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First to demystify the title: decompressed, it is “You want to know what is REALLY going on? Are you SURE?” And a good look at the image reveals the title as well.

Would any of us want to know, on a level approaching omniscience, the nature of Reality? Scientists seem to strive for clues and answers along those lines. But it would take a fearless person indeed to cast aside presuppositions and wishes that things be a certain way, in exchange for unwished-for glimpses of Truth.

This is relevant to me now because, in my country at least, mythmaking propaganda is on the rise. It is not confined to a political party or a religious or nonreligious belief. Algorithms seek and find an individual’s way of thinking, and the exploiters who designed–or purchased–the algorithms then capitalize on that knowledge. In my own case, my internet feed sends me unasked-for “Art events in your area” information, and links to liberally-biased news items abound. The phrase “echo-chamber effect” describes this phenomenon well.

It is insidious and is dividing us. Since it also unites us into special-interest tribes, it is also well-nigh irresistible. So when I think of the questions I have posed, I get these answers:

Do I REALLY want to know what’s going on? Only when my thirst for true knowledge is greater than my fear of being uncomfortable, or horrified, or devastated, or suicidal.

Am I SURE? Paradoxically, I am more and more sure that it is dangerously self-destructive to be sure about almost anything. It is important, though, to choose basic precepts upon which to behave and act. So:

Harmlessness is a virtue. Hatred of fellow beings is poisonous. The most valuable currency is Quality of Life. The most valuable consideration is the use of one’s time while alive.

A few corrolaries to these basics are:

Black lives matter. Love of living creatures compels Goodness and Mercy. Every precious moment is an opportunity. Self-awareness is vital to self-improvement.

Peace be unto you, my friends.

 

 

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Decades ago, Ronald Reagan said, “Mr. Gorbachev–TEAR DOWN THAT WALL.” Many cheered, and behold, some time after the Wall came down.

Decades later, a candidate for President of the United States said, over and over again, in many different ways, “We’re gonna build a big, beautiful Wall–and WE’RE GONNA GET MEXICO TO PAY FOR IT.” Many cheered, and helped elect him. I was not one of them.

Here is something I published on Facebook on January 20.

It has occurred to me, as I am sure it has occurred to the enemies of America, that the Wall if built will make the US more, not less, vulnerable. Because anyone with enough money to buy some cheap explosives, and a radio-controlled airplane ( cheaper than a drone), will be able to make the Wall much more expensive, with a return on the terrorist dollar of at least 100 to 1. Blow a little hole in The Wall and it will cost US many, many more times to repair it than the peanuts it costs for the stuff the bad guys can use. It doesn’t have to be a big hole, either. Just something to get the party started.

Wall supporters, PLEASE tell me I’m wrong, and prove it. If you succeed, we will all sleep better at night. If you don’t, or more likely cannot, then please a) stop supportIng this useless Wall; and b) stop supporting this useless Administration.

Look how vulnerable the Towers were. Do we really want to set ourselves up for more tragedy?

Our fine and fancy US Government has been shut down by a despot who, for reasons of his own, or perhaps those of the ones pulling his puppet strings, wants to throw billions of dollars at a hideous, idiotic project. I am protesting with the non-violent means available to me here. I hope my voice is heard.

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Diane Householder Norrbom is my aunt, my mother’s half-sister, but spiritually no “half-” about it. My mother trusts her more than anyone, including me, and so she should.

Ever since my brother Brian, who was Mom’s caregiver, died, Diane has risen to the enormous challenge of seeing to it that Mom is taken care of. That task is compounded by the fact that Diane lives in Lakewood, California. Several times Diane has driven across the Mojave desert to come put out fires, jump through bureaucratic hoops, hire and fire caregivers, and address a slew of troubles. The proper disposition of my late brother’s unusable vehicle alone was a nightmare, since the title was collateralized by one of those horrible loanshark outfits. She had to punch through a couple of brick walls for that one, even with my inept “help.”

