets my contemplation more than my career, for instance. Being a professional Artist myself, I’m painfully well acquainted with being under the thumb of both of these constraints, so when I’m in the presence of someone who waxes poetic about how they got their head together by taking a year off and going to Europe to sit in the ruins of an ancient keep, while pondering the meaning of it all, I tend to get somewhat… let’s call it touchy, and leave it at that.

Most artists can barely afford to sit in their own house, much less a 16th century fixer-upper, but I digress.

All their hard-earned success aside, it’s easy to talk about getting one’s career and life on track when you’re blessed with an abundant bank account and sitting in a castle- just saying.

But the best was yet to come. After the talk and subsequent “buy my stuff” sales pitch, the remaining crowd gathered outside by the cash bar, where I demurred the opportunity to buy a three dollar can of warm soda, and as our host walked by, I managed to grab a few minutes of conversation with them. After a little shop talk, the discussion eventually turned, as it always does when my dialogue involves art, to the ongoing problems with the PAS and the difficulty of advocating for it outside it’s defined borders.

Certainly, this highly successful former Scottsdale art sales pro and self-help entrepreneur would have some sage advice for me, a lone artist hoping to make a difference, right? As I made the case for the ol’ 602, she rather directly states that “Phoenix is a lost cause” and that I should “just get off the sinking ship while I still could.”, finishing up with the implication [I’m paraphrasing here] that all my efforts were tantamount to spitting in the wind.

Sigh… one day, please remind me to definitely sit down with my sense of optimism and talk some sense into that naive little bitch, cause if that doesn’t work, I may just have to fire her altogether. If there’s a sure fire way to get on my dark side almost immediately, it’s to suggest that something I’m truly passionate about has no inherent value, especially when I know it’s not true.

This outlook doesn’t apply to the “Xanadu” movie or any of ABBA’s albums of course, as after all- while I may be fervent about them, I’m also not completely crazy. I don’t think for a New York second that the PAS is a lost cause.

And to be brutally honest… if it is, then it definitely needs all the help it can get. In my humble opinion, lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. Well those… and any that involve the overthrowing of our Evil Lizard Overlords. All half-joking talk of freedom aside, I found their short-sighted point of view to be highly insulting, and despite the fact that my first instinct was to unsheathe my razored tongue and metaphorically peel them like a sentient potato, I did not.

I do have some social graces after all, and besides- I like that place and don’t want to be banned for life over what at best, could be considered a matter of difference in perspective. I’ve never truly understood why certain people are so willing to write this city off without a second thought before getting all the relevant information first. I’d be the last person to say that we’re running on all eight cylinders, but I’d also take the position that given the right mixture of leadership and marketing, this city could be one of the heavyweights, hands down. And a true believer in the dogma of self-empowerment would see that potential and want to support the effort to make it so, not deride it from their ivory tower.

That’s just a personal thought, mind you. Take it for what it is.

Now, before I get back to talking about Mesa’s artistic leap forward, I think it’s time for a break.

And when we come back… I venture into the wilds of Mesa for some artistic research, learn about the difficulties of navigating state bureaucracy, and discuss having to pick my 3 favorite symbolic children in order to apply for a Warhol Grant.

Good times.

“Culture is the Arts elevated to a set of beliefs.”- Thomas Wolfe.

 

 

 

 

at given the right mixture of leadership and marketing, this city could be one of the heavyweights, hands down. And a true believer in the dogma of self-empowerment would see that potential and want to support the effort to make it so, not deride it from their ivory tower.

 

 

“Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke.”- Benjamin Disraeli

Hello my loyal Blogiteers!

It has been a rough couple of weeks, let me tell you. My previous screed wrapped up a six part story arc regarding my hospitalization back in 2009 from the complications of diabetic ketoacidosis while simultaneously celebrating Artbitch “turning” fifty.

Middle age never read so good, in my humble opinion. To be honest, writing it was both emotionally exhausting and spiritually cathartic, all within the same moment. Finally getting the tale out of my psyche is something I’ve wanted to do for quite some time, but I needed to find myself in a good frame of mind to be able to adequately spin the story of my near death experience into something palatable- something I truly believe was accomplished in the end.

