Another Shot

Title: My Muse © bd.07

No Title

Trying Something New

So I have decided to try something new. I am going to post some of my images here as individual posts.
I then encourage and challenge you to create your own art based on the inspiration of my art.. but this can go both ways. Send me a piece of your art and I will create an original piece inspired by you. Then I will post both pieces here together with full credit to you for your piece and links to your site or blog.

What Say You?

Well it has been a really long time since I last posted something here.
but you know sometimes it's ... Feast or Famine.

180 Degrees of No-where to Go…aug.02

It was a cool crisp morning in early April, an absolutely beautiful day to assassinate a target dummy. I had been in the Marine Corps for 14 months now and this was the final qualification of my military career path. It was called “Evade and Capture.” My assignment was to shoot 5 targets, in 5 days, in 500 square miles of terrain, with 5 bullets. To make things interesting the enemy would know I was there and they were searching for me. So far, I had taken out four of the five dummies’; the last would be an easy 800-meter shot from the saddle of a small rise. I had graduated number one in camouflage school. I knew the enemy would have to trip over me to find me. I could hide better than a tick on a long-hair’d dog. I was set in complete cover with 15 minutes to go before the target would appear for 6 seconds, my only window of opportunity.
That’s when I felt it, the unmistakable tap of a rifle barrel on the back of my head.
Tap……………. I pretended to be a rock.
TAP……. TAP……………… A little more insistent. I stayed motionless.
Whack!!…….. And then he said the dreaded words, “I will shoot you!”
Now rubber bullets would not break my skin, but a shot from with in 10 feet would hurt 20 time worse than smashing your thumb with a hammer. I was caught. I do not know how they found me. But I had no where to go. I rolled over 180 degrees just in time to catch the butt end of the riffle in my face that knocked my ass out. I woke later, stripped, bound, and gagged in an interrogation room. I knew this was going to be the fun part. NOT! The interrogation is the final test of your mettle or will, to put it another way. If you can handle Uncle Sam’s interrogation, you can handle anybody’s.
After the ordeal I found out I was unconscience for 18 hours and held out for 36. That was of course after being awake for 96 hours in the bush. Nevertheless, in the end, I cracked. And that is just not good enough for Uncle Sam. I would never be considered for sniper/scout specialist. My chosen career path in the military was over. But a deeper understanding in myself grew. My destiny lied along another path, and thanks to Ronald Reagan’s military cut backs, I was released from duty 4 months later to explore the other fork in the road. The lighter side if you will.
Now 15 years later I look back at the man I was and was about to become. I think how could that have been me, and yet at the same time, I find comfort in my duality. The harmony of the balance of light and dark, of force and resistance, and the place I exist in, because of those dualities. I am a man who has the capacity of evil destructive deeds, but I am also capable of creation and inspiration. And with both I get to revel here in my place on earth with my 180 degrees of sun or moon.

The beginning. uglypoetry 12-03

When one looks back on his life, where should he start? Birth? Five years, fifteen years old? For me, I think I need to look at 7th grade. Because before that I really don’t have any real semblance of my life. Sure I knew I was alive, but who the hell was I, and what the hell was I? I didn’t have a clue. The movie fight club says it best, “how can you know who you are if you have never been in a fight?” for me the first fight I got into was in 5th grade. Actually it was more of a beating.

I had a paper route around my neighborhood. And it seemed reasonable to me that if you didn’t pay for the paper I was not about to deliver it to you. The Cavanaugh family didn’t pay but their kid Eddie still wanted the paper. I don’t think he could read. But I know he liked the power he had over me. Bigger, stronger, scarier. If I skipped their house he would chase me. If he caught me, he would beat me. Believe me I was one fast mother fucker. He only caught me once. That was enough and word got around I was an easy mark. I would get my ass whipped if I didn’t run away. But there comes a point in everyone’s life when running just is not an option.

For me it was the middle of January, the dead cold of a Chicago winter. I was walking to school late after a doctor’s apt. or something. I was cutting across the ridge of a snow bank between two opposing factions of bullies. The 5th vs. 6th graders for king of the hill. I can’t even remember the kid’s name. But I do remember the sudden impact as he tackled me from behind sending us both tumbling down the hill to the feet of the 6th grader camp. When we stopped he took a big handful of snow and smothered my face in a white out. Somewhere in that cold darkness I could picture his broad grin of the laugh that echoed around, as he figured he took down the patsy.