So I’m grateful to her. So when she came to town last Thursday, I told her we’d go out and have some fun, and the budget would be $200.

Wouldn’t you know it–time and opportunity slid away, and we never had that fun. But I had made a commitment, one very specific as to funding. And she was.leaving this morning.

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This morning I gave her a shipping envelope that contained a hundred dollar bill, a fifty, a twenty, a ten, and four fives. “I don’t know what this is about,” she said. I told her a classmate of mine had posted on Facebook that we are not what we say we’re going to do, but what we actually do, and that the money needed to be spent on having fun, and that my target time for a California visit is February, but don’t wait for then to spend it, just spend it on fun, and please don’t give any of it away to needy relatives, including me. She agreed, and we have tentative plans to have February fun at the Redondo Beach pier, which I have visited before with great gusto.

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But there was more in the envelope:  three original drawings of mine, temporary-mounted on two pieces of posterboard. One is my double-take on Greta Garbo, part of my November “Finishline” series; one is not only a Finishline drawing but the latest in my Utensil series; and one is a recent post-Inktober ink drawing. I am currently charging either $20.00 an hour or $100 apiece, whichever is less, for drawings on this scale, so on that basis Diane got an envelope with contents valued at $500.00. But she deserves much much more, and not merely material things. She has been an incredible, strong matriarch for our family.

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Speaking of family, here is Misty, Diane’s niece and Mom’s current live-in caregiver. (Here she shows her surfergirl/hippiechick California roots by flashing us a peace sign.) Bless her heart. She has made a world of difference in Mom’s quality of life.

And it was Diane who brought Mom and Misty together. Just another of Diane’s wise miracles.

This morning, via Facebook, I shared some thoughts on the Kavanaugh US Supreme Court nomination. Facebook’s default text on the Timeline posting box is “What’s on your mind?” Between the sets of asterisks is what I put in the box, and what my friend Laura J Young was kind enough to ask permission to Share. Laura, thanks again, and on your behalf I am sharing with my WordPress followers…

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“What’s on your mind?” The post box asks us. “Doublethink,” the term invented by George Orwell, is on my mind. It is when you know something is false, but at the same time you know that it is true.

Brett Kavanaugh is a fine, decent man. And Brett Kavanaugh is a lowlife and a liar. There is plenty of evidence that he is part of a male culture that likes to sow wild oats, to euphemize, or to have fun and jokes at the expense and to the detriment of women, to be more candid.

Anyone remember Panty Raids? Frat boys being frat boys would invade dorms or sorority houses and steal young women’s panties. But that’s not all they would do. When I was a student at the U of A one frat boy ripped the bedclothes from a woman in her bed, exposing her bare breasts. I am 100% certain that worse things happened during that panty raid. I am also grateful that I was never in a fraternity.

What Kavanaugh did with his testimony was de facto plead guilty to a lesser series of crimes. He pled guilty to liking beer and hating Democrats. He pled guilty to making fun of his farting classmate and he pled guilty, through demonstration, of being a crybaby.

And this enables the doublethinkers of his like-minded colleagues to rush to his defense. It is the same doublethink that allows Trump supporters to excuse truly egregious behavior on his part, including adultery in his current marriage, as “brash.”

The trouble is, bad as panty raids were (are?), something far worse is going on under our noses. A Treasury raid. An Abuse of Power raid. A raid on our environment. An invasion by a hostile foreign power.

Please, dear friends on both sides of the aisle, stop double-thinking. It is killing our country.

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The title of this post is a riff on the Bob Dylan song title “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” Though I regret the partisanship revealed by the “Alt-Right” portion of my title, my weakness for bad puns overcame my wish for neutrality. To all you non-Nazi, humanity- and diversity-loving Alt-righters, please accept my sincere apology.

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My name is Gary, and I have a problem with gambling.