Oh, the sweet sweet irony- see, for the last few months, I’ve been under some incredible personal pressure, mostly in regards to helming various artistic projects as well as my day gig, and it finally blew one of my health gaskets in a major fashion. This in turn, landed me back at John C. Lincoln  Hospital as an unexpected guest of the ICU… again. With an elevated blood sugar and brain swelling. Again. Furthermore, despite all my valid attempts to avoid tangoing with my old nemesis [AKA: the Tube Snake Razor, or Catheter for short] I was coerced back into an unholy four day partnership… again.

Let me set in stone right now, for eternity, and for all to understand and hear, this simple, yet direct statement: if there ever arises a need for me to have one of these inserted into my body ever again, please do the following: just buy a bulk of Deluxe Sham-Wows and lay me on top of them. And if those are unavailable, feel free to substitute a case of NERF footballs. Either or. I tend not to be too picky when I’m in a medically induced coma, so have at it.

Obviously, I’m on the medical mend, albeit slower than I’d like to be, but that’s always been one of my major issues- I can be a truly unrealistic son of a bitch when it comes to achieving personal goals, and if truth be known, the list of what I want to do is monumental. Setting aside that whole whipped cream weekend I want to get into with Milla Jovovich and my girlfriend, most of them are actually obtainable, if only I had six lives and didn’t have to sleep in any of them.

Near and dear to my heart [after my personal artistic endeavors] is the unceasing promotion of the good ol’ 602, an action that thank God, I am not alone in attempting to accomplish. While some tend to strut their hour upon the stage as full on unicorn-glitter-fueled cheerleaders, I’ve always fallen into the role of a curmudgeonly (and somewhat jaded) distant uncle of sorts who tends to speak his mind, much to the chagrin of certain thin-skinned detractors, the largest part of whom feel that sniping anonymously online or behind one’s back is what constitutes a direct approach.

In regards to said cheerleaders, my respect for them varies depending on their effectiveness and the purity of their approach. This translates directly into what they truly represent- are they in the game for the betterment of the Phoenix Art Scene, or are they really just here for the plaques and random scrapbook clippings? I’ve always been of the mindset that the pep squad needs the quarterback more than he needs them, but they do serve a purpose nonetheless, even if it’s just to remind everyone as to who really wins the game.

Fortunately, my viewpoint on what the not so subtle differences are between a true cultural warrior and an ego-polishing artsy succubus is well enough known that I rarely have to go about restating it, which as you might surmise- saves a boatload of personal time and energy. Now before you think I’m engaging in rampant cynicism, let me defend my perspective by saying that I’m not being negative, I’m being realistic- an outlook that seems sadly lacking within the arts community, and one that needs to be adjusted to the veracity of the particular issues that the PAS faces on a daily basis.

I’ve waxed poetic many a time and at considerable length in regards to what the PAS needs to do in order to become a stable and profitable entity, and sometimes I get to feeling that all my efforts are for naught- when you are constantly banging your head against the wall to no end, it does have the tendency to shatter your resolve, regardless of the strength of your will or the clarity of your vision.

Factor in the element of human speed bumps [a consistent plague within the PAS] and one could easily surmise that the path for Phoenix becoming a world-class art destination is going to be dark and difficult at best. Personally, I’ve always felt that something given has no value- if you want respect you have to earn it, and that applies to both people and the cutthroat world of business, which when it comes right down to it, is easier said then done.

To paraphrase John Wooden: “Character is what you do when no one is watching.” At the end of the day, all you really own is yourself and the perception that people have of you. Despite my vitriolic and acidic take on the PAS, I find that within the community itself, I’m generally respected for taking a definitive stand and staking out my territory as candidly as possible.

In other words, my reputation for skin-stripping honesty by and large usually arrives before I do. Sure, I spin a good yarn every now and then, but the truth is paramount above all. Luckily, on those atypical occasions when I do wander into the ether of the realm of artistic license, it’s glaringly easy to separate the lone dishonest cow from the rest of the noble herd. For instance, if my tale starts off with Motley Crue and I in the back of a limousine full of strippers, odds are pretty good that I might be stretching the truth just a tad.

A wee bit, mind you.

Conversely, if my saga involves the PAS, it’s always dead on in it’s accounting of whatever situation I found myself in. There’s an old maxim that there’s three sides to every story- yours, theirs, and the truth, which is usually somewhere in-between. Granted, the crux of my writing has always come from my perspective alone, but even so- I’m a stickler for accuracy when it comes to documenting my interactions within the community.

