You Only Live Twice. PT. 1 (Death becomes you.)

There’s murals popping up unchecked all over town, new restaurants, cafes and art-spaces opening on what seems an almost hourly basis, and heck, even my ol’ buddy the PHX New Times has had at least three articles this year that were actually well-written, and more importantly- worth reading.

(I know. I honestly didn’t see that coming either.)

It’s all highly unsettling.

Factor in that my normally solid river of hate mail has actually slowed to an almost tranquil trickle, and you can understand why I feel all shades of off-balance these days. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe that people are starting to respect my point of view, and that feels just downright wrong somehow.

I’m actually worried that I might lose my amateur Snark status and be forced to turn pro- in which case, I’m grabbing all the personal endorsements I can before my 15 minutes are up. If Bob Dylan can hawk Victoria’s Secret, then I’m pretty sure that my choosing to pimp Midol wouldn’t seem all that strange in the long run, now would it?

I can totally see the billboards, if not the magazine ads: “Artbitch here to tell you about personal relief in a tiny little pill…” and if I could somehow score myself even a small chunk of that John Stamos Greek Yogurt marketing action, I’d be set for life.

When the three works I created in 2008 for the City of Phoenix Beautification Program got stolen last year, I was mad, but at least I knew somebody was taking care of it, at worst. Besides… it is kind of an ego stroke to discover your stuff is good enough to steal. I may not have my paintings, but I do apparently have street cred, and that’s almost sufficient enough to soothe my aggravation at not knowing where my work is or who has it.

So, feeling rather irked by the news that yet again, we seemingly can’t have anything nice, I posted on a FaceBook thread the opinion that perhaps a swift kick in the ass and some outdoor community service in July might make said perpetrators think twice about doing that in the future- yes, yes… meting out consequences for bad public behavior is so 1950’s, but what can I say?

“Uniquesparrow” was having none of that, and she immediately posted that “violence” was not the answer, and implied that all these punk kids needed was [I kid you not] some art classes and human understanding, something that I actually do agree with up to a point, but in my opinion- only after their requisite punishment has been dealt out.

But apparently “Uniquesparrow” thought my take was just too harsh, too medieval, too inhuman, so she threw out the comparison that I was just like Sheriff Joe- you know… our puzzlingly re-elected scumbag who profiles and terrorizes Latinos, allows their children to be sexually assaulted without consequence, abuses the power of his office to settle personal scores, and has cost the taxpayers of Arizona over 40 million dollars in both overruns and lawsuit settlements?

I, on the other hand, am of the outlook that if you destroy community-based art, you should be held accountable for your actions, financially, judicially, and most importantly- publicly.

When you look at us side by side, it’s almost like we’re twins, isn’t it? (Rolls eyes.)

She further went on to rant on her FB page that I was a “bully”, a “joke of an artist” and that I was personally “what was wrong” with the PAS- an observation I immediately burst into laughter over, since just a few weeks ago she was interested in soliciting my services as an art framer. I guess when it comes to framing her “art” economically I’m cool, but somehow having a contrary opinion makes me the worst thing to happen to PHX since they built Cityscape*.

[*See: “Ugly Box”, “Drunk Architect?”, “Thinking Inside the Grey Ugly Box”, “Vacant Lot Preferred”]

Two things that you need to realize, Captain Slack Sparrow- first, I’ve been in the PAS trenches since 1991, so have a care with my name. I helped lay some of those floor bricks that your self-righteous arrogance floats above, so I will be damned if I let you or anyone attempt to screw with the art temple so many others and I helped construct.

My gut tells me I won’t be doing any framing for her, but that’s okay by me, as I’m really not into showcasing derivative and uninteresting work to begin with. In the name of honesty, I was the one who launched the first FB message in regards to her lumping me in with our corrupt Sheriff, and frankly- I don’t regret it, as she needed the trip to the woodshed.

If you’re going to quarrel with me, come armed with an actual point of view, not generalized hysterics. Granted, the most amusing part of all of this was her threat that she would send her “lawyer” after me due to my asking her to stop sending me FB messages that were equal parts whiny and chiding.

That’s right kids… asking someone to stop contacting you [after they’ve publicly slandered your character and work] is apparently now considered “harassment”. Here’s a thought to ponder, my dim-witted sparrow- perhaps I should return the favor and sue you for libel, because unlike yours, my lawyer happens to actually exist on this planet.

The smart and mature thing to do here would be to just take her trifling insults on the chin, secure in the knowledge that when it gets right down to it, she’s just another rudderless dinghy floating adrift on an ocean of fools.

However… there is one small, teeny, tiny, minute, diminutive, almost petite issue I have with the situation overall, and it is this: despite my lack of warm fuzziness, it’s also a well-established fact that I’m rarely wrong when I choose to call it as I see it.

