I thought it best to take a couple of hours to get to know the piece again, before I go changing things. So I let it run and took some photos. I liked them and thought you would too. Tomorrow I'll begin in earnest, knowing already that what I change tomorrow will be different, somewhat, from what I would have changed tonight. We'll see what happens. 

Mechanically, it seems to be fine. The jester turns his head and raises his finger to his lips, he raises and lowers the yellow harlequin, teasing the frog below, who is trying to snag the harlequin with his umbrella, to no avail, no matter how much he wants him, for reasons unknown. The angel peers through the glass, out over the city, then lowers it looking away just in time to miss the harlequin as he passes. 

Vaguely, I knew that underneath them was a deserted factory of some sort, and that the five of them were joined together somehow, by something. It's possible that one day Neil will figure that one out.  

Before I built this sculpture for Neil, I stared at the photos of the niche in the wall for awhile. I knew two things: One was that the figures in the sculpture would be atop some sort of crumbling smoke stack high over a strange, old city. The other was that the jester was once a rat. 

For the past thirteen years, I've either sculpted, painted, drawn or written something every single day, with few exceptions. One belief that has come from this, and from which I cannot be shaken, is that the mind is a universe, and that what it creates in any given moment will be different from what it creates in any other. The possibilities are limitless and the only restrictions are those we place on ourselves. 

Working on Neil's sculpture. Details :Neil's sculpture closeups

More on Bill in a bit. He is dearly missed by many. 

About the photo, the Neil sculpture and Bill Hicks

Bill Hicks

I only have a few heroes. Bill Hicks is one of them. Bill knew what was wrong with the world. He knew what we needed to do. He spoke about these things with such conviction, such deep insight, and such searing honesty that no one listening could go away unaffected. He spoke of these things with such raw wit and comedic talent that we groundlings could get it. He left us laughing, but really, he left us thinking. He was a teacher.
I didn’t discover Bill until eight years ago, when I started listening to TOOL . I was already deeply involved in my work as a sculptor. Bill was already dead. But I listened and learned that what I was struggling to say in art Bill had said more eloquently than I could have imagined, in words.
Bill saw the monsters, Bill saw the sheep and Bill loved people. I will always be grateful to him for his courage, wisdom and talent.

Today marks the eleventh anniversary of his passing, at age 32.

I invite you to post your thoughts about Bill.

AND I’m asking you to honor Bill by donating A DOLLAR to the Bill Hicks Foundation.

There is no shame in donating a dollar. I went to college. I'm an artist. I know poor. But if you don't donate at least the dollar then, well, you’re scum. Sorry, but, come on, One Dollar. Do it. If everybody does it, it will add up to many dollars. Good will be done with it.

If you don't know Bill from Adam's off-housecat, here’s what to do: Donate the dollar now, go find out who he was and what he had to say, laugh your ass off, learn something for God's sake and come back and make a decent donation.
Sacred Cow Productions
billhicks.com - 'People Who Hate People' Party HQ
The Konformist - The Silence of Bill Hicks
Bill Hicks - Wikiquote
Bill Hicks - Interesting Motherfuckers - Acid Logic ezine

Click the Paypal button below to donate $1

PAYPAL recipient address is tlraridon1@sbcglobal.net (Lynn Raridon, director BHF)

OR You can mail a donation to the postal address on the site.

OR You can donate $25 and receive your choice of a really cool T-shirt, coffee mug or CD.
Cool stuff to get for $25


When you get your shirt and/or mug, email me a photo at harlikn7@aol.com. I’ll make a collage of the photos of all the very cool people who did this and post it.
Please send your photos to me by March 26.

I’ll wear my T-shirt and drink from my coffee mug while I work on Neil's sculpture, then I’ll take them with me to Neil's to wear and drink from while I install the piece and putter about waiting for Neil to write the something he promised to write for me. I’ll probably get Neil a mug too, because he is very cool to let you know about this. I'll post photos so if you’ve failed to donate a dollar today, you'll get another chance to feel like scum and do the right thing.

Make us proud. Innocent animals in need are counting on you.

Now. Speaking of Neil’s sculpture.

The sculpture is called “Luck Be Nimble, Fate be Quick”. I spoke to Neil on the phone yesterday and after we compared cold symptoms. He wins this time. His is worse. He said he’d write something about the sculpture. It will be on his journal, which is here: Neil Gaiman's Journal
I’m going to be refurbishing the piece and actually making some changes. My work is different now so I'll update the piece a bit, throw in some suprises for Neil. First, I have to check the connections and possibly open the thing up and dig around to find out what needs to be done mechanically.
---This could get ugly. (If Neil didn't tell you about the problem with the motion sensor and the cats, let me know and I will.)
That done, we’ll have some fun with it. I’ll be posting photos along the way, then we’ll post the re-installation later on.

