Yayoi Kusama – The Queen Of Dots

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The artist Yayoi Kusama was born in 1929. Her hometown was Kyoto. Her family made money from selling seeds. At the age of 19 she studied the formal Meiji painting style. Nihonga was not for her and she said years later, "When I think of my life in Kyoto, I feel like vomiting."

After the War she became obsessed with polka dots which she called infinity nets.

"A polka-dot has the form of the sun, which is a symbol of the energy of the whole world and our living life, and also the form of the moon, which is calm. Round, soft, colorful, senseless and unknowing. Polka-dots become movement ... Polka dots are a way to infinity."

She sometimes painted nude.

She was against the Vietnam War and offered to fuck President Nixon, if he called a truce in South East Asia. He never responded to the offer.

She has spent many years living in a mental asylum.

Plagued by hallucinations.

Wikipedia printed this quote.

"and when I looked up I saw the same pattern covering the ceiling, the windows and the walls, and finally all over the room, my body and the universe. I felt as if I had begun to self-obliterate, to revolve in the infinity of endless time and the absoluteness of space, and be reduced to nothingness. As I realized it was actually happening and not just in my imagination, I was frightened. I knew I had to run away lest I should be deprived of my life by the spell of the red flowers. I ran desperately up the stairs. The steps below me began to fall apart and I fell down the stairs straining my ankle.

She is a true artist.

I Am A Redhead Too - Yayoi Kusama

Yayoi Kusama has been one of the greatest conceptual artist of the modern era. Her works revealed a clear visual regard for feminism, minimalism, surrealism, Art Brut, pop art, and abstract expressionism, while exploring the sensuality of her life.

She ruled the cool 60s.

Sadly the artist suffered a breakdown in 1977 and committed herself to the Seiwa Hospital for the Mentally Ill, which became her primary home. Accordiing to Wikipedia Kusama has often said, "If it were not for art, I would have killed myself a long time ago."

While I have never achieved success, I know what Kusama is feeling."

Life gets the better of us.

Ending it seems like a solution.

"There is no now in yesterday.

Especially for redheads.

Trapped Like Rats

The Lower 48 States of the USA share land borders with two countries.

Neither Canada nor Mexico will allow Americans to cross their frontiers.

I am stuck in the USA.

My families are in Thailand.

My son Fenway, grandson Phot, and daughter Pam.

And I have more.

My daughter Angie.

My grandson Sunsun.

I have a big clan.

Two loving wives.

Well, they love me most of the time and the two would love me to be in Thailand, but as I stated, "I'm trapped like a rat."

In a country without freedom

With a fascist madman as leader.

And millions of right-wing racist supporters, although the FBI count only those registered to the cause.

We can not leave this country.

Same as the Jews in Nazi Germany.

Never again.

One day we will be free, but only if we fight for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

John Lewis Hero RIP

I believe race is too heavy a burden to carry into the 21st century. It's time to lay it down. We all came here in different ships, but now we're all in the same boat. - John Lewis

And Now A Heat Wave

The sun rose today and burned off the morning overcast. The temperature swiftly climbed from 80 F to 93 F by midday. I thought about traveling to Rockaway Beach, but I'm still nursing the aches and pains from of a bicycle crash. Tomorrow I need to go to the Diamond District and the weather services are warning that the mercury with a thermometer will hit 98 by the afternoon.

2020 has been tough on the world.

The Covid Virus spread across the world.

The police have killed numerous innocent African Americans without any justice for the victims.

Donald Trump has instigated a race war to bolster his KKK/Nazi/Christian support and threatened to ignore his losing the November presidential election.

Thankfully the AC is defending this tenement from the sweltering heat and I am drinking a glass of ice-chilled Peach Wine.

I thought it was Rose wine.

Opps.

On a scale from 0-10 this tragedy is a .585 and if I'm lucky, then that's as bad as it will get today.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow is a story yet to be lived as are the final six hours of today.

Sun set.

Sun rise.

