Welcome Stranger!

           WILLIAM SCOTT, 

Untitled

, 2015, Watercolor and ink on paper

As a poverty stricken teenager I spent hours and hours sifting through thrift stores searching for hidden treasure. My entire wardrobe and half of my belongings were excavated second hand discoveries. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Today I can afford most of the cheap crap I consume and my time is valuable so I don’t go thrifting anymore. I do waste an incredible amount of time on Instagram and Twitter though. If you didn’t end up here from one of my links on those pages you can follow me on Instagram @spottless_marxx or on Twitter @SpottlessMarxx. One of the reasons I’m so addicted to those sites is that I ‘ve found many hidden treasures there from all around world in the form of people. Interesting, happy, social, active, isolated, alienated, scary, lonely, angry, insanely creative people.

Some of them, but not all, have huge followings. In my online life everybody knows who these stars are but in my offline life nobody has ever heard of them. For this reason I have bestowed upon them the name “secret celebrities.” 

My portrait of @fesignkh brilliant University of Tehran art student on Instagram who did the original Francis Bacon Portrait in a hoodie found in the video below. I added background, "The Blues" by Chuck Barry & snow. 

Iranian artist and student @fesignkh  pictured above only has around 3000 followers at this moment. I consider her a secret celebrity, however, because everything she posts gets hundreds of likes. That means she has a captive audience, which includes me. I don’t consider myself a secret celebrity but I do consider myself worthy of YOUR attention, and here’s why:

Years ago I was a radio journalist. Although I worked in the realm of non-corporate community radio I was constantly being encouraged to produce what was described to me as a clear, natural and professional sounding news product. What that meant was hours and hours of editing interviews, removing any and all  “umms”, pauses, interruptions, awkward phrasing and, most importantly, “cutting to the chase." In other words, eliminating all tangential information and making people sound concise and articulate even if they didn’t actually speak that way. It still fascinates me that nearly every person I interviewed believed that is how they actually spoke. The rare exception was when I was accused of taking something out of context to make somebody look bad. Truth be known, those were bad and/or stupid people who said bad and/or stupid things and got busted. But that’s another story. Pro editing tips I constantly struggled with also included the unofficial requirement that no single soundbite exceed nine to fifteen seconds. Anything longer than that was considered indulgent and distracting. If you haven't seen the movie ROMA I highly recommend it. When I hear people criticize the exrodinary long shots in that graceful film it reminds me of the shit I used to take in the newsroom.

Anyhow this process of making things “professional” was one of the reasons I got out of journalism. It was particularly painful when I was interviewing nuns who were organizing labor in the unholy maquiladora factories in Latin America that NAFTA gave birth too. These strong but peace loving women were receiving government sanctioned death threats as a reward for addressing toxic working conditions, extremely low pay and violent union busting. Meanwhile I’m being forced to censor them to make sure they sound “clear and natural” and respect my audiences short attention spans. 

I'm not saying this is wrong. I appreciate journalists more than ever now that they are being demonized & attacked by our President, arrested by dictators and even killed. One of my favorite protest signs I've been noticing says "Then they came for the journalists and after that... we don't know what happend." Nonetheless, you've probalby already guessed that I'm the wrong person for making complex realities bite sized and digestible.  

The reason I’m telling you this is that you are, at this moment, in a dusty, lonely (and I hope) interesting, corner of the Internet. A hidden treasure. As far as I can tell, Blogger is all but dead. They don't even have an App. You are quite the adventurous one to even click on a link with the word “blogspot” in it. When Blogger was created it was all the rage but had many critics warning of the "Vanity Press.” 

Back then I didn’t think too hard about what "vanity press" actually meant but certainly agreed it was tasteless... and probably something I should be doing. Years later Blogger has gone the way of AOL and MySpace but maybe it's only problem is that it was ahead of it's time? I currently spend many hours watching strangers from all around the world on my phone talk about their menstrual cycle, do their laundry, draw a picture, rant, rave, dance, feed their bird and pet their cat. And I’m not alone. A literal army of  virtual peeping toms are doing the same thing. Why? I think it’s because we crave all that vain, overindulgent, tangential and awkward information that has ended up on the cutting room floor without our knowledge or permission. We’re tired of being force fed rehearsed and hollow talking points coming from corrupt politicians and corporations. We’re not interested in “clear, natural and professional” ... we want the awkward, ugly and often boring truth!