I’m no Eric Cox by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m goddamn good at my gig, and have been consistently so for two decades. I may not make socially relevant or groundbreaking art, but I’m not a hack either. I take my career seriously, which is one just one of many reasons why I’m still around and relevant in possibly one of the worst art markets in the United States.

I can sculpt, silkscreen, write, photograph and last but not least, paint. And when it comes to my proficiency in regards to all five of these skill-sets, let me just say this: at my worst, I’m highly competent, and when I’m truly at my best*, firing on all cylinders, I will take your head clean off.

[ *I also rock pretty hard at the craft of Pysanky- Google it.]

So as to be expected, I took her insults quite personally, more so than normal. Nevertheless, as I stated earlier, the smart and mature thing to do here would be to just take her trifling insults on the chin, like an adult should. So despite my natural tendencies, I will take the high road for once.

Not gonna take the bait as it were. I’ve got better things to do, after all- like organize my collection of My Pretty Ponies, for instance. Come to think of it, I could use this time to read a good book, maybe something by Neil Gaiman- he does write wonderful stories, and focused reading I’ve been told, is an excellent way towards helping lower your blood pressure.

What’s this world coming to when you can’t even rely on Richard Bledsoe’s craptastic Remodernist group to tick you off? I swear to God, it’s like everybody got together and decided all of a sudden that making me happy needed to be a community project.

There’s an old saying that goes: “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade”, but in this case, I’d rather find Life, shove those lemons down it’s throat, all the while demanding to know what the hell it’s done with my sour apples and asking for it’s boss. If this feeling of goodwill and brotherhood continues, it’s a pretty sure bet this blog will eventually turn into an ABBA discussion forum.

However… there is a lot to be said for discussing the pros and cons in regards to the band’s use of rather flamboyant Japanese-themed jumpsuits during their 1974 World Tour, but we can always come back to that later.

See? The madness is already starting, and we haven’t even begun the long overdue debate on who the sexiest member is- my money will always be on Frida over Agnetha, but let’s be honest: Benny looks like he would cuddle and then make you a really hearty breakfast. And since he’s Swedish, you just know it’s gonna be all shades of berry-flavored pancake yumminess when you wake up.

Perhaps I could write about co-starring in a documentary in 2008, while simultaneously noting that six years later I still don’t have my promised copy of the damn film due to a music licensing issue which when viewed from the outside, looks like it should be an easy fix. Seriously- if George Lucas can add a few extra Ewoks in “Empire”, how hard could it really be to swap one or two tracks of music with suitable replacements?

But even given the aggravation in dealing with that minor annoyance, the best I’d be able to muster  would be a few sulky paragraphs at best, and let’s face it- brevity really isn’t my style, now is it?

What would make my loyal readers and to a lesser extent, my loyal detractors, want to sit down with a club sandwich and a cold beer and peruse my latest magnum opus? I honestly have no idea, and seriously- what could possibly make both groups happy?

Got it! A light hearted take on my almost dying of diabetic kedoacidosis back in July 0f 2009!

So, today’s little screed will be all about the subject of mortality, or to be more accurate, it’s all about being near Death. For the sake of clarity, I’m not suggesting hanging out with Death or having Death as a neighbor, I’m talking about going through the experience of almost dying and it’s aftereffect.

When it comes to the subject of mortality, most people do their best to avoid thinking or talking about their inevitable end, which is highly understandable, as giving credence to the mere thought of one’s personal non-existence can be a somewhat terrifying prospect.

As Woody Allen once said: “I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

My game plan is to live long enough to be a burden to others- that’s the goal. But whether I live to be 105 or more realistically, 65- which is the average life-span for persons afflicted with Diabetes, I still don’t want to die- who knows, maybe they’ll find a way to keep my singular consciousness alive [Google “Brain in Jar”] via the Matrix or possibly even the Quickening.

Either/or. One can always hope.

I do that now, and I’m not even 46 yet. Think about it- if listening to your 90 year old Grandfather tell the tale yet again of “The Great Spaghetti Incident of 05” is a real chore, imagine 400+ years of similar caliber yarns ad nausea.

So go grab a snack, get in your comfy jammies, situate your self in your favorite interweb surf spot, and when we come back…

June, 2009. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, and I’m afflicted with a tooth that’s gone bad.
Wrong side of the oral tracks kind of bad.

Plus, I tell of my journey through an Apocalyptic wasteland, wrestle nurses, discern that “catheter” is never a happy word, learn more about Alphonse Capone than I ever wanted to know, surmise that my doctor might just be a refugee from the Land of the Oompa Loompas, have my hopes for a “Charlie’s Angels” reunion movie crushed, and discover the exact moment when I realize I never ever ever want to hear Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” song again.