My problem cost me a lot of money, a lot of energy, and time that would have been vastly better spent doing something else, and very likely the relationship I had with the love of my life.

Late in 2010 my inner voice told me I would survive 2011 if I did not set foot in a casino, but if I did, I would “not be OK.” So I didn’t set foot in a casino; in fact, I didn’t gamble for more than six years. Good things and bad happened during those six years, but I guarantee you they would have been far worse had I indulged my addiction.

Around February of 2017 I fell off the gambling-sobriety wagon. The rationalizer in me says it was OK to do so, since I was not in a romantic relationship with anyone, and I didn’t let it interfere with my job performance, and I was lonely and getting strong intimations of mortality.

I know better, of course. As for not being in a romantic relationship, gambling addiction is a preventative. As for interference with job performance, that is true of my day job, but not of my REAL job, that of poet and artist. Gambling thieves time, energy and mojo. I have left numberless paintings, drawings and poems on the gaming table.

And as for intimations of mortality–the clock is ticking. What is the best use of the time I have left?

Odds are slightly better than even money, Friends, that I will be in a casino, pissing away a little more vitality, as you are reading this. I hope not. In fact, I’m writing this as a preventative. But I am a weak man.

The title of this post, “Getting a Little Bit Dirty,” is a riff on an old joke whose concept is “Getting a little bit pregnant.” You’re either pregnant or you’re not, and, in terms of addiction, you’re either dirty or you’re not. It’s been eight days since I’ve been in a casino. I am not dirty. That can change in a heartbeat, and that is 100% up to me. I cannot be rescued by anyone but myself.

America’s President and Commander In Chief of its armed forces is now in Helsinki, misrepresenting his country with abandon. My deeply spiritual friend Suzy Jacobson Cherry is viewing this latest development with such alarm that she posted on Facebook this message: “Everybody. Start writing down your memories of the America that has been. Just in case it isn’t again.”

Suzy’s message reminds me of the end of the play CAMELOT, and Arthur’s admonitory instruction to a stripling in hopes of somehow keeping the memory of Camelot alive.

I love Suzy, and though I think our beloved country will be reunited and healed, I thought it would be valuable to do as she says, as thoroughly as I could.

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And here is the transcript:

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America: Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. The Melting Pot. “I lift my lamp beside the Golden Door.” Leader-by- example via the Marshall Plan and the Truman Doctrine. “One giant leap for mankind.” Civil Rights Act. “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall.” The Miracle On Ice of the 1980 Winter Olympics. Rosie the Riveter. Norman Rockwell. The Summer of Love. Ray Charles singing “O Beautiful For heroes proved…” at the 2001 World Series. The freedom that allows Billie Joe Armstrong to sing “American Idiot.” The Tonight Show, starring Johnny Carson–Johnny’s guest host George Carlin. Eleanor Roosevelt. Harper Lee. Spike Lee and his magnificent collaborator Denzel Washington. Angels In America on Broadway, featuring Tony-Award-winning Stephen Spinella.

And George Washington, who refused to be King. And my family and friends.

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America has survived many crises. We can survive this one as well, if we get back on the track of E Pluribus Unum, and Liberty and Justice for All.

Long, long ago, Eric Knight, author of LASSIE COME-HOME, wrote a delightful story called “All Yankees Are Liars.” He began the story with this epigram:

You can always tell the English,

You can always tell the Dutch.

You can always tell a Yankee,

But you cannot tell him much.

What goes around comes around. Donald Trump, now President of the United States, is a chronic, unapologetic liar. His recent ploy to smear former president Barack Obama is a shameful attempt to direct attention away from the wrongdoings of some of his advisors, cabinet appointees, and, of course, himself.

My blog has been seen by people from at least 72 different countries. WordPress tells me I have more than 500 followers. So this goes out to all who see it, worldwide. Citizens of Earth, I and other Americans who are proud of what our country has stood for as represented in its Constitution, but are ashamed of what our country has  come to as embodied by our current President and his cohorts, want you to know that we wish, peacefully and legally, to set things aright by ousting this liar, this bad representative of our country.