As you might imagine, having a well-defined set of opinions is not a popular accessory within the PAS these days, and despite the support that I do receive, there are times where my presence at a show can be mildly divisive at best. In general, I tend to avoid those events where my arrival can cause the natives to break out the pitchforks and flaming torches, but on the whole, Phoenix is a small town in relation to it’s art scene, and you can’t watch every step, no matter how much you try.

By way of example, my recent interactions with a passive-aggressive twit known as Joe Brklacich underscores this point succinctly. Joe has had a massive mad-on for me the last few weeks in regards to a piece I had written about SMoCA and to a lesser degree, it’s outgoing PR flack Lesley Oliver, and apparently has decided that he’s the one who’s going to try and settle my acidic hash.

That’s my special talent. Making friends and leaving an impression.

When it comes to my detractors, Joe stands alone- mainly due to the fact that he actually got in my face physically, something that if hadn’t come on the heels of a threatened assault I could have actually respected. It does take stones to tell someone to go f**k themselves eye to eye, and if it had stopped there, I probably wouldn’t think as little of him as I do now.

See, it’s fairly transparent that Joe wants nothing more than to goad me into throwing the first punch, thereby allowing him the freedom to mete out what more than a few in the PAS would regard as overdue karma, but that’s just not going to happen. I’m 45, and I’m not going to get in a brawl over what amounts to a difference in artistic opinions like some drunken 22 year old.

Granted, someday maybe there will be someone who beats my face flat over something I’ve written, leaving me a battered heap, my teeth scattered on the ground like Chiclets, but that day is not today, and Joe will never be that person. In retrospect, he strikes me as almost a caricature- his anger is so out of proportion to the situation at hand that it’s almost laughable. And while I do try to give the proper amount of respect due to each personal interaction my writing sometimes brings to the surface, I just can’t this time.

In fact, I pretty much giggle every time I hear his last name, for as God as my witness, it reminds me of the minor Superman villain Mr. Mxyzptlk, whom like Joe, has a moniker that he apparently bought at a used consonant sale. Never mind saying it, I literally have to look it up every time I type it out, and disregard using spell-check, it just says “screw you” and then shuts down. I know, I know, I’m a terrible human being, but seriously- can you spell “Brklacich” off the top of your head? I didn’t think so. You’re all brilliant, and even you couldn’t do it.

It’s bad enough that I have to peripherally deal with this twit, who’s akin to a mosquito in a sealed tent, but you’d think that I’d eventually luck out and acquire a stalker whose name I could actually write out on a restraining order. Sigh… down the road, I guess. A boy can dream.

As I said earlier, at the end of the day, your character and reputation are all that you truly own, so I’ve always striven to make mine as clean as possible. While I may have the rep for being an arrogant son of a bitch, it’s also a general opinion that I’m also pathologically honest when it gets right down to the brass tacks. What can I say? I prefer an uncomplicated life. Why is this a topic I’m focusing on, you ask? Well, despite my penchant for sporting a chipped shoulder, there are actually very few things that can get under my skin faster than having my integrity questioned- especially when it’s done by persons of lesser and flawed character.

But I already mentioned my good buddy Joe, so let me give you the context. Surprisingly, it’s folded inside something that as a proponent of the 602’s development, I can support fully, without any of my characteristically inherent sarcasm or cynicism implied. One of the exceedingly important facets in the 602’s future success that’s sometimes overlooked is the proliferation of local small businesses. This in turn, helps build a financially stable and attractive community. I’ve often said that if you want people to come Downtown, you have to give them the following: a place to sit, a place to eat, a place to drink, and a place to take the family, if applicable.

So anytime a new business opens up in the Downtown area, it’s a cause for celebration, no matter what it happens to be. Granted, I’m not too thrilled when it involves pretentious baristas, but that’s only because I loathe hipsters, and besides- those damn kids wouldn’t know good music if it bit them on their wool caps.

All partial joking aside, I completely support a majority of the economic development that’s been happening and look forward to seeing how the PAS will fit in over time. To be frank, I do have a few misgivings in relation to how some of it has been handled, but I’m trying to maintain an optimistic and forward-thinking outlook, despite my typically pessimistic nature.

And you thought I couldn’t be all upbeat? That just hurts.

Getting back on track, the newest business to open it’s doors in the bubbling stew that is the 602 goes by the name of Treeo. Located inside a reconverted house at 906 North Sixth Street, it is home to the offices of Harder Development, FenSource & Champion PR and Consulting. The space plans to host monthly art exhibits and community events alongside it’s normal day to day commerce. The persons involved with the running of Treeo are real estate agent Ashley Harder, public relations guru/community organizer extraordinaire Stacey Champion, and my former FaceBook friend, Joe Brkkal… Brllckkk… Brakkxla… oh screw it- I’m just gonna call him Joey Consonants from now on.

