Thank God. The failing days of trying to impress people are now at an end. Mortality now measured, it is finally time to unimpress people. Dedicated to my sons: Perhaps they shouldn’t read this.
“Son, stop acting like a horse’s ass.” – My Dad
The pigeons are big in Paris, the gulls in Seattle. What does it all mean?
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Sometime in the 1990s:
The neon is glowing, the Margaritas flowing, the hooting and the hollering, the bar be a buzzin’, unrestrained, belly-roll laughter and all manner of hedon, heathen pleasure. And right there smack in the middle of our wild pachanga fest: Luis and the Mariachis singing their hearts away.
My gosh, we’re making a lot of money.
And so it is: La Bamba. Come on folks: A special version for all you fat cowgirls out there: La Bamba. And pray tell what song might that happy table of eight want to hear? La Bamba. Gosh that sounded good. Why not play it again? La Bamba. And hey over there! The joyous tune that you guys recommend? Let’s guess. La Bamba!
… Something snaps. And it gave me absolutely no warning. I emerge from the shadowy recesses in the back of the restaurant: My designated observation point. The little spot where you can be a part of without being a part of... I’m walking. I’m walking with a determination forged by the deepest, maddest of resolves.
“Eh Luis. You guys are playing great. It’s a fantastic night, eh?”
Without waiting for this minstrel’s bullshit answer, I quickly lean over just within ear shod, “Eh Luis, listen, just so you know, trust me, if you play La Bamba one more time, I’m gonna get the 380 out of my car and blow your brains all over that wall over there.”
Luis looks closely into my eyes. He looks very, very closely. He’s waiting for me to laugh, or, you know- “Ha, ha, just kidding.” But nothing is there. He doesn’t know if I’m kidding. Why? Why can’t he tell if I’m joking around? … Cause I don’t even know if I’m kidding. And frankly, the odds are definitely not good, not good at all- for there is only one truth:
If I hear La Bamba one more time, people are going to die.
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Yea well…
There’s something a bit unnerving when you frolic up to the pharmacy counter, fork over your script for Lexapro, only to see the pharmacist emit a spasmodic shoulder shudder as she stutters, “Mum… mm… My God, now that’s quite a vigorous regimen.”
“ Ugh.. Ha, ha ha. Ha, ha some more (Gee, did I just say ‘some more’ out loud?).”
“Yea, mam, the Doc said that in my case, it might be enough. It’s just- I’ve been a little sad since returning from overseas. Anyway, a question: If I grind this stuff up and toot a few lines, will I be suddenly happy?”
…Well, that certainly didn’t go over very well; by golly, the poor woman looked at me like I was nuts- but then again, maybe this is just another of those ‘life metaphors’ demonstrating my mastery of absolute social aloofness... something that seems to have hounded me for many a decade- well, at least since toddler age.
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Gee, I’m suddenly old, and at that strange point where you’re tired of talking cause nobody’s listening, tired of explaining cause no one understands, and tired of convincing cause nobody really gives a damn. That time in life when no amount of eclecticity will ever restore you to cutting-edge coolness in the eyes of your five sons… (Not that they ever saw you that way to begin with).
But go figure. Who pays heed to anyone that has lost the ability to separate seriousness from satire? That strange place where paradox, hyperbole, irony, metaphor, oxymoron, cynicism, and sincerity all get fused together somehow. That place where your partner asks you a simple question, and you respond by singing an intentionally bad riff from some Armin Van Buuren jingle… But most important: Not even knowing whether you’re being silly or normal.
It would seem that my last vestige of possible cool normalness was a couple of decades ago when I coined the broad spectrum expression: You know, a little gasoline might move things further along.
How and where I adopted such a ‘saying’ is entirely unknown; but it carried me through almost every social situation for damn near ten to fifteen years.
Think about it:
“Mike, Jeff and I are just having such a hard time right now. He works late and when we are finally together at night, we just don’t have any energy left to do anything.”
I pause; I look deep into Bridget’s eyes, and reply, “You know, a little gasoline might move things further along.”
Another pause; then Bridget finally responds, “Wow Mike, thanks. That’s powerful. I so, so get it. I know where you’re coming from. We’ll give that a shot.”
Or… You find yourself in some immaculate hotel lobby after a tax symposium. The only reason you’re there is that you got lost while looking for a new twelve step meeting, saw the pastries, and decided to stick around. You have no idea what the hell anyone is talking about, having found yourself gobbling down a Danish while standing with three geeky looking, brain-trust sort of fellas. Finally, they all shut-up and look squarely at you, like you’re supposed to add a tidbit to their tax evasion mumbo jumbo.
You pause, swallow, make strong eye contact, and respond, “You know, a little gasoline might move things further along.”
A stunned silence… and then, “You know, he really makes a strong point…” Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah…
Well, whatever the gasoline comment meant to them spurs on a super-flurry of more mumbo jumbo… I still have no earthly idea what in the blue blazes these guys are talking about. Oh well, these pastries are pretty damn good. Guess it’s about time to move on.
