It's here Today. It's here to Stay. You wanna say to these people: "try a career in Real Estate". Or, "have you addressed these issues with a counselor?". Or perhaps, "you still have a friend in Jesus, you know..."
But, the Buddha teaches compassion. He says, we're all babies, and we're all scribbling trash, even in our most profound moments..." And these people are really good at it!
Ah well, the handicapped among us are merely the "gifted". It's not called the "Disabilities Council" anymore, it's called the "Abilities Council". And these Painters have some Special Abilities. Yes, throw away those prosthetics! Get up from your wheelchair and DANCE! Show the world your Abilities and we'll be free once again.
Well, from the "Abilities" Art Class, we bring you Friday Night Entertainment for the Artistically-Challenged. It's like "underwear for the deaf"- it works whether you paid your phone bill or not.
We begin with VERRA, whose cheery choice of "Neon Christmas" kind of revs us up for "Shopping Like Scrooge" this year. Ever wonder about those Canadian Tire commercials that invite us to "save like the scrooge"? It means that even though we all have money coming out of our ears, a two-car household, a flat-screen TV, a time-share in Mexico and a diversified Mutual funds portfolio ... we're just cheap fucking assholes when we take our ties off.
We race across town, spending hours and gas, to one of those gaudy concrete "big box" stores like Costco to fight with hordes of immigrants who have learned to squeeze pennies out of donuts, just in order to buy a shopping cart of discount dogfood for our pet "Fluffy". Our pet "Fluffy" who eats better than most of the people who pick coffee beans for Starbucks.
Merry Christmas, Verra, and merry Christmas to all the Scrooges in their "cell phone booths" - called "SUV's" - driving across town to save a lucky dollar.
The NECRO-NUDIST is next. Unless he carries out his suicidal mission. We know not what plagues the inner psyche of this fine young man. Perhaps a job at Canadian Tire would have saved his life, but no, he found Crack Cocaine and a paint can were more convincing.
Sadly, this high-school dropout is destined for detox centers and costly rehab bills footed by you and me, Mr Canadian Taxpayer. In his spare time however, he tries his art therapy on the tracks. This does not bode well. We hope NN's extended family of street urchins will instill some basic wisdom in his trembling bones.
Okay, it's gonna be a slow night in the Church Basement, I can tell. I can hear the ping-pong tables in the background, with an old Beach Boys tune on the SeaBreeze Stereo. "Takes Me Back..."
Jen - bless her soul - seems to think that Euphoria comes from Drugs and Hallucinogens, which lead to "freedom of inner thoughts".
Well Jen, for a 12-year-old's sensibilities, this is actually"grade A material", but it doesn't hold water when you're on your first day at McDonalds and all the Hamburgers start breathing.
Drug "freedom" is expensive freedom, and it makes people ugly, decrepit and grumpy. It makes people pray to puddles of vomit in back alleys. It's a shortcut to delusion and a journey away from the self; a journey into artificial glory and real pain. Spend your Cocaine money on a little Art Therapy and the world will be be a better place.
High at 4:20. Got my latex at Home Depot: 5:10. Bought brushes and rollers, cost $14 extra. Now 5:35.
Got my stepladder, loaded it into my big black Pickup truck with the tinted windows. Got down to the rail-yards. I'm the foreman's son-in-law, so everything's cool. Blue is my wife's favorite color. Robin's egg blue. Her name is Robin.
Got up on my ladder, 5:50. Fell off. Feel bad. Had another beer, feel better. Turned on the radio for good luck: the beach boys, Surfer Joe. Got up on the ladder, forgot the roller. Got the roller, forgot the paint. Fuck it.
Had a joint, and everything cooled down. Now the world was really swimming. Got up again, 6:30. Getting dark. Now what? Everything's spinning. 8:30 pm woke up in jail. My father-in-law bails me out. Says I gotta cover it up. "Cover what up", I ask. "Cover yourself up," he says, "you got no clothes on". Can't be nekkid in the train yard. Not even if you're a Christian. It's my first and last Throwup. 9:45 pm, my wife Robin says, "where have you been, where are your clothes, why is your hair blue?"
I say, "it's your birthday, I wanted to do something special, tomorrow you'll see it at the train yards."
The divorce was messy. She got my black pickup truck. I got the brushes and rollers. I'm a paint contractor now: single, but sober. You live and learn.
The rest is History.
on to BAD BOX #2 -->