Let’s be real for a moment, shall we? It sounds cooler, and it’s way easier to pronounce. Besides, if I have to be the one who has to put with his passive-aggressive yet wholly ineffectual chest-thumping, then I get to be the one who names him. It’s only fair.

When it comes to Joe’s partners in this, his newest business venture, I can honestly say that I know zilch about Ms. Harder [whom I’ve heard is quite successful from various sources] but when it comes to Ms. Champion, I do know a little bit more. Stacey is one of those 602 cheerleaders I mentioned earlier, and she is probably one of the most effective. Between organizing events, and shining a light in regards to issues ranging from the feminist struggle to AZ’s inbred legislature, Stacey is a PR juggernaut, no doubt about it. If any facet of Treeo will do exceedingly well, my money would be on her branch, hands down.

I’ve previously openly wondered what it was that Joey Consonants did to make ends meet, since as far as I could tell, it wasn’t his “art” that paid the bills. After all, his website hadn’t been updated since 2012, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing his work at any local show.

Ever.

More telling was the fact that every time I walked into the Lodge, the studio he shares with fellow artists Abbey Messmer and Rafael Navarro, all I ever did see of his work were the same three pencil sketches that have hung there for the last ten years. Heck, I haven’t had a full-blown show since 2008, but even still- you walk into my work-space, and you’re going to see something different every time. Not always good, but different. So when I heard that Joey was part of Treeo, my curiosity was piqued as to what exactly he was bringing to the proverbial table, and it this: fenestration.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and all I have to say is the following: shame on you for thinking such impure thoughts. Despite what it sounds like, fenestration is not some bizarre sexual kink involving ferrets and latex, but is defined by Webster’s as the arrangement, proportioning, and design of windows and doors in a building, which is ironic, since that’s three things I’d like to toss Joey’s candy-ass out of.

As the son of a contractor, I’m pretty familiar with this industry, albeit on a minor level, so my first thought was that no wonder Joey can get to play at being an artist, he’s part of an industry that’s fairly lucrative in nature. If the tables were reversed, I probably wouldn’t try either if I had a bankroll to peel my life off of.

Mind you, that’s not jealousy. After all, I knew he had to do something, since it’s obvious he isn’t an actual working artist. I just wouldn’t have pegged him to be a guy who designs windows. Washing windows, yes. Designing them? Not so much. Fortunately for my fragile ego, I was half-right. Turns out that Joey is actually a recruiter for the industry, and his company matches top fenestration talent with top-level clientele. [Feel free to insert your own fenestration joke here.]

So how do I know this factoid? The internet.

In researching this screed, I happened upon Joey’s website* for his business, also known as FenSource, and was immediately impressed by it’s clean and efficient design. Most companies would typically bore you with a navigation menu and actual things to see, but not Joey- he’s a maverick.

Go ahead. Take a look. I guarantee it’ll only take a second. *[http://fensource.com/]

I’m no web designer, but even I know that page looks awful. Speaking as someone who’s entire life revolves around self-promotion, I can say that if I were a potential client who came across this, I’d keep on surfing until I found someone whose online pitch appeared to actually give a damn. All that aside, lasting 25 years in any industry is impressive (I’m coming up on 23 myself) and given that his field is so specialized, I can’t really see him having a lot of competition here in Downtown Phoenix, so one could assume he’ll be able to continue having success for years to come, so long as his prospective clientele doesn’t have access to the world wide web, and that his predilection for passive-aggressive behavior doesn’t get in the way.

More on that in a bit. As I said earlier, anytime a new business opens up in the Downtown Phoenix area, it’s a cause for celebration, no matter what it happens to be, and Treeo was no exception. It’s grand opening was going to feature an exhibition by an artist I’m friends with and whose work I really like, so I was stoked for it on many different levels.

Good art + colleagues + new white collar business opening + free wine = happy Artbitch.

Having been invited by the artist and Stacey Champion herself, I assumed that even though Joey had an issue with me, he would act professionally at the very least, since the event was not only going to be packed with colleagues, there were possibly potential clients as well, a reality which I felt would curb any possible hostilities if I made an appearance. Believe it or not, I did take into account that things could go south if Joey decided they should, so I had a rough game plan: show up, find my artsy friend, get a quick guided tour of the art, compliment Stacey on the space, and then vamoose. In/out ten minutes, tops.