God bless those who do, but I'm not one for sniffing my armpits and spilling my guts to strangers on the Internet. I'm pretty comfortable sharing myself with the few restless, curious and driven voyeurs (aka you) who are willing to go out of your way to click on an obscure link to Blogger. This is sorta the closest thing I have to a diary. If you decide to read more you will learn quite a bit about me. If you stick around you may learn a lot more. If you leave a comment, I'll be thrilled to find out I'm not alone and I'll be more than interested in checking out your neck of the woods, if your into that sort of thing.

Bee...ing Real

Copyright © 2018 Mind Honey Clothing

Many years ago in a land far far away (San Francisco) I had a vivid nightmare that is now becoming a reality. I dreamed that I worked for a corporation that discovered that it's main product, cell phones, were killing off bees. Bees are pollinators. This may not seem important until you find out that one third of all food humans consume will disappear without them. Immediately my corporate bosses realized that the loss of bees would threaten life on Earth as we know it. Instead of solving the potentially catastrophic problem, however, we decided to cover it up. It was my job to invent a replacement for bees before anybody found out the truth. 

For well over a decade I've been taking college classes to avoid defaulting on my student loans. At the time of this dream I was taking a late night City College class in contemporary art history located in a tiny, hot and cramped  theater on the upper floors of a generic downtown high-rise. We were studying the scholarly article by Jean Baudrillard "Simulacra and Simulation" that is at the heart of Postmodernism. According to Baudrillard we are moving into a reality where simulated versions of our experience are becoming more "real" than the original. In fact, many of us have long forgotten the original. According to Baudrillard, we don't visit Disneyland anymore. We eat, breath, shit and live in Disneyland. 

While I was taking this class the public was becoming aware for the first time of the troubling phenomenon that bee colony’s all around the world were abruptly disappearing for no apparent reason. Many were speculating that cell phones were the cause. I remember this because a survey came out of cell phone use among teens howling that many of our youth would rather die than give up their cell phones. Deep down I thought we were all going to die with our cell phones firmly in hand.

Today the bees are still dying in mass. While I don't hear any blame going to cell phones anymore, it's still an urgent and complicated problem with the billion dollar pesticide industry pumping out fake "studies" not unlike those funded by the global warming deniers who are obvious puppets of their fossil fuel overlords.   



In the meantime, scientists are working on the task right out of my nightmare. Developing a robot replacement for the bees. Obviously there are colossal  challenges to pulling this off but we already have models and scientists are  supposedly optimistic about the chances of eventual success. Given our capacity for greed and the lack of political will to save the bees, it's no exaggeration to say we have a lot riding on this particular simulacra. 

 
Right after awaking from this nightmare, I laid in bed wondering what will happen to the last of the real bees once we have replaced them. Perhaps they would become isolated and confused, performing some cryptic and obscure version of their original rituals and function. Then I began to wonder if we have similar lost souls among us today. We know that traditional seers and healers became "Witch Doctors" & later the more politically correct "Shaman" in the skeptical eyes of Western science and medicine.  These individuals and their ways are still holding on and seem to have growing influence among those of us who are looking for new ways of understanding and coping with what appears on the surface to be a growing mess on an epic scale. A wise man recently asked me how many diseases Native Americans inflicted on the white invaders. I don't know enough history to honestly answer that question (and I don't want to be accused of romanticizing the past) but I can say this, I understand what he was trying to say. Black Elk... I for one, am listening.




One of my favorite definitions of art is that it is the religion for those who don't have a religion. For me there has always been something profound but a little "off" about art and the people who make it. Myself included. 

Bees took evolution millions of years to perfect. Now human life may depend on humans developing an effective but flimsy (in comparison) replacement in a few decades. Perhaps we artists are the last of the real bees who have had our real work and identity hijacked from us by some shallow impersonator? While I may draw inspiration from the per-historic cave painters, alchemists and even the shaman living today, I don't have a cave, a tribe or artifacts to inform and define me. So I create my own. The Internet is my fountain, computer my archive and the smart phone my tool and the local copy store my laboratory.