No One Knows Tomorrow

Last night I went to bed and hopefully sleep and dreams, however my stomach rebelled against two day-old cod and the 4th floor toilet bowl was my best friend until dawn. I thought about having a bagel for breakfast, but retched on the kitchen floor. Not much, but enough to check my appetite for a doughty circle. I returned to bed and groaned like a plague victim in the throes of cocaine withdrawal.

I never saw this coming.

All day I have struggled with a painting job.

My body craved the mattress and a sheet over my head blocking out the sun.

No one called on the phone other than people wanting something done for nothing, because no one pays the poor on time.

No one in my position can count on certainty.

Not in these Covid times.

At least I don't hear the ambulances rushing to the Brooklyn hospitals with the sick and dying. Now sirens of the NYPD scrap the silence as they seek to protect the rich and their kneeling spot at the trough of public welfare.

Yesterday I was at OCCUPY CITY HALL.

Once there were hundreds.

Now there are scores.

I know a few.

Lou Little Care.

'They' are angry about injustice.

'They' have a three year-old warrant for smoking weed in New Jersey.

The Land of No.

I warned her against getting arrested by the NYPD.

"They will ship you to Jersey and then we will have a hard time getting you out of county jail."

"Jersey sucks," Lou admitted without reserve.

None of us are free.

Not yet.

We are prisoners of Now.

None of us know anything about today. Even someone as sick as me will surrender our hopes for the future, because no one knows tomorrow, because tomorrow always exists on the other side of today.

Miss You Long Time - Michael Charles Smith

In the summer of 1995 my baby brother succumbed to the ravages of AIDS. I miss him every day along with the rest of my friends and family who died from that killer. I will remember them forever.

My brother's name was Michael Charles Smith.

He's the smaller blonde boy in the photo.

And still always the youngest.

Zombie Strippers / Kelly's Heroes Drive-In Double Bill

My parents exposed their children to the magic of cinema at the Cornish Drive-In in Maine. The screen faced the pine forest and the owner's house served as the concession stand. The grandmother sold salted popcorn and bottles of ice-cold Coke from the porch and her son worked the projector housed in an old chicken coop. My brother, two sisters, and I worn pajamas. None of us could stay awake past the first several minutes of the second more adult feature, although I fought off sleep to see all of Billy Wilder's THE APARTMENT. I fell in love with Shirley Maclaine that night and years later would lose my heart to a hillbilly actress from West Virginia who was her twin.

After moving to Boston my Irish grandmother would take my brother and me into the city. A visit to St. Anthony's Shrine. A hot dog at WT Grant's Department Store. The third act was a movie show at the Orpheum. She took us to see THUNDER ROAD. It featured Robert Mitchum as a hot rod bootlegger. My mother would not have approved of Nana's choice, but she had brewed 'whiskey' during the Prohibition and more importantly thought Robert Mitchum was handsome.

As teenagers my brother and I ventured to the Mattapan Oriental. Catholic girls were our dates or we were their beaus for the afternoon matinee. I made out with a girl called Jo. Her hair was stiff with a spray of lacquer. In the dark she looked like Kim Novak. I have no idea what film was on the screen.

GONE WITH THE WIND with Janet Stetson.

THE HARDER THEY COME at an empty Orson Welles Cinema on a winter's day. APOCALYPSE NOW the first showing at the Ziegfield.

Epic movie outings spanning the globe for decades.

And now I never go to the movies.

I hate the cineplexes.

Partially because they feel so cheap.

Same as the movies.

I even avoided AVATAR on the big screen. My viewing was on my computer screen. I had to imagine the 3-D. It was easy on reefer. Last summer I drove past the old drive-in in Cornish. The parking area is overgrown by high grass. The screen has been ravaged by the Maine winters. I stood next to a vandalized audio pole. even with my eyes open I could see Jack Lemmon holding Shirley Maclaine.

I still love her and movies too.

They are the dreams we can dream ourselves.

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/2010/02/18/letters/letter-from-the-right-2-18.htm

Erotic Hot Dog Contest

Several years ago America lost the Little League World series to Taiwan, Japan, and the Dominican Republic. NBA All-Stars were second-rate in the World Championships, however the USA was shocked by Takeru Kobayashi beating scores of heavyweight Yanks at Coney Island’s fabled hot dog eating contest and the diminutive Asian clung to his title like Michael Jordan and the Bulls, culminating with his 2006 feat, 53 3/4 frankfurters in 12 minutes.