He never saw the right coming. I never saw the contact, except in my minds eye. As we changed position and I got on top and unleashed the furry of hell freezing over on his nose. I have no idea how many times I hit his face before Eddie Cavanaugh picked me up off him yelling, “you won! You won! You won man! You can stop hitting him now!”

What was this bullshit? Eddie the voice of reason. After all the beatings… all right the beating and all the narrow escapes. Who appointed him ref.? So I broke free turned and caught him with a left to the jaw, knocking him to his ass. He just laughed. Lied there in the snow laughing like it was some kind of April fools joke. He got up rubbed his jaw smiled a bloody grin and said,” You’re all right kal-kan.” And walked away. I never had another run in with Eddie or any 6th grader for that matter. Some time later when I was in high school I heard Eddie got shot dead while trying to rob a liquor store.

The Unmentionable Household Tool... ugly poetry 12-03
I am sitting here thinking of all that technology has brought to our benefit. Amazing things, useful things, stuff like cars, computers, the light bulb, it is mind boggling to think how we survived so long with out these creature comforts and then it hits me, the one item that is rarely ever spoken of, the unsung hero of modern times, the vibrator.
Did you know the vibrator was originally designed to do the nasty little thought running through your head? Yep, back in 1880 by a British physician. It was invented as a treatment to a common affliction in women called Praefocatio Matricis (literally: womb disease) or Hysteria for short. This affliction was considered common and chronic in women as far back as antiquity. It was the most diagnosed disease in history until the American Psychiatric Association removed it from its cannon of disorders in 1952. In a medical journal from the 1600’s, the most widely accepted treatment for hysteria was genital massage to orgasm by a doctor or midwife. Thus, the vibrator was born to provide therapeutic massage that neither fatigued the therapist nor demanded skills that were difficult to acquire. By 1900, the vibrator was battery powered, and was being marketed as a home appliance in periodicals like Woman’s Home Companion or Needlecraft. Then in the 1920’s a cultural backlash sent the vibrator into obscurity for reasons of decency. It was not until the 1960’s and 70’s that it reemerged only this time blatantly as a sexual aid.
Now it acures to me that this particular instrument was created, so the doctors would no longer have to do this treatment manually. As opposed to the original notion that it provided the cure to hysteria, well at least until the next treatment was needed. So, it goes to wonder has most of our advancement come from the desire not to have to do something.
The idea and creation for indoor plumbing circumvented the need for pulling buckets of water up from the well and the use of an outhouse. People domesticated horses and later created the bicycle and car, so they would not have to walk everywhere. Every useful instrument I can think of was created so we could be lazier. The dishwasher, the vacuum, and yes even the vibrator was designed with laziness in mind. Sure we can argue to call it progress and ingenuity, but the fact remains we create things, to do jobs, so we can be off doing something else. And it’s not just an American way, it is the human way. Every civilization throughout history has done this same thing. Think about whalers, eight men would climb into a dingy and row after a whale to harpoon it, until one day some guy thought it might be a good idea to get a bigger boat.
It is amazing that we have progressed as far as we have through avoidance, rather than love. That should have been the reason to create the vibrator. But I suppose that’s the reality for men, we can create many amazing things, strange things, useful things, anything mechanical that can do the job better than we can. Because the fact remains that, a vibrator produces orgasm in 90% of the women who use it. A man, barely half that.

Historical information provided by
Maines, Rachel P. “The Technology of Orgasm”, 1998 John Hopkins University Press