I figured if I showed up relatively early, my plan would work with nary a hitch, banking on the number of people present and social pressure to keep Joey in line with what is considered mature adult behavior.

Remind me one day to tell you about my sense of unfounded optimism- that bitch ain’t bright.

So, dressed in my Artbitch finest- crucifix t-shirt, black jeans, motorcycle boots, and a complement of silver jewelry, I jumped in my graffiti-painted Isuzu Amigo, and headed out. Parking behind Lotus Contemporary, I walked the half-block to Treeo, and as I crossed into it’s front courtyard, caught a glimpse of a solitary figure to my right, half hidden in the twilight shadows…the one and only Joey Consonants.

[See? I told you it sounds cooler.]

And he looked gleeful.

Now for the record, there are many shades of the emotion known as glee. There’s the type where one comes across a friendly kitten that wants to play, and the day is made better for it. There’s the one where your girlfriend goes and buys you the KISS Compendium, a collection of all the KISS comics ever published, which just goes to prove that Gene Simmons will literally put his face on anything, and then there’s the abomination that takes great rock songs and turns them into choreographed sack-less wonders.

All perfectly acceptable, if that’s what you’re into.

And then there’s the kind that you only see on two faces: those of used car salesmen, and axe murderers who’ve just spotted a lone prostitute on a dark corner. Granted, I was tarted up a bit, but even so, no one should ever look that happy when they see me arrive somewhere. What struck me as odd was that he was just standing there, not talking to anyone, not smoking a cigarette, not having a drink, just hanging out in the shadows… waiting.

I wonder for who.

As I head towards the front door, he quickly pulls up alongside and sarcastically asks if I want a tour, an act of selflessness that I refuse as politely as possible. Undeterred, he follows me in, and as I find my artist friend, stands on my right side two inches from my face, saying that “he’s already talked to Stacey” and that if I make him feel uncomfortable, he can have me thrown out, despite the fact that both Stacey and the artist showing invited me there in the first place.

And here I was, thinking I had juice. I guess my rugged good looks can only carry me so far.

He rambles on, muttering about how I “came for him and should just admit it” and that I’m there “to start trouble“, an assertion that I found laughable, considering that in the 20+ years that I’ve been working as an artist in Phoenix, I’ve never thrown a scene at a show, nor have I ever been thrown out of one, either. As the old saying goes, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.

Now, most people would have turned and punched him in the face for breathing down their neck, but I’m not most people, and to be honest- I was more curious as to whether he was going to give me a shoulder rub or dry-hump my leg, given his proximity. Ignoring him, I continue talking to my friend and his female companion as Joey continues to grumble passive-aggressive nothings in my ear.

As I introduce myself to her, atypically using only my first name rather than my full name, Joey cuts across my outstretched hand stating: “He normally goes by Wayne Michael Reich” and while she seems a little freaked out by his aggressiveness, all I could think was how successful my viral marketing actually was.

You know you’ve done good when your detractors do the name-dropping for you. At last having my fill, I turn to my friend and say that I’d like to stay longer, but Joey was chasing me out, to which he replies: “You know what? You and I have never had a picture together.” and throws his arm around me. Puzzled, as I have about half a dozen pictures of us together, it takes me a full minute to realize what was really going on.

Smiling widely, I respond by saying that he was right- we never had taken a picture together, and that we needed to rectify that unfortunate happenstance now by finding someone to take it for us. As we walk away from Joey, he grouses that I always say I’m nice in person, but that he doesn’t see it. Retorting over my shoulder, I respond by saying that it depends on both the context and the person I’m dealing with. Ducking into a back room, my friend’s companion and I have a brief discussion as to why Joey has such an axe to grind with me, much to my delight.

Finally taking the obligatory pic with my artist buddy, I decide that it’s time to take the 12:15 out of Yuma. As I walk out, Joey bird-dogs me every step of the way, obviously concerned that I may trip and fall. I pause briefly at the door to tell Stacey that the space is lovely, and the moment is marred only by Joey’s sputtering out yet another veiled utterance. Walking through the small courtyard as I make a beeline to Mon Orchid, the phrase “what a jackass” may have escaped my lips more than once, but overall, I found the whole thing to be humorously pathetic.