Thankfully an equally thin Joey Chestnut of San Jose, California regained the title with a record downing of 59 1/2 hot dogs and the world. This year the competition was open to all-comers and on the 4th of July I was sitting at Pattaya's Pigpen A Go-Go with Jamie Parker.

The New Yorker expat hadn't seen Ort in a long time and had gained back a little weight since his Ice episode with the lithe go-go dancer. Neither of us mentioned her name, but she was still on his mind, even when he said, “This morning on TV I saw that Jap hot dog eater win his another title at Nathan's. All these fat American contestants upchucked hot dogs, while the damned foreigner calmly sucked down weiners like he was from Dusseldorf. Even weird, his stomach showed no sign of expansion and the audience had no idea where they were going.”

“Very impressive.” I had watch the same TV show and attempted to imitate the Jap's style, only managing three in a minute. My stomach had yet to recover from the effort and I asked the bar owner, "Who here do you think would win?"

Jamie looked around the bar. His skinny farang clientele liked the fat dancers wobbling around the steel poles. I didn't understand the attraction.

"Ei-Yet." He pointed to the the ancient forty-kilo cashier. "I've seen her eat non-stop for hours."

"It's a Thai genetic trait. They eat as if there's not tomorrow." My wife was a very healthy eater. Mam could eat with the best of them.

More than me any day.

“Who in Pattaya wants to watch skinny farangs eat hot dogs?”

“Fat farangs looking for a free meal.”

Bars offering free food floated balloons and Pattaya's free food crowd were called balloon chasers.

“There’s enough of them here.”

"No, but there would be more if better you held an erotic hot dog eating contest including bar girls. Remember how Kenny at Living Dolls had the girls fellate banana.”

“And how they carved them into penises with their teeth.” The British manager had revitalized showtime on Walking Street with his gift for the perverse.

“Sheer artistry.” Jamie also had a fine aesthetic for the erotic arts. “But I’ve always thought nothing was sexier than a girl eating a hot dog at a baseball game. Struggling to keep the relish and mustard from falling down her chest.”

“You do?” My extensive research into porno websites had never turned up this fetish.

“A lot of men do, but don’t realize it.”

“Really? I thought they were more burger fans.” Girls don’t like sloppy.

“Doesn’t matter what they are. We can host a combined erotic hot dog eating contest with a hot dog championship. We could pack the bar with guys and also video the event for sale on the Internet.”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll hold it at 12 noon Eastern Standard Time for the stockbrokers getting ready for lunch. Once a week. Different girls and you can vote online.” Jamie was breathing fast. "We make tee-shirts of the winner and then hold contests between different bars. Then it's on to TV. I'll be the Chuck Barris of Hot Dog Eating contests."

Jamie weaved on his stool.

“Are you all right?”

"No."

I signaled Ei-Yet for a glass of water. The forty year-old ex-stripper and I went back years. We had both seen countless farangs keel over at bars. The water came in seconds and Jamie sucked it down

“Fine, I just got a glimpse of the future.” He envisioned the money rolling into his PayPal account.

“And?”

“Better I leave erotic hot dog eating in my head, because the idea would become ruined by commercialism. All dreams are.” He settled down and drank his beer. “Maybe next year the world will be ready for it.”

Jamie was right.

We will be waiting, because hot dogs are sexy.

With mustard.

"Never ketchup, for as my grandfather said, "Never trust a man who puts ketchup on his hot dog."

Trumpards Trust Pedophiles

It is impossible to speak reason with Trumpards.

They refuse to recognize the evil of the God-President.

He is not a traitor.

It is smarter than the rest of us.

Covids is a scam.

Black Lives Matter is an anarchist organization dedicated to destroying the centuries-old rule of the White Race over the World.

His penis isn't one-inch long.

He is not a pedophile.

He is a genius.

Trumpards pray for Trump in the same breath as the Nailed God.

"I can shot someone on 5th Avenue and get away with it," the Nailed God's cousin stated before his election.

