Dirt Floor, Diamond Ceiling


Another subtle metaphor


Moist Towelette Album Cover 6: FRESH NAP

moist-towelette-FRESH NAP

This surprisingly upbeat Moist Towelette album from 2007 was recorded entirely in an abbatoir in Uzbekistan. Band members wore special designer feathered unitards for all sessions, which was, by all accounts, tickly. Features songs:

Towelette Me In
Kari-Out Co.
Drive-Thru Windows of the Soul
Fresh Nap!
Moist of the Time


Concrete Jungle

I found a lost valley of 1960’s Miller-Melberg Concrete Playground Sculptures. A thrilling wildlife tableau unfolded.

Concrete Cheese Threatened by Concrete Turtle


The Big Red Concrete Cheese felt threatened by an approaching Concrete Turtle

concrete cheese

Refused help from a nearby Concrete DNA, the Cheese Stands Alone and affronted

concrete dna

TheConcrete DNA really felt pretty twisted up about it secretly

concrete horsies

Meanwhile the world’s most minimalist Concrete Horsies stood around pretending nothing was happening

concrete turtle

The Concrete Cheese needn’t have worried: The Concrete Turtle was having an existential crisis and felt rooted in place by ennui


Ultimately, the Concrete DNA reached a point of acceptance

Update: Miller-Melberg playground sculptures

Update # 2: a Miller-Melberg Turtle accosted me in Grand Haven, Michigan last week:



Op Ed: Open Shooting Zones

(Note to editor: I made the first line so that you can post this ANY TIME)

With these latest reprehensible killings, it finally is evident that the mere proliferation of guns is not adequate to provide safety from being shot. Ever since the Days o’ the Wild West, our understanding as Americans has been that: allowing that the people are provided with enough guns including spy-pen-guns and AR-67’s, and those things with the giant bullets that can kill a moose at a thousand yards, allowing sufficient rapidly-reloadable ammunition in case of attack by an entire Bedouin tribe or every cop in town, allowing that weapons can be carried openly over one’s shoulder at the diner or through the GINORMART or secreted blithely in a brassiere holster in public schools and movie theaters, allowing for these quantifiably significant risks to public safety, MAGIC GOLDEN SHOOTERS will emerge that will shoot only the bad people -instead of all of the perfectly good people that currently get shot all the time- by whippin’ out their Magnum .47 MeatMaker and unloading a clip of hot lead into the INEVITABLE bad shooters, who cannot be controlled with any kind of gun control legislation.
That is our understanding, right? I think that’s what we’ve been going with.

But gosh! It’s not working. I have examined the numbers carefully and regret to inform you that  although the people killed with guns should be: terrorists, home invaders, rapists, those bankers with the waxed moustaches and black tophats that tie blondes to traintracks, supercriminal scientists, guys that try to shoot you first, pederasts, people that try to take your stuff, street gangs that threaten with switchblades and cigarettes, etc. -instead of those “perps,” mostly, as Americans we just shoot ourselves or our family or some teachers & kids or the receptionist at our office. That’s too bad!

I put it to you that as Americans, we aren’t training shooters- we’re training gun holders. The establishment of OPEN SHOOTING ZONES, which I recommend as standard for all American Downtown/ Main Street Areas, would allow us to address this absurd oversight in gun safety policy. As I hear it, there used to be a time a man could yank out his six-iron and fire a .53 bore pure copper slug across the tip of his cheroot to ignite it. A lady might choose to get the disrespectful waiters’ attention by spinning his toupee upon his pate with a carefully-aimed pellet from her derringer. In old movies we can view the lost art of shooting so skillfully that very little injury occurs: bad guns are shot from the hands of malfeasors, hats are perforated as a gentle warning against poor behavior, bottles of alcoholic libations in the horny hands of surly hobos are shattered by the bullets of those who would recommend temperance. As I hear it, in the old days, kids as young as four years old used to have tiny, cute guns that they’d use to shoot frogs and cats. That’s great practice!  As I hear it, when a gang used to ride into town and hang old Mr Lipthwaite from the trainhook and shoot up the saloon and rob the farmers of their corn payments, a single man in the middle of the street who’s been PUSHED TOO FAR could unzip his zipgun and fan the hammer to blow away like twenty really despicable individuals that society wants dead from behind rain barrels and up on balconies with fragile railings. As I hear it, two people with a minor disagreement used to be able to agree to attempt to shoot each other to death by way of settling the argument, and sometimes they’d draw and the bullets would collide exactly between the two of them and neither would be hurt and they’d be friends again. That rarely happens anymore.