In my humble opinion, what I witnessed was a supreme embarrassment- not only to the business itself, but the artist showing there, and in the end, Joey’s business partners as well. Not too surprisingly, some didn’t see it that way. That’s one of the many quirks in regards to the PAS- you can always find a rationalization to justify behavior that would be considered highly unprofessional anywhere else. In this case, the very next day someone close to Treeo’s operating structure cynically implied online that I had in fact, engineered the whole situation with Joey as to cause a deliberate scene, so that I would have something and I quote,:

“To write about”.

Let that sink in for a moment. After five years, over 210,000.00 words, fifty stand-alone pieces of writing, and establishing myself as the PAS’s go-to snark, I all of a sudden, out of the blue, have run out of things to talk about in regards to artists, ego, business, and the ongoing struggle for Phoenix to be taken seriously as an art destination, not a pit stop on the way to a better and brighter one. If I had the opportunity to talk to this narcissist, I’d have to ask the question that I’m sure regular readers are also thinking of, and that is this: how high were you when you posted that?

Seriously. Break out and pass around whatever you’ve been taking, cause that stuff makes cocaine look like a cheese danish. At the time of this screed, I have an idea list as long as my arm that I’m currently staring at, and to be fair, not all of them will make the cut. Some fail because there’s not enough gas in the tank to carry them over the line, others because they’re too specific to be truly interesting to a wider audience.

But all of them typically will have a nugget or two I can glean for other stories. That’s the beauty of the PAS, it’s pretty much a self-sustaining entity. And if I were to engage on a more personal note with this obviously confused individual, I’d point out that if I were to make a scene, something that I’ve never done publicly* in the 20+ years I’ve been involved with the PAS, that people would have heard me in Jakarta, since I ain’t exactly the silent type.*[Go ahead. Check. I double dog-dare ya.]

I often get accused of yelling when I’m whispering, so it’s a pretty safe bet that if I were pitching a fit, there’d be a lot more witnesses than the one guy who’s got a mad-on for me. In fact, I did tell my cynical critic to ask my artsy buddy (who has no dog in this fight) what happened, which is not something I would have done had I been in the wrong, but as far as I can tell, that suggestion was ignored in favor of their   pre-formed and erroneous opinion.

In all fairness, it’s his business (partially) and he can do what he wants in relation to how he handles interlopers he has issues with, but there’s a mature way to deal with it, and then there’s Joey’s way, which apparently involves tactics that I personally left behind when I graduated kindergarten. As one of my fellow artists [and one of Joey’s friends to boot] said to me as I made my artistic rounds later that night: “He’s mad at you? For something you just did, or for something you did ten years ago?” which to be quite frank, strikes me as both hilarious and sad all at the same time. I’ve been known to hold a grudge or two, but at least I don’t store them like Box from Logan’s Run*.*[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiyPqbyHXIg]

Whenever I can make a reference to a dystopian 70’s sci-fi movie filmed almost completely inside a shopping mall, you just know it’s been a good day. That said, Treeo’s potential success will depend on both the economy and the cooperation of it’s partners, and that’s where I see a possible issue. Given Joey’s general hot-headness, the question arises: keeping in mind that he’s pissed at me for what amounts to a minor literary trifle, what would happen if a client Joey doesn’t really like walks through the doors?

Feud for thought, as it were. Personally, I hope that Treeo has a long and prosperous future, and I say this with all due sincerity. Nothing would make me happier than seeing a white-collar business succeed where so many have failed. However, it just wouldn’t be true to form if I didn’t have at least one semi-related thing to kvetch about, and the topic that I’ve chosen to sink my admantium claws into this time is the idea of yet another “art-space” in the 602. For the record, I’m not singling out Treeo, but what the concept of an art space overall entails.

As an artist myself, I’ve benefited from several different versions of the art-space business model, so it’d be hypocritical (at best) to advocate that they have no merit whatsoever. But even so, I’ve never been entirely comfortable with them in general principle. At my core, I tend to be a capitalist. For me, once the art’s been made, it’s all about selling it.

But how does one do that in a town where the running joke is that yogurt has more culture than this city?

Simple answer: alternative art-spaces, which can be found everywhere: bars, cafes, book stores, hair salons, retail shops, restaurants and the like- the list is virtually endless. If it’s an established business, odds are good that art can be shown there. Granted, not every business is suited for the display of artistic works- Circle K’s for instance, would be a terrible location for high-end paintings, but if your niche was custom-decorated coffee cups, you may just have found a new home base.