This was a long post. Thanks for reading. Remember Bill and check back in for progress on "Luck be Nimble"

G'night

Working stage

It’s chilly in the house this morning, even with the fire going, and I seem to have caught a cold. It’s the first day in weeks without rain, so I can open the studio doors and clear some of the carnage from last week’s creative mania. It looks as though Mr. Hyde has occupied my workspace, but then I remember, it was me, caught in the current of ideas. I started three new works, laid out elements of Lost and Found on the biggest work table and sketched pieces I couldn’t get to, made notes about others.
First to clear out some chaos. Two large sheets of laminate were blocking shelves with bins of things I’d need to get to. These I laid flat on the floor, taping the edges with the smooth sides up. Later, when Orion is home from daycare, I’ll set him down on top and give him a handful of markers. Then it’s a matter of putting tools in bins and brushes in cups and trying not to get distracted.
I like this stage of the creative cycle. The sober, working stage, the sanity that comes after the mania of creation. I like that part too., that exhilarating high, however exhausting. When I’m in it, I wish I could always think that way. When it’s done, I’m relieved it’s over. It’s like taking an exciting holiday, sort of. You feel renewed, refreshed, invigorated, your life back home seems mundane in comparison, but as soon as you open your door , you’re glad to be home. Anyway, the cycle works for me. Or, perhaps I’ve learned to work within a rhythm I have no real control over.
Of course, this morning there’s this cold. I’m wanting to snuggle in on the couch near the fire with the Ramsey Campbell paperback I pulled from yet another carton of books we inherited from a friend of a friend. If only we’d inherit the shelves as well.
But, I have at least five pieces to finish, some angels to send to collectors who’ve waited patiently for them, and rats to mail.
In between, while paints dry and castings set, I’ll sit at the big table and work on Lost and Found. So, it’s off for coffee and cold tablets.

Everything has a price.

No doubt you've seen this ad. This copy is from National Geographic. Technology is a good thing. Atomic fusion, the internet, automobiles, fast food, cell phones. No moral judgements. Just know this and make no mistake:
Everything has a price. Actions have consequences.
I didn't make this up, it's the way the universe is made, no matter how you look at it.

So. let's look at this ad.
"We're building a dream." Whose?
"One robot at a time". Uh, no, not for long. There's no profit in one at a time.
Look at this family. Stepford meets Target.
Even the dog is average white upper middle class. Perfectly manicured lawn, nice big entrance. Ok. This is who we're to believe can afford ASIMO.
ASIMO. ASIMOV. Is it just me? No, didn't think so. You saw that way back. Does this family read ASIMOV? Is this a family? Possibly they are talent.

ASIMO is waving. Why? Because he can't smile? Note---the humans aren't waving. They're smiling. Waving, smiling. Same, samey same. Very human.
Why is ASIMO shown outside the home, waving to us and not inside, carrying a beer or changing the litter box?
Ok. The text explains that one. "Right now ASIMO walks forward and backward, turns corners and goes up and down stairs with ease. All with a remarkable sense of strength and balance." So much for changing the litter box.

So, why is ASIMO shown outside the home, waving and not inside the home, waving? Maybe because people don't normally wave inside? Is it possible the most important aspect of this ad is the wave?
The text goes on to say:
"But ASIMO has the potential to respond to simple voice commands, recognize faces, carry loads and even push wheeled objects. Which means that one day ASIMO could be quite useful......assisting the elderly....etc."
Cause, damn. No human wants to waste time helping the elderly. God forbid we help each other.
Ok. So ASIMO is a potential new product. That's no surprise. People have been expecting robots since the fifties. I grew up with the Jetsons. I thought by 2000 we'd all have flying cars.
Note that ASIMO is referred to as ASIMO, not THE ASIMO. So, a name is implied, but they carefully avoid using 'he", "she" or "it". Clever bastards.

It's not the technology that bothers me. It's the ad. ASIMO isn't here yet, but the herding is.