It's been four years since my last entry. I wish I could say I was busy getting my life together and moved on from this silly blog. Instead I've been living in denial. I just turned 50 today, July 4th. I now have high blood pressure, type 2 diabetes, no kids and more cats than I care to admit. All of this in the wake of growing fascism (thinly veiled as populism) around the world with the center of gravity being right here in the good O'l US of A with the election of Donald Trump.  

Baudrillard has never made more sense to me. 

Making art has never made more sense to me.

Still Doing It Myself

I would have been destroyed from the inside out as a kid had I not been rescued by a band of drug dealing hoodlums on skateboards. Growing up as a moody poor kid on the outskirts of a pristine and wealthy college town, I was an insecure misfit yearning to belong. I had almost given up trying when I was adopted into the “do it yourself” ethic of punk rock and graffiti. I learned to embrace my informal education gathered bit by bit from thousands of hours of watching TV, reading comic books and science fiction and experimenting with drugs and alcohol.

As I figured out how to cope and adapt to poverty and loneliness in a yuppie paradise, I also became concerned with the social and political cause of other underdogs. Today I’m the reluctant champion to the bitches, freaks, psychotics, bums, thugs and junkies of the world. This focus has exposed me to many of the deep rooted contradictions and injustices imbedded in our culture. Belieiving in the promise of technology to level the playing field, I’ve immersed myself in every digital craze to come along since the arrival of desktop computers. My latest quest is to master what I call “at a glance” cinema.

My current work is the 2-minute epic video The Gunfighters. While gun violence terrorizes our communities, we still lack the political will necessary to change course. Gunshots have ended the lives of my three closest friends, my youngest uncle and, most recently, my 86 year old neighbor. He survived combat in Germany on the battlefields of WWII but his life ended in his own living room with a single shot from an intruder whom he refused to give a cigarette. The Gunfighters was assembled entirely from found bits and pieces from the Internet and explores the visceral experience of staring down the barrel of a gun.

The Gunfighters

Ungodly Glitch Experiment  * Music by Wax Tailor

Another Name For Nothing Left To Loose

I'm reporting to you from the undisputed myth-making capitol of the world... Los Angeles. I'm not in "the business" as they call it. I'm a completely unknown and invisible fine artist. I also run a homeless shelter. Admittedly, I came here with the hope of fulfilling my dreams. The only difference between myself, and the thousands of others who make the same pilgrimage to LA, is my dreams are more like topsy purvey hallucinations. I've never quite understood them and (unlike the majority of waiters and waitress in this town) I'm well aware that they often lead me astray (If you don't believe me, check out the rest of this blog). I will not deny, however, that I'm here along with a literal army of fellow day dreamers, flakes and, yes, a select few hard working geniuses, to fulfill a dream.


Many of my fellow pilgrims are possessed with an idea that seems to have replaced the American Dream; MAKING IT BIG! For some that means a Beverley Hills address, Gucci, Armani, and Lamborghini. Before you judge or scoff, I must point out that these so called materialists are willing to get off their asses and actually move their bodies to achieve this shit. Millions of us share this same fantasy but are not willing to leave our crappy jobs, couches, and mega-super-stores to achieve it. A mere lottery ticket is enough to help many of us roll out of bed in the morning.

True, not all of us are so materialistic. The majority of us will welcome a little style and a few nice things, but what we really want is something much more elusive .. freedom. We don't won't to be told what, when, where and how to do any more. We're fed up with being "cogs".  We want to be self-actualized "humans beings" fulfilling our purpose in life without resistance or criticism. We want to be one of those "people" people thanking god for our "blessed life." For those of you who think these motivations are more "pure" I must point out that there are far more people out here selling this myth than there are selling mansions, Lamborghinis, or even movies.  Many of them are wearing Gucci and Armani.  Chis Rock describes this dichotomy as the "career" versus the "job". He warns that those with "jobs" have way too much time on the planet because their jobs suck so bad while those with "careers" don't have nearly enough time because they are loving life so much they cannot possibly get everything done. Other "Profits" of the highly productive passion driven life include Anthony Robbins, Oprah, and a bunch of other mega rich successful people I'm sure you've heard of.A question that I have never heard asked to one of these super humans is "are you free?" I bring this up because I recently came across the poem "The Strongest Of The Strange" by Charles Bukowski. A line in that poem made me re-think the whole "making it big" thing:


"You won’t see them often for wherever the crowd is they are not. Those odd ones, not many but from them come the few good paintings, the few good symphonies, the few good books and other works... and from the best of the strange ones... perhaps nothing. They are their own paintings their own books their own music their own work." 

