Two new canvases, stretched on the walls of BingoRage Studio last night. LoonFamily on left and SpaceInvader on right.
Bum electric stapler in middle. I've run three or four packs of staples through this damn thing and it's already burnt out. My mechanical stapler must have survived a hundred boxes of staples... and allowed me to finish stretching these canvases last night.
LoonFamily scratch sketch (enhanced).
The "stacked" family of birds was a common motif for Woodlands School of Art founder, Norval Morrisseau. This is my latest take, on it.
First paint.
LoonFamily and Eric, in da BingoRage Studio.
(Ha!) Nice paint streak down my face. 8-)
After first night on the wall. I think that I am going to finish this piece in greyscale. I have already called it "mock greyscale", for all the blue and red tints seeping in from dirty brushes.
Northern Pike sketch detail.Pike also known as "jackfish", "snake", "hammer handle" (little ones).
Gamerz detail, from "Yellow Cliffs",
acrylic on canvas, in the BingoRage Studio.
The Waves of Japan are Burning
Why the hell am I reassuring my father
that the good capitalists of Japan
know what they are doing?
After all these years in the bliss of post-coldwar peaceyness,
why are we still living with the bogeymen?
Why are the downtrodden, the vegetarians and the radiant-ones still being punished?
We pay the taxes of this world, not the rich.
We plow the ground and grind your newspapers.
We give you fried chicken and cars.
The rich are rich, because they refuse to play.
Why am I afraid for my father?
I am afraid, because the world is too short for us all.
It rolls under our feet, spinning wildy around a boiling cauldron of light.
I am afraid, because the dreams of men are built upon the thinnest of skins; concrete filled with blood, bones and seashells, piled on the shiftiest of sands and sodden hubris.
The waves of Japan are burning and I think my father cried.
The waves of Japan.
I don't need to see metal burn, even if it looks neat.
We're not built to see the guts of stars.
Monkeys don't belong in space.
Just because we can burn metal from the inside, out... doesn't mean we should.
So, I trust the good capitalists of Japan to get their collective shit together in the next few minutes.
I am ready to be uploaded, Major Tom.
I am so not ready for a post-nuclear wasteland.
I am not ready for burning, glowing waves in Vancouver.
Burning, glowing jetstream.
I am not ready for six-legged, plump headless chickens.
Damn those tectonic plates, but they are implacable.
Damn the snow, but it is implacable.
Restrict the monkeys who play with poisons and war on her bosom!!
That, we can do.
I saw the waves of Japan
and the brave, doomed children of Libya.
They are on fire, all over the internet.
I curse you all with a peace like headache.
That is my gift, children;
No more war, but everyone will live forever with migraines and dirty hands, ditchweed and whiskey.
Does that sound like a deal, dirty children of Minneapolis?
You, whom travel the back alleys of Whiz Bang and the tracks of the world?
Will you sell me that story? That load of shit?
Meet me at the Wienery in ten minutes.
Bring us a burning wave and good joke.
I'll be loaded and expecting you, but ya gotta buy something.
Fries, at least.
The plaintiffs, on behalf of their tribes, sought to end the "abuse and misuse" of their ceremonies and hoped to convince the court that their rituals were their property and should be protected under the federal Indian Arts and Crafts Act. Just as a merchant can't claim earrings were made by Native Americans if they weren't, their ceremonies shouldn't be falsely advertised either, they argued.
That suit was dismissed in October. The court held that "the operation of a sweat lodge is plainly not art, craftwork or a handcraft." Services can't be protected like goods, the court ruled
The community was forced to give up their traditional life of hunting caribou and take up permanent residence in the relatively urban setting of Churchill, Manitoba.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Bingo-Rage was an inside joke between my Mum and I. She was a diehard, loyal bingo player who passed away a few years ago. Her jones wasn`t the multimillion dollar jackpots bleeding Las Vegas dry, it was the insatiable $50 inside square and the lascivious, yet demure thousand dollar jackpot.
I could always tell when she had missed a big pot; holding onto a card that only needed two more numbers, when the ballcount was only at 36. Or, some such compelling position. She then watched twenty-two balls dance by, sometimes right next door; but fail to light on her stoop. She was steamed.
I smile and declare ``another clear, cut case of Bingo Rage. Tut, tut...``
That earned a harumph and we would run our post-Bingo routine: analysis of the night`s lineup and remembrances of triumphs past.
Unless noted; ideas, images, pics and text are creations of Eric C. Keast / BingoRage Studio (formerly Broken Vulture Art). Clear link to BingoRage.com w/ "Bingorage" in link text fills my standard for Creative Commons attribution.
No commercial use without informing and paying the artist, thank you. :)