Who at Honda (or not) put this ad together? Whom did they consult? Where are they leading us? I sound paranoid? Fine. But all these things, down to the #12 on the kids jersey, are DECIDED and the choices made are for REASONS. What are they?
What do you think?

baaaaaaaah baaaaaaaaaaaah baaaaaaaaaah baaaaaaaaaaaah baaah

I saw my sister's name online and pinged her. I got her husband, K. I asked after him, and told him I'd email my sister, that I was concerned about how she'd
done with the anniversary of our mother's death. Usually, it's a hard day for her.
He typed:
"Oh, she's doing just fine now. I bought her a diamond necklace."
.................cone of silence...
."That's great, Kirby. Nothing cures grief like a diamond necklace."
I'm so popular back home. I got a two- sentence email recently, regarding my 'career in California':
"Potty mouth. Your mother would have been ashamed."
Goddammit. We wantsss to stick a fork in our eye, preciousssss.
I love 'em, but I don't get 'em. Same as they don't get me.


Everything has a price.
Everything has a price.

I take it back---I don't miss rain. Rain is good.

G'night

Raining in, raining out

I have never, ever had writer's block, artist's block, or any other kind of creative block. Never.
"Shhhh!" you say. "You'll jinx it".
Good.
I could use a little quiet. The noise, the noise, the noise. So like the rain outside, never like a faucet dripping. That, I can shut out.
It's Monday morning and raining hard. It's disconcerting, in the way it goes against the desert-ness of the desert. Now we've had more rain than in a decade (according to the news) and this place has a strange new face.
"We're so gonna die" is what Aubrey said in the car the other day. She was looking at the hills, formerly of the rock variety, now sprouting like really ugly Chia pets. Palm Springs can get very claustrophobic. Geographically, it's a deep thumb print on the edge of the mountains. The grocery store I wander late at night has nothing behind but mountain. It is literally on the edge. Now all these rocky faces are covered in greenery that will turn to brownery in summer, then kindling, then I'll be sending you photos because there is nothing quite like a palm tree in flames.
I hope you enjoyed the pics of Windy's party, because that's it for awhile. I don't get out much, you know. It's flooding in places here, mud slides over in LA. Mudslides in my head. These last weeks I've been flooded with images and ideas. So much so that I begin to suspect I'm wandering into some sort of mania. It would make sense, considering my family tree. Or growing a tumor. I don't sleep well, am irritable and preoccupied. All this stuff has sprouted up around me. The studio is crammed with work and work in progress. Lost and Found is splayed out on the table like an autopsy.
Will I ever, ever escape the fucking morgue?
I look around at all this and hear Aubrey again....
After this flood, will it all will dry up? Will it burn? Will I burn out?
No. It doesn't happen. Ever. But eventually it slows to a drizzle. At least then, I can think.
I never, ever thought I'd say this but, I'm getting tired of rain.

The bands were Riotgun and Whores of Tijuana!. Flahertys was out of Killians, go figure, so it's me and my Sapporo, my Sapporo and me.

Jamison says he likes vampires better in a classical setting. (discussing Blade) I would tend to agree. The raw nature of the vampire is better against a Victorian backdrop than a New York subway. He looks too at home there. 

Hubby-guy Pete (mine) and Windy, the birthday girl, with tequilla 

Angie and Tony 

Jump to the left, with beer

I'm still caught in the madness that is me, in studio, with the proverbial bee in my bonnet. The 'bee' being at the moment, a connection to "Lost and Found", which I have been neglecting, mostly due to lack of said connection.
I am sleeping in naps, and just woke from one and in that moment of dullness just after waking tried some of Aubrey's beloved soy milk. I tell her it's nasty and tastes like soybeans. She says soybeans are delicious. I say they are not when they are pretending to be milk.

I'm forced to take a much-needed break tonight, but I can guarantee my mind will wander, amidst the Irish-inspired happy ruckus of Windy's birthday revelry at Flahertys---unless Jake is there, beside whose madness mine slinks away in shame. Jake has an interesting brain, that presents itself oddly when soaked in alcohol. He can be mad enough to jaunt naked down a street at midnight, yet sane enough, somewhere, to wait at the crossing light, jogging in place, parts dangling, whilst causing chaos amongst drivers of all sorts.
In a sense, bringing us together for the moment.

I shall tell you anything about it there is to tell.

Inner Space

I both love and hate the last inch of juice in the orange juice carton.


I’m too exhausted to write, from all the things that give me something to write about. Too, too much working. Too much coffee. Too much damned thinking. Something’s got me by the right hemisphere and is kicking my butt. It’s like that sometimes. I have to keep working on it until it lets go.

I did want to mention a couple of things: On Feb 26 I’m going to be posting about Bill Hicks. Please check in and send others. It’s important.

Also, on Feb 26 I’m going to start refurbishing a kinetic sculpture I built for Neil Gaiman five years ago. I’ll tell you what nearly happened to it, and what Neil did to it while protecting it. And I’ll post photos and notes while I work on and…. make some changes. I know me. I can’t just ‘fix’ something.. I’ll want to play. Should be fun. Then I'll blog the re-installation.