And from the best... perhaps nothing. They are their work. Awesome! 

For over a decade I've spent my daylight hours serving junkies, alcoholics, and schizophrenics. Most "respectable" people seem, at best, to feel sorry for them and, at worst, consider them worthless leaches on society. Years ago I came up with this theory that these outcasts were the descendants of the radical individuals that settled this country. Just like the early American pioneers, they live their lives completely on their own terms and no police, judges, jails, psychiatrists, social workers, psyche wards... or even gods are going tell them what to do or not do. Now we're talking freedom. Not abstract flag waving freedom. Real freedom. The problem they have in today's world is not that they need "treatment." They need a new frontier.  Trees to cut down, sod to bust, animals to kill, asses to kick. I'm sure you'll agree, a complicated situation in this day and age.

One of my unofficial slogans has become "no good deed goes unpunished." I've often been asked by those close to me why I do this thankless work. Bukowski gave me my answer. I'm surrounded by masterpieces. Works of pure genius that most people will never get to know. I get to see what freedom actually looks like. To be honest, I'm not sure it's for me. More entertaining to watch than 90% of the movies out there, though.  

Off With Our Heads!

recently leaked painting by George W. Bush 

painting by Frida Kahlo

Yours Truely

I once hated George W. Bush as much as the Tea Baggers now hate Obama. I literally pictured his head on a stake. That changed when I saw him telling Charlie Rose the colors he would use to paint his tie during an interview. I instantly liked him. It all makes sense now. The reason he is so insane is that he is an artist like me. I'm sure some pretty bad stuff would go down if the world ever had the misfortune to have me as a President. Sure he is painting the most mundane things you can possibly imagine... cats, dogs and landscapes... but isn't that kinda awesome! I believe that there is a slacker (and painter) in the heart of every true artist. We are the ones you used to hear about that stop and smell the roses.  If we had complete freedom and didn't have to worry about what anybody thought about us, we wouldn't try to make masterpieces, save lives, prevent disease or end war. That assumes too much. The best artists are too objective. More than anybody we see the potential beauty in pain, suffering and "ugliness" of every kind. To avoid interfering or competing with God (who we respect as the ultimate master of ambiguity)... we'd pass the time painting the harmless objects of our affection... ourselves, our kids, naked ladies,  our pets... other peoples pets... and throw in an occasional tranquil landscape. GW is one of us! What a relief.

You Are Beautiful & Charming!

Thanks for looking in.



.

Y2K Bug

As we approach the end of the world (December 21st, 2012) I must admit I'm a little anxious. But fear not. I can still remember the last time I survived the end of the world. Believe me when I say there is tremendous potential in armageddon.

On December 31, 1999 I was preparing for a new life. A life without computers and everything that came with them. I believed all the hype about the Y2K “Millennium Bug.” The experts who were saying that the internal clock in millions of computers was going to be set to zero at midnight  (unleashing a form of technological Armageddon) confirmed everything I had always believed. Computers were sterile, evil machines that were accelerating a process that TV had started when I was a kid… turning me into a useless couch potato. I was excited.

Seven days later I pulled the plug on the water reserves I was storing in my bathtub. Taking a computer catalog off the recycling pile, I began shopping for a new computer while I soaked in a sudsy bubble bath. That was the beginning of my fascination with expressing myself through computers and technology. Computers, cameras, software, the Internet and printers. It was 2000 and I had discovered a new medium.

New Years Excuses!

Happy New Year! 2011 and I’m still fat, broke, and tired. I haven’t gone anywhere near a scale lately but I’m pretty sure I’m fatter then ever.  I’m happy to report, though, that I must be less tired… or you wouldn’t be reading this. Fatigue is a sure way of stifling hobbies like writing for a blog that nobody reads. I think I’m about to make a break through, though. But be warned: I have a philosophical dilemma and, for some crazy reason, I ‘m compelled to sort through it here… even though I know I should probably keep it to myself. Perhaps it’s because I know I don’t have the answers to my problems and I’m reaching out for help. Feel free to comment.