Typically, first exposure for an up and coming artist is usually to be found in places like these, but many established artists use them too, especially in a city like Phoenix, where professional galleries are not exactly commonplace. While the diversity of such places adds to the opportunities of artists, it can also hurt those chances sometimes too. What a lot of struggling artists tend to forget is this: the majority of art-spaces do not exist to sell the art they display. Whatever type of business they specialize in is where their priorities are placed, as it should be.

Personally, I’ve always looked upon the concept of hanging art in one of these spaces as providing interior decorating services for free, but that’s just my cynicism talking. What really counts is what caste their clients fall into- are they serious art buyers with a budget, or scenesters who think it’s perfectly okay to snap a shot of your work with their I-phone and use it as their screensaver? In my experience, it’s usually the latter, more often than not.

It doesn’t matter how many people see your work if they don’t buy it, and as a rule, someone popping in and grabbing a latte to go isn’t generally focused on adding to their personal art collection. There are exceptions to this of course, but in order to move your art in such a venue, you need to hit the nail on the head in two places: impact and price. I’ll explain. Impact means that your work has to grab a hold of your potential buyer almost immediately, and make them want to take said work home, no matter how awkward or inconvenient it might be to do so. Price is pretty much self-explanatory, but I’ll clarify my point nonetheless.

In order to coax anyone into opening their wallet or purse, you need to make sure that just like your work, your asking price for it is just as attractive. Knowing what to charge is a skill refined over time, but it is crucial- too low, and you hurt yourself, too high, and you discourage sales. But here’s the rub- most buyers of art like to have a personal connection with the artist, something that most art-spaces cannot provide on the spot. Unlike galleries, art-spaces are open all times of the day or night, so your odds of being there to encourage sales and make introductions is dim at best. You’ll literally have to hope that your work speaks for itself.

And speaking of your work, what will it turn out to be in the end? Will it be a true statement of artistic expression, or will you have truncated it to fit the policies of whatever retail vanity gallery you’ve decided to hang in? The freedom that one typically finds in a gallery setting does not as a rule, carry over into most art-spaces. If your work is fairly benign, then freedom of expression won’t be an issue, but what if it isn’t?

Easy. You’re screwed. There’s nothing worse than self-censoring, but if you expect to show in most art-spaces, you’d better get used to it. The majority of patrons who frequent these places prefer art that isn’t threatening, so if your work has a dark edge, anticipate having to lighten it up a little. And like most things that you do frequently, eventually it becomes a habit. I can’t think of a better kiss of Death to an artist’s vision than having to tailor it to popular taste.

Think about being Thomas Kinkade for a moment, and you’ll understand where I’m going with this.

Like it or not, in order for the PAS to succeed, it’s going to need a much more professional face, and that’s where the real art galleries come in. If we want to be taken seriously, then we need to be just as equally serious about how we present our talent. Picasso, by way of example, was not discovered in a coffeehouse.

If I were to use yet another of my famous analogies, I’d liken the difference between art galleries and art-spaces to chocolate milk and my other serious addiction, Yoo-Hoo. Both are yummy. Both have essential vitamins. Both come in easy to pour packaging. Both taste like chocolate. Sort of.

But only one has to be labeled as a “drink” by law, and it isn’t the one that’s from a cow.

While the need for art spaces in Phoenix is great, I would also argue that the need for professionally managed art galleries is even greater. For every Pela Contemporary we have, there’s six amateurs groping blindly in the metaphorical dark. Let me be clear, there’s nothing wrong with being truly passionate about running a gallery, but if you don’t have a cohesive and practical business plan, you’re going to find yourself coming up short in the end.

So, what’s the solution? Given the nature of the problem, the answer is going to require a multi-level approach. Other than the economy approving, I would opine that what’s needed is more promotion of the art events downtown, and maybe even some city funding as it relates to economic development- I’m thinking of possible and expansive subsidies that could kick-start a new wave of artistic re-growth in the arts community. Roosevelt Row was recently named as one of the top ten art districts in the United States, it’s about time the rest of the arts district looked like it.

So with that, I think it’s time for a break. In future blogs I’m going to attempt to address these issues a little more in depth, and hopefully offer some viable solutions. And if that fails, I can always fall back on the snark.And as for my good buddy Joey Consonants?

He’s cordially invited to go fenestrate himself.

“If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him.”- John F. Kennedy