Yea, the gasoline thing carried me along quite well for some time. One might even say that metaphysically speaking; it was one of those last vestiges of contrived socialization (whatever the hell that means).
Still, all good things come to an end, sometimes rather abruptly… and when I used my cute little gasoline cliché one night during a coffeehouse get-together, regarding a family of twelve that died in a house fire… well, it didn’t seem to go over very well.
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Anyway, just how did I get to this strange fricking place? And how did such a journey affect my expression, creative and otherwise?
Well, there were certainly life-altering pivot-points, those subliminal ‘aberrations’ that forever alter one’s destined course towards sure-fire presidency or plunderous plutocracy. And rats: I could feel it. I could taste it. I was so, so close to that callous, cold, unfeeling, uncaring Nirvana Norquist-ville… Nah. Just kidding.
… Maybe it all just adds up somehow.
When I was five, our kindergarten teacher instructed the class to crayon a picture of ourselves. And yes, I do remember. So, all of us got to work drawing our self-portraits. Mine? It was a detailed, frontal nude. Not that I even knew what a nude was; I was just one more snotty-nosed kid excited about the challenge.
Apparently, it was a big deal, with teachers from nearby classes all duded up in their southern sundresses huddled around my teacher’s desk, enthralled by my work, laughing, giggling, all smiling at me.
Now what message might a five year old glean from such attention so brought about by unfettered creative expression?
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Fast forward to high school.
The Reading Research Foundation is testing all students for dyslexia, hyper kinesis, and quite possibly first-stage psychopathy. For some reason, my pimply, scared soul gets caught in the ‘net’ of further evaluation. I find myself seated across the table from the founder of the fricking institute, being given an inkblot test. And trust me, I’ve never done inkblots and I’m seeing an absolute endless plethora of images- to the point that it is becoming a bit tiring having to point all this stuff out to this old, evil looking fart, like he’s blind or something.
Finally, I get angry, refuse to participate, am sent back to class, end of story.
Still, it left an imprint of some sort- like hey, there’s something wrong with me.
And I felt that way for a long while, ugh, ‘til I discovered weed.
And then I knew without doubt that something was wrong with not just me, but a whole myriad of stuff…
Yet, disregarding inkblots, girls, Viet Nam, Nixon, Jefferson Airplane, Joni Mitchell, and getting a couple of fingers wacked-off, the high school days were pretty humdrum other than being the first senior class president ever expelled from that particular private school. And I really don’t want to go any further with that as it was a bit painful for everyone concerned… especially my parents.
Perhaps in a broad-brush stroke, the high school experience, like the rest of it, added a critical eye and a restless rebelliousness to the mix of whatever the hell it was that I was becoming.
And through it all, perhaps I am just saying that it can be a difficult task trying to gauge exactly what the focal points of decades of life might be- those special things of major impact: Perhaps shooting X-Rays of horrifically-soon-to-be-dead people, or studying global warming back in the seventies, maybe embracing fatherhood, or successful corporate endeavor, or unsuccessful corporate endeavor, those extremely fast cars, or those continuous, restless travels, perhaps a bit of Dengue, or those reckless, adventures in bad husband-ism…
or perhaps: The final, culminating rejection of our vain, idolatrous bastardization of the American Dream…
And much like everyone else my age, at this point, I think that all the debris is pretty much there.
And much like everyone else my age, regardless of whether we have been forged by the fires of rebellion, greed, creative expression, bigotry, submission, reverence, adherence, loyalty, disloyalty, or just downright, blatant pissed-off-ism: All of the debris that we have collectively collected just might reveal certain truths, truths that we damn well better stop denying.
From global climate change to the successful annihilation of the middle class, from baby boomers dying in their apartments to an accelerating cyber-scape that social scientists can’t even keep up with-
anybody with a laptop and a few espressos can rant ‘til hell freezes over…
But we all grow tired after a while… very tired.
After all, people will listen to what they want to hear, now even more than ever in this info-byte culture constructed for each and every one of us.
And people will believe whatever they choose to, even blatant lies- as so accentuated by the last election embarrassment.
In my own pathetic case, when I am totally exasperated, when I reach such immeasurable levels of fatigue…
I look back at the art. From the Opulent Despair Series in Miami to the Barrios of Corazon in Manila, from the Indictment Oil Wars Series to the Recyclers…
I look at the art.
I gaze in ignorance as to what angst drove the creation of such a bizarre collection of pieces.
And if I was ‘used,’ as in the proverbial vessel, how instrumental was my anger in communicating such social and political messages creatively?
And what has held me back from explaining my work all these years? Like saying to viewers, “Here it is, you figure it out.”
I mean, you know, ultimately, after all the rants and verbosity is done, after the dust settles- the art will be all that is left. I certainly won’t be around.
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The editorial staff of Downtown LA Life and the many readers have been very indulgent in allowing me to be a part of your universe; and for that I am truly grateful. I am hopeful that in the coming months, I will have the opportunity to present some of my works- but this time, I will attempt to explain the pieces, their origin, the intent, their message (Frankly, something I have never bothered doing all these years).
After all, it is a bit past time.
And you know, at this point, maybe just a little gasoline might move things further along.