I started out this journey with a commitment to becoming a healthy, physically fit, financially secure, vegan. In true slob fashion, over a year has gone by and I continue to eat meat (and a bunch of other crap I know is bad for me), drink coffee and booze, spend money without saving, watch a lot of TV and not exercise. The only thing I don’t do anymore is smoke… and the only reason I don’t do that is I never really smoked in the first place. I have dabbled here and there with some healthier habits but the bottom line is I haven’t changed my ways. Since I was a kid I’ve been a believer in the wisdom of the Jedi Master Yoda who said “there is no try. You either do or you don’t do.’ I haven’t done shit. But why? As much as I’d like to start this year off with renewed vigor and a fresh commitment to a better and happier me, I know I have to answer this question before I can move forward. Why haven’t I been motivated to change? Here are a few of my latest excuses:

#1- I’m perfectly happy with who I am, what I eat and 
      what I do.The only thing missing is admitting this to 
      myself.

#2 – I don’t feel good (or happy) but I’m lazy and do what’s easy. As destructive as I know my lifestyle is, I haven’t had any consequences bad enough, yet, to force me to change. I haven’t hit “rock bottom.”

#3 – I‘m a mere product of my environment. I have the illusion of choice and control but the truth is... I’m exactly what my environment requires me to be. I’m a tiny cog in a vast, mindless, purposeless (but intricately interconnected) system. The reason I act like a fat, lazy, and bloated American is because that’s what I am. That’s what the majority of us are.

     #4 – Other reasons having to do with extra terrestrials, the ozone layer, alignment of the stars, the Mayan calendar, and a bunch of other stuff that I’m too embarrassed to admit in public… but still consider possible factors.

     #5 - Analysis leads to paralysis.

     #6 – Pride, ego, and vanity are a trap. On some level, I know that none of this really matters. Change is necessary and possible but I’m focusing on the wrong things. Perhaps it’s time for a new blog? “Staring Into The Void: A human consciousness being one with the Universe”? How does that sound?

The Time I Almost Died

At age 23 I moved in with the love of my life. A few months later she kicked me out in the middle of a snow storm… in my underwear. With nowhere to go, I moved into my Dad’s art studio by the train tracks near downtown Denver. Still heart broken, and recovering from walking phenomena, she called me out of the blue and invited me to a U2 concert at Mile High Stadium.  Even though I felt like crap, I accepted the invitation. Before she came to pick me up I drank half a bottle of vodka to calm my nerves.

Midway through the concert, I had to throw-up. I rushed to the restroom but there was a line a block long. I ran outside the stadium and puked. Earlier in the evening Public Enemy opened the show and there was some gang related violence in the parking lot. Security wasn't  letting anybody in or out of the stadium. I pleaded but I was locked out.

Wondering around in the snow, deathly sick, with nothing on but blue jeans, a sweatshirt and a blazer, I decided to walk back to my dad’s studio. On the way I saw a slow moving train headed in my direction. I decided to grab onto a ladder on the back of a boxcar. By the time the train was passing my dad’s studio it was going like 100  miles per hour. I didn’t jump. 

I held on for dear life as the train kept going all night, finally stopping in the middle of the prairie. Relieved, I jumped off but found myself in the middle of nowhere. Eventually I found a warm patch of concrete with no snow on it. I laid down and looked at the clear blue sky and felt happy for the first time in a long time. I was happy to be alive! 

Off in the distance I saw a single car disappear into the horizon. I headed towards the highway. At this point I was no-longer sick but my jacket was torn and I was covered in grease. No cars would stop for me. After many hours of walking down the desolate highway (being ignored by cars) I saw a train heading back the other way. I jumped on. The train traveled into the night and eventually stopped near a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. There was a pay phone but it was broken. I went inside and asked to use the phone. The lady said “no” and asked me to leave since I wasn’t a customer. Next to the truck stop was a laundry mat. I believed that my luck would start to turn around if my cloths were clean so I decided to use the few dollars I had to wash my clothes. Since I had nothing to wear, I looked in the dumpster behind the laundry mat and found a light blue body suit with a magnet belt straight out of the 70’s. I tried it on in the bathroom and it was tight… but it fit. I bought a small box of detergent and washed my clothes but did not have enough for the dryer. I asked the clerk at the truck stop for money. Again she refused. Carrying my wet clothes in a plastic bag I walked around looking for help. I couldn’t find another living soul. Way off in the distance I saw the lights of a town. I started walking. Once again I tried to flag down cars but nobody would stop. I was starving and decided to eat some corn from the fields by the side of the road. The corn was hard as a rock and completely flavorless. It was inedible. Eventually a highway patrolman pulled over. His license plate said Nebraska. For the first time I knew where I was. I told the officer my story but he looked at me like I was crazy and refused to give me a ride. After he left, another train came by going in the direction of the town. I jumped on.