The stillness of traveling 90 mph... ugly poetry 12-03
The bar was smoky, the kind of smoky that burns your eyes and throat, but not thick enough to cut with a knife. The atmosphere was adding to the drug induced delirium. Our hearts pounded at bass drum levels. I looked down at my hands and thought I saw a slight tremble, as the confusion seemed to run through my body causing simple tasks, like breathing, to be practically impossible. Driving was definitely out of the question, and this smoky bar was the first thing I could find off I-94 out of Wisconsin.
The announcement had come over the radio like a bullet from a gun.
“The helicopter Stevie Ray Vaughn and the like were riding developed rotor problems and crashed 2 minutes after take off, killing everyone aboard.”
I remember the hush, the stillness of traveling 90 mph in my ’62 Chevy pick-up. The lights of the freeway held a hypnotic yellow that added to the somber announcement. Dismay, disbelief, was it really true or a very cruel April fools joke pulled eight months early? It was late August the Indian summer was just taking shape to unfold into one of the spectacular October color changes of fall. This was not the time for the blues to be blue. Then it came again, Stevie was dead. Suddenly the hush, the stillness, the somber lighting was completely obscured and overcome by noise, the noise of car horns morning a fallen angel, a lost hero, the greatest magician of the slide guitar. The radio was silent. The music stopped. The horns over powering. Then the radio chirped, and “Life by the Drop” faded up. Brake lights started lighting up as car after car pulled off the road to pay homage and cry. I looked to my friend who looked as pale yellow as the streetlights. I pulled off at the next exit and headed for the only lights I could see.
The neon sign read “Old Style on Tap” and upon entering the smoke engulfed every hard line and edge, softening the crowd of regulars, from mean ol' bikers to leather clad teddy bears.
The bartender asked “What does the likes of you want here?”
To which my friend responded by lying his head in his arms on the bar and starting to weep. The bartender’s mouth dropped open not sure what to do. I said “How about a couple of beers, and a couple of shots of Cuervo. To help kill the pain of a fallen friend who will not be with us any more.” The door opened behind us as five more concert-goers entered and headed for the stools next to us. With half his bar suddenly full of remorseful patrons, the bartender asked, “What the hell is going on?” The young woman at the end of the bar spoke up and said, “Stevie Ray Vaughn was killed a little while ago when his helicopter crashed into a hill outside of Alpine Valley.” A look of disbelief crossed the bartender’s face. The loud miss cue of a pool stick echoed across the room followed by someone screaming “What the fuck did you say?” The young woman simply said, “Turn on the radio.” The bartender walked out from behind the bar and over to a jukebox and unplugged it. Then walked into an office obscured by the smoke and the pool table. The radio came alive over the sound system Ozy Ozborne screaming some unrecognizable song about trains. “WXRT 93.1 fm” a voice chimed in, static, and then “A long way from home” off some live performance tape. As the song ended Marty Lenertz again sounded the grave news and continued to play a small tribute to the guitarist. The bartender slowly emerged from the office and came back to the bar; poured us some beer and a huge line of Cuervo, maybe fifteen or twenty shots. The bikers playing pool stopped and seated themselves at the bar. When everyone had a shot in front of them the bartender removed the pour spout, raised the bottle, nodding at every one, we all followed suit.
He said, “ To Stevie. And life by the drop.”
Silence.
Then he took a swallow, and we followed, the bite of tequila burning my mouth and throat as it passed on its way to my stomach. Several more shots followed as more stragglers off the highway entered. The music was somber and uplifting at the same time. My drunken haze was only equaled by the smoke of the room. We took turns telling stories of past experiences with Stevie, the small shows at the Cabaret Metro, dancing afterward in the Smart Bar, just because you didn’t want to go home yet. His incredible appearances at the summer blues festival, the suprise appearances he made at Buddy Guy’s or Rosa’s. Chicago was like a second home for this Texas boy. Chicago loved the blues, and Stevie’s way of playing it, was magical. He would be greatly missed but he would not be forgotten.
Around five in the morning, the dew and morning mist were the only other things up, besides the bartender, the young woman, and myself. We slowly moved around the bar picking up empty bottles and glasses for the trash or dishwasher. Then we picked up our friends and poured them into the right vehicles to mosie on back to reality, school, work, and home, whatever called us back to where we belong. For Henry the bartender, a wife and child. For Jennifer the young woman, Office Mart and her cash register. For myself, the cornfields of central Illinois and another school year.

Jesus is not dead… he is the owner of Studio 54.
What a novel concept the man who can turn water into wine. Turned an empty room into heaven on earth. See the interviews with the people who lived the experience.

“Yea, I remember Jesus he and the apostles were the biggest partiers around.
That water to wine thing was the gimmick. He got all the babes. Roman orgies were nothing when Jesus came around. “ Mary Magdelain

“Jesus… Jesus… Jesus! Enough already with this fucking… Jesus. His gimmick put me out of business.” Lucifer