Thank you for your attention.

 

 

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This is my drawing table, a gift from my parents on a Christmas sometime in the early 70s. It has been in Arizona, in Glendale and Phoenix and Cottonwood and the Village of Oak Creek in Sedona, and it has also been in Las Vegas, Nevada. I almost gave it away to someone for no other reason than that he had his stuff on it. I almost threw it piece by piece into the dumpster by my last apartment, faced with the prospect of having to U-Haul it to my new place. (I have just moved out of one apartment and into another one.) I am SO GLAD that luck and good sense and friendship conspired to keep it mine.

The lamp vise-gripped to the right edge of the table was part of the Christmas gift, and it works like a dream still. The stool and the fatigue mat were gifts from my former sweetheart Denise, and my gratitude to her continues. The banjo to the left of the table was another gift from my parents, and I gave it away once, hoping it would be well used; alas, the guy I gave it to never used it, so I took it back. (Alas, to this day I cannot play it.) The painting on the right is a superb nature study of butterfly and reflection by my dear friend and Confidante, Gen L (or E, depending). Another gift, and I am so grateful to be so gifted, and so egomaniacal to suggest that that has a double meaning. (I will play the I’m Just Kidding, Folks card if asked.)

But a crucial gift that keeps the table mine is of time, elbow grease, and the use of a magic red Pick-Em-Up Truck from my TRULY gifted friend, Russ Kazmierczak, Jr., creator of AMAZING ARIZONA COMICS. Russ and his truck moved my possessions entire from 35th Ave/Northern to 29th St/Indian School on two consecutive days. Russ offered me this help some weeks ago, when he found out I would be moving. When I took him up on it, he proved his rarity by cheerfully agreeing, showing up cheerfully on-time-or-early as agreed, co-muscling my stuff and Tetris-ing (his verb) it into the bed of the truck, and shlepping it to where it now belongs. Russ is a keeper, as his wonderful girlfriend Randi well knows. (And vice versa, as Russ well knows.)

So here’s to continuity: of Friendship, of Creativity, and of Love, of companions along the way past and present. Life is as good as we take it.

Taking the light rail home from work means 45 minutes of sitting or standing around. Last night I had my iPad with me, and I killed some time with a series of selfies using its Photo Booth feature.

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This one is a good metaphor for how I feel at the end of a meat-grinder of a day.

 

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This is a metaphor for the transcendentally cerebral superstar I wannabe, but, given Marie Curie, Carl Sagan and John Von Neumann, among MANY others, know I’m not.

 

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Here the metaphor is We Are Being Watched, by from-elsewhere folk who see with heat.

 

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This one is apt in revealing how deep my depression gets.

 

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This Cyclops metaphorizes fixation; and it’s un ignorable that a certain procreative organ is sometimes referred to as Mr. One-Eye. (I can be a real dick sometimes. So can you, regardless of gender.)

 

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But sometimes the world’s kaleidoscope leaves us O-mouthed.

 

Lastly, there’s the seemingly Real Me, a one-off metaphor for Work In Progress.

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When you’re a kid you may get a wart or two. (Your wartage may vary.) But when your skin passes its Sell By date, you get the epithelial equivalent of weeds–little outgrowths that are sometimes like browned marshmallows, sometimes like itty-bitty punching bags, but always disconcerting.

I have one near my left armpit that is crusty-white on top (perhaps due to callusing; I fervently hope it is that, and not something more dire) and getting-a-sunburn-pink at the root. If you’re squeamish, read and look no further–a photograph follows.

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Skin tags may be removed with nail scissors. I’ve done it exactly once in my tag-growing career. The pain is minimal, about the same as the pinchy stab you get when donating blood, but the odd like-cutting-cardboard textured sensation gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m going to let a professional do it next time I see one.