Punch & Judy Show

Question: What do you do when you hear a racist joke?
Answer: Beat that motherf*cker!

(sigh)

I'm so tired of the current divisive mood. 

No, I didn't vote for Trump. Yes, I had an anxiety attack when I found out. 

(Hey, who doesn't like to start their day off with a good cry in the shower?)

TMI? Thematic, I'd have to retort. 

Because, currently, it seems like there's a lot of personal sharing that's pretty public. 

Example: Some 'tard referenced Michelle Obama as "an ape in heels" on f*cebook.

Which is racist -and- and stupid and... worthy of national news?

MSN thought so - despite the fact it was some West Virginia local yokel - and put it on their national feed. 

Great. As if this pressure cooked wasn't already on high, we need more fuel on the fire. 

Do I believe there are racist, stupid people in the world? Yep. Do I need to hear the utterances of each and every one so that I have a place to focus my anger? Not really. 

Oh, and on the flip-side of the coin, for those of you currently championing equal rights, etc.- kudos - but before you start framing things "to the haters" or some such - consider the following...

Its all us. The 'tards, the racists and the illuminati + all those in-between - including you and me - is still us. These United States. We are all in this same boat, pulling these same oars. 

And yeah, you can get out of the boat, try to swim for some distant shore, but there are going to be ripples. Or maybe even big f*cking waves.

No matter how far you go you will not escape the effects of this. 

My grandma was racist. She kept it pretty well hidden, until one day, after losing her purse, loudly exclaimed to my mother and I, "maybe that n*gger took it!" 

Which broke my heart. I was 11 and she'd just met my best friend, Darren, who was black. 

The smile she'd smiled at him - now revised in my mind to a grimace or even predatorial teeth baring - and things soured between us.

After that, I dissociated myself from her - she had become unclean - an 'other' to be judged and dismissed.  

Then, 10 years later, my mom checked herself into a 30 day clinic. 

Grandma flew in to Tucson from Illinois and I drove down from the mountains; each day we'd go into a little room with her ex, my grandfather, to do family therapy - and grandma would start to shake. 

Turns out, twenty years previous, grandpa beat her so hard she'd had an epileptic seizure.

Yet, despite her obvious terror, she came back each day.

She loved my mom and was willing to re-experience those feelings in order to soupport her.

Which gave me a new perspective. 

It didn't give her a pass for racism -but- it re-opened a door between us.

She was, after all, family. 

Not unlike you and me. And that guy. And that one over there. We are all extended family, born out of the same origin, derived of the same source.

So whether you're a redneck peckerwood, inner city gangsta, elitist cake-eater,  or whatever - you are a still a part of these United States. 

The US. 

Which is composed of us, not them. 

A house divided and all that jazz. 

What do you do when you hear a racist/sexist/whatever-ist joke?

Maybe we skip the beat down, verbal or physical... 

And say"I don't feel that way" and maybe, given the opportunity, "here's why."*

Create a dialogue - begin a conversation - 

*a shout out for this last sentiment as handed down by the Reverend Blind Lemon Buzzard, a.k.a. Popi! a.k.a. my Dad. 

Post modern dog blues

 

Thine own self

rule of 3rds

Confluence

Having dashed off to mountain bike after work, then hurtling home through space and time as the sun set while a storm rolled in, I grabbed my phone and snapped this pic.

Blurry though it may be, it seemed to represent something;

iconic, blurry, fleeting.

Life is a confluence of events.  

Doing the Math

The lens of perception,
distorted by self,

divides us

from the world
and each other;

but

flaws become clues

as we trace 
backwards,
the light, 

flowing 
from it's 
source.

Burtynsky

Bru

popi

DeKalb 2016

Time stood still 

and the man flowed 

through it

We all go where we all go

This is now and so is then

until the end
there's nothing too it

Theater of the absurd

Or political commentary at the gas pump

Popi say politics is theater. Designed to confabulate and misdirect. 

Or is that me?*

Regardless... re: this concept - despite all gas pump commentary - one candidate trumps them all. 

*Penultimate co-dependence - stepping on your own dick, then realizing it your father's, then reflecting and realizing, no it really was mine, and how did I ever confuse the two?

om

is
the
umbilical,

connects
us
each
to

each.

the narrows

- this photo taken in the world's narrowest bathroom, under the stairs at New Orleans bed & breakfast - formerly a brothel. My shoulders touched both walls and I felt compelled to document same. No brothel workers were harmed in the making of this image.

thrift

 Each day begins anew

Big Easy

Rising sun

There is a house in New Orleans

Lo Lo Mai

Dan's 50th
2016

as times goes by 

somewhere outside Portland 

June 2016

Valentine's Day '16

2.14.16
Bruce Munro Exhibit
Desert Botanical Gardens
Phoenix, AZ

Holiday Hangover

Or Jesus in my face 

Party on, Wayne

A spiritual tale

Went down to the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show this past weekend.

I should mention, in days of yor, whilst living in the Old Pueblo, I would've taken great pains to avoid this particular scene, not unlike Sedona during the Harmonic Convergence, or even, more currently, North Scottsdale during The Open.

Each can be said to have their own Sh*t Show potential so it was highly uncharacteristic that I found myself, Saturday, willingly delving into the belly of the beast.

Why, you may ask, might my lovely bride and I venture 300 miles round trip on a single day to mingle with the ravenous hordes? Read on, dear reader, read on.

We arose and departed at the crack of noon - she, having worked the previous night through in purveyance of spirits, fine and otherwise (okay it was really 11:15 but who could possibly pass up "crack of noon"), and with a 70 degree wind blowing back our proverbial collective hair, we put pedal to the metal.

2 hours later, having navigated the wasteland and some minor domestic trifles (nothing barring our spiritual sojourn of course) we found ourselves at the Riverside Inn or River Park Inn or Riverside Park Inn. There was definitely a "river" somewhere in the title. Physical evidence of any actual rivers was sadly lacking. Meanwhile, however...

We parked the road warrior, met our friends (of which, we have one or two ensconced in the spiritual strata of society - not unlike a hidden cache of sustenance in the desert, giving succor as needed... blah blah blah - what the hell was I talking about? Ah yes, moving on...).

My friend, henceforth known as Yarn (names changed to protect the innocent, not to mention my own potentially libelous ass) is a player of bowls. Tibetan brass bowls. I'd met him last year at a monastic retreat (no I haven't converted) and was attracted to him (not sexually) when he demonstrated same.

It was, like, a spiritual thing, dude.

He played the bowls (accomplished by steadily rotating a cloth covered stick around the outside until a beautiful multi-layered tone is emitted) and I resonated to same.

That was the beginning of a lovely bromance -and- now, nearly one year later, I find myself the owner of my very own bowl. Well, ok, it's not really mine - in the universal sense of cosmic oneness and impermanence - but at least I get to hang on to it for a while.

Cool, hunh?

Oh, and I should mention the beloved and captivating LB - aka my bride - definitely led the charge, was the first to obtain a spiritual vessel of her own, and it was only after her promptings I purchased my own version - which, when properly coaxed, generates a deep, gentle and brassy "F".

This apparently, is for opening up one's heart chakra, and can be accompanied by the chanting of "ohm", which I swear the bowl generates on its own accord.

Yes, really.

Later that night at work, LB related the day's experiences and subsequent purchase to her bar back as she poured drinks and he stocked the cooler.

Her tale was met by silence and a mischievous, sparkly-eyed sidelong glance.

She paused, and after a moment's realization, said "Dude*, it's not that kind of bowl."

*(again, names changed to protect...)

'72

throwback

Warum nicht