Sadly, our modern”gun holding” public is not prepared to serve up the righteous rain of heroic leaded Armageddon that our movies and media try so valiantly to model for us. They’ve been ruined for the fun of real-life Rootin’ Tootin’ Shootin’, trained as they are to fire weapons only occasionally at sad sterile shooting ranges, under some supervision, and that don’t give you the true urban experience. If you know what I mean.

OPEN SHOOTING ZONES: Because we need to be able to express our guns freely as Americans! To fire them off to make a point, or for the intrinsic humor value inherent in a chunk of metal travelling at 2,500 feet per second. We need to practice shootin’ tin cans off the top of the fence behind P.S. 37 and never mind what Widder Jankens says. We need be prepared to sometimes take a small calibre bullet in the buttocks as a good-natured joke. We need to practice quickly pulling our guns and waving them around and shooting and using them to threaten everyone, the cheesemonger, the maid, ESPECIALLY the police, the boys at the bar, the gals at bridge club, your boss, the kids at breakfast, shoot out the tires of that bad driver, shoot the prissy concierge in his shiny shoe, shoot! Shoot! WAHOO! Shoot! Kapow! PopPOW! WHEEHAW KaBOOM Peeoww! OBVIOUSLY WE JUST NEED MORE PRACTICE AND WE’LL GET THIS RIGHT

Interested sociopathic monied parties in the Gun Industry are welcome to contact the author to pay me billions of blooddollars to frame out some scalable model legislation to promote OPEN SHOOTING ZONES in downtown America: Because people can’t be safe unless we shoot more people.



In Which I am Disturbed by Billboards for a Local Hotel

webers 1

#1: Disturbed by Weber’s Billboard 94 Eastbound near Zeeb or thereabouts.
“Meat With Friends?” I find that creepily, unwholesomely provocative.
What are they implying, with their big naked slab of prime rib? Creeps me out.

webers 2

#2: Disturbed by Weber’s Billboard 94 Westbound near Belleville road or thereabouts.
“This Time You Deserve It.” Is that a threat or a come-on?
And what’s with the businessman leaning back in the chair and grinning, seen only from the waist up? Is that his knee OR SOMEBODY’S HEAD

webers 3

#3: Disturbed by Weber’s Billboard 94 Westbound near Jackson road or thereabouts.
“Time to Go Sleek.” What the HELL does that mean?
From the smirky, modely teenager portraited, I can only infer that you check in, Mousse your hair elaborately, and then something horrible happens
On this Billboard, Weber’s is jarringly referred to as a “Boutique Hotel,” all of a sudden, and I’m not buying it- Since when? is there some kind of certification for that? Is it only “Boutique” if you’re willing to  “Go Sleek” there? What the hell ?


#4: Disturbed by Weber’s Billboard 23 Southbound near Guidobono Concrete or thereabouts.
In a way, I find this the most disturbing OF ALL, because of the anthropomorphism. Lobsters do NOT have thumbs. And when I look at a lobster claw, I don’t want to think, mmmm, that thumb would be tasty with butter and lemon. It diminishes the experience for me.
I’m unhappy about chicken fingers too, but I’ve made peace with it. Lobster thumbs is TAKING IT TOO FAR


20 Years Dead: Borax Poster Archive

Borax RIP: 1986-1996. Click these posters, print on Zombie-Green Astrobright paper and hammerstaple to a telephone pole for a week to give ’em the proper patina and STREET CRED.

Art by Nitro and/or Greg Peters, except Elvis Windex  drew that pig quoting Socrates.

The Three of Birthday Cakes

Birthday 7

Incidentally, Thanks, Son, for the Father’s Day Card.


Thanks & Salutations

I’ve been greatly gratified at the purchases by  my friends of my recent book “A Slim Volume of Worse” . Also for people historically willing to immerse themselves in Piggleyland’s  dysphoric text. And as always, for those who  purchase Exquisite von Borax Prints on Paper or Canvas from Imagekind and Stunning von Borax Cards and T-shirts from Zazzle.

I am keeping a list, and the terrible things I threatened probably won’t happen to you people, now.

washtenaw county poor house and insane asylum

This Week’s Pulp Purchase: The Passionate Witch

A lesser work by the dissolute 1930’sish author Thorne Smith, who also wrote “Topper” and “Night Life of the Gods” which are much better than this posthumously published (and “completed” by another writer) book. It was kind of made into, or more, I would say, inspired,  “I Married a Witch” with Veronica Lake. Which kind of led to “Bell Book and Candle” which kind of led to “Bewitched” and all of those are pretty awesome.


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