Not if I'm around.

I'm 68, but I can run down that fat shit and kick his ass back to Trump Tower.

Fuck all Trumpards.

No Safe Place For The Rich

This past May 29 demonstrators surrounded the White House. The 12 or the police were overwhelmed by the protests and Donald Trump left the Oval Office for the subterranean presidential bunker.

Trump reported to the Media that the chicken-shit speed freak had descended to inspect the underground shelter for a tiny amount of time. Attorney General Barr contradicted his boss' narrative by saying that the Secret Service advised the POTUS to seek safety on the bowels of the Earth. Trump hid there for over an hour. Supposedly his wife and son accompanied the traitor, but I doubt it. The KKK hero only cares for himself and returned to the surface once the Secret Service gave to the all-clear signal.

Onme hour is tiny time for the President-God.

This incident coupled with the young demonstrators' anti-rich rhetoric has forced the wealthy to consider similar refuges and a security company has proposed converting Kansas missile silos into luxury Doomsday havens, leaving the treasures stolen from the masses to the people.

I say the sooner they are inside the better and then permanently seal the entrances once they are inside the concrete paradise like Fortunato in Edgar Allen Poe's The Casque of Amontillado.

In pace requiescat!

Illustration by Henry Clarke 1919

Steamers In New York

Yesterday I thought about treating myself to fried clams and bike down to Little Neck off the Gowanus Canal. I was thoroughly disappointed by their offering. Even the clam strips from the extinct HoJOs in Times Square were better than these measly clams. No bellies. Mostly Batter and fries.

$22.

Today I bought Steamers from the fishmonger at the Fort Greene Farmers Market.

I steamed the plump mollusks in water, cider, garlic, and butter.

Delicious.

$10.

And I drank the broth.

Thinking OH NEW ENGLAND.

Goodby June 2020

Today is the First day of July.

2020 has been a year dominated by the Covid Crisis, but video of George Floyd's brutal May 25 murder by the Minneapolis PD has altered the USA. His death sentence was in response to his having passing a counterfeit $20 bill at a convenient store. President Andrew Jackson's face is on the 'double-saw buck'

Millions of outraged people have taken to the streets demanding justice and the defunding of the police.

June 1 - Minneapolis burned n response to the city government's lax response to the Police killing a black man for nothing

Two nights ago I was with the young occupiers of New York's City Hall. Their encampment on Centre Street effectively blocked the Brooklyn Bridge and they are dedicated to forcing the city to cut $1 billion from the NYPD budget to be redistributed to the general welfare fund. I walked among them, an old man. Their furor is well placed to disturb the 'same old same old'.

The police were the police.

The Atlanta 12 shot Rayshard Brooks on his daughter's 8th Birthday for exceeding the DWI limit by .02%.

Breonna Taylor, 26, was killed in her own home by the Filth in March and the Steroid Slave Patrols have no intention of stopping their rampage.

Little good happened in June, although the PO-Dee celebrated the High Holiday of National Donut Day with impunity.

Wars raged across the world.

Travel was banned everywhere in the world.

I am trapped in NY, but I do get out to the world.

The only drinker at the 169 Bar.

I protested with my friend Brigette.

Brigette and her beau Jacob trained north to Catskill.

Canal Street after midnight was dead.

I won't say who was to blame.

The rich never own up to their sins.

My family was safe in Thailand.

My loving daughter Angie and grandson SunSun.

He was almost named Captain Sunsun and I thought he was a superhero.

Now the six-month old is SunSun.

A superhero for me.

My good comrade Jocko Weyland was getting in the last ski-runs in the Sierras.

I found the END on Broad Channel.

I thought it was going to be worse, but the sea forgives those who love it and will kill anyone who refuses to acknowledge its power.

My old punk comrade Rick Guadalcanal was in deep isolation.

I had a bout with Covid in late March.

We sit in his backyard and fed peanuts to the squirrels.

Both of us appreciate the simple life.

Father's Day was glorious with the Nepolas.

And

One more thing. FUCK THE TRAITOR TRUMP.

One day we will laugh again in the sunshine somewhere over the rainbow.