On the morning of my 2^nd day I pulled into the world's largest rail yard located in North Platte Nebraska. I quickly found a grocery store and called my dad collect on a pay phone. He was stunned to hear I was in Nebraska. He and my girlfriend had spent two days looking for me all over town… including at the morgue. He wired me money and I dried my cloths, eat at McDonald’s, and bought a Greyhound bus ticket home. Within a week I moved back in with the love of my life. 18 years later and we are still together.

A Strange And Bitter Crop

The name "Luther" is old German in origin. It's meaning is "soldier of the people" or "renowned warrior". It's often used as homage to Martin Luther, the Christian protestant reformer, or to Martin Luther King, Jr (MLK) the civil rights activist. 


King Moonracer


I was conceived at the first hippy commune in the United States. It was called Drop City. At the time, my dad was a co-founder/artist and my mom was a local high school kid from Trinidad, CO.  I was born a few months after MLK was assassinated. In his wake there were riots happening all over the country. I was named "Luther" not to honor MLK but as a form of protection. My parents believed that there was going to be a violent revolution and the new regime would go easy on me if my name was "Luther."


I mention this because I actually have a few readers now and, for the first time, received feedback on my last post. I now have three people following this blog (all of whom I suspect are covert radicals like myself).  I was told by those who know me that I have surrounded myself by slackers but I am obviously  "not a slacker" and asked why I would promote such a "worthless" point of view?

It is true that I have worked tirelessly my whole life and am not a "slacker". I am not a fan of work and responsibility but I have not succeeded in "doing as little as possible." What I have done is become the reluctant champion for those with whom our society has, what I would call, an "uneasy truce." I am on a one man mission to advance the cause of those who are still in constant threat of psychological, spiritual, and even physical, annihilation because they are incapable, or flat out refuse, to "go with the program".  "Slackers" are the ones that look and sound the most like me and with whom I most strongly identify. But they are not the only ones. I have managed to make a career as a champion for bitches, freaks, psychotics, bums, thugs and junkies.  None of these people even remotely look or sound like me but I like to believe that I have earned their trust and respect. Why? Because I respect them. I admit that I am comfortable in many ways. But I still have a gut feeling that something is very wrong. Not doing what our society wants us to is not necessarily a character flaw. 

In case you were wondering, I'm not a public defender. I work for a non-profit and the project I work for is, in my opinion, radical. So radical that I think too much attention threatens it's very existence...so I will remain intentionally vague.  We have an unofficial slogan "high tolerance, low threshold." When I talk about this philosophy to outsiders I often pretend as if it is "new" and I don't know exactly what it's all about: 

"High threshold, low intolerance? I can't remember." 

In actuality it is not a  "new" concept in America. Basically it  means "come as you are and do as you please." Outside of America, many still believe we all live by this creed. In reality, only corporations and a few privileged youth and very wealthy individuals can get away with it. Admittedly, it has unlimited potential to breed both power and corruption. Once it is fully realized that such an environment is being attempted (with government funding) for the mentally ill living in extreme poverty, it probably won't be tolerated for long. So shhhhh. Even some of those who are on the inside, and benefit on a daily basis, are suspicious of it and try to tear it down. It''s an exciting,  inspiring and often brutal place to work.

Lately I have been referring my staff to the movie the Hurt Locker. According to some definitions a hurt locker is " a figurative place where someone is said to be, or will be, getting hurt or beaten." 
 "We are in the business of handling bombs, explosions, and hurt" I tell my staff. 

"And our cause is not for everyone... to bring back the dead". 


"To harvest a strange and bitter crop. "