I’ll be showing you the new SlaughterHouse logo and T shirts
and, I’ll start moving a couple of things into the back room. It's gonna be busy.

So.
I’m off to the studio. If anything worth mentioning happens, it will be here.

For Mildred

This story has no moral, no lesson, no artistic insight as far as I can see at the moment. It is simply an account of what went on this afternoon. In other words, I got nothin'. So, breaking my own rule, I'll tell you about my day. C'mon. Every day can't be an enlightening experience. I can't afford those drugs. Some days I just paint rats.
So I spent the morning painting rats, trying not to think about the guy online who complained about the price of the Lovecraft rat. Willing myself not to post a comment telling him I'd just PayPal'd him a couple of bucks for gas so he could borrow his mother's car, go to the mall and buy some Mary's Moo-Moos or Dept. 56 made in sweat shops in China by women and girls for no benefits, no breaks and precious little pay. Nobody is sitting for hours painting rats except me.
wow Look. Already I've already slipped and fallen up, onto my soapbox. Sigh.
So I spent the morning painting rats, listening to Goreki, Hindemuth, Flogging Molly and a bit of Kronos Quartet. Something else I can't remember. By afternoon I was hungry enough to want a hot dog, but knew tomato soup would be much healthier. I cut up the hot dog and put it in the tomato soup. Um Um good, that's what Campbell's soup is....for kids who climb on rocks...
I picked up Aubrey, then Orion and we were headed up Dinah Shore toward the mountains when the car died. It just gave out, poor old thing. Didn't stall, just slowed down, down and down. Aubrey asked if I were slowing down on purpose. I said no. I managed to get into the right lane before we slowed to a complete stop, just around a curve with heavy 50mph plus traffic on our left, and a sandy hill on the right, stretching as far as we could see, dotted with pretty desert foliage and covered, literally, with big black ants. Not great. I hit the emergency flasher.
I dug out my cell phone, started to call AAA, then called Ben (sculptor, engineer guy who rarely shows up for work these days, and never, ever on time) instead. I'd just started to tell him where we were when the cell phone died. No service.
Fuck!
Yes, a word I'll admit I use all too frequently, and which, in these moments, has no equal. What to do? I remember Wile-E- Coyote. (the monomaniac) I try some inventive positions, which would have, under different circumstances, elicited wild laughter from Aubrey. But she was quiet. She knows me. This was not the moment. (Neither is when I'm cutting mats) I found a magic pose, got service to the phone. got Ben who said he was on his way. I phoned AAA , holding my Wiley pose. Just as they answered, Orion decided to try out every possible incantation for "fuck"."Fuck. Fuck, fuck Fuck FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCK. Fu-fu-fu-fuck. FUCKKKK!" then "Wheres French fries?" about forty times, then more 'fuck fucky fuck."
"Cute kid," said the AAA operator, Vicky. Cars and trucks buffeted us as they passed. Ok. After a lengthy discussion with Vicky, trying to explain that the reason I knew Gene Autry Trail crossed Dinah Shore was because I could see Gene Autry Trail from here.
Ben came and collected the kids. We quick -stepped through the ants, got Orion strapped in and they were off to Taco Bell. Whew. I tried waiting on the bank, stepping from one foot to the other, but the ants were really interested in my shoes, which made me think they were probably interested in my feet. I got back into the car and sat for half an hour.
After I'd searched every possible nook and cranny for a pen, pencil or even a crayon, I resigned myself to the fact that I was stuck with myself. So I thought. And thought. And tried not to. Then I noticed how evenly distributed all the different kinds of wild vegetation on the hill was. That reminded me of how people space themselves in the elevator, the movie theater, in waiting rooms, on the sand at the beach. I was saved. Something to do. We all tend to naturally space ourselves out evenly. I'm going to look around and see if I can find out why. Do you know? There must be something about this somewhere. And I'm going to try some experimenting. Okay. Fine. I'm going to fuck with people.
I'll let you know how it goes.
The tow truck driver was an elderly man who moved so slowly I almost checked a couple of times to see if he was still breathing. He was nice though. He was a fan of musicals, and because I knew who Robert Preston was, he felt like talking. I found out his wife is diabetic. He worries about her a lot. She's in charge of the playgrounds at the schools. He was proud that his tow gear was made of titanium alloy. When I brought up transparent aluminum he lit up with such delight I thought he'd break 3 miles per hour. So we talked about Star Trek and and laughed about Preston's great hair and his musical number in Victor Victoria.
February 15 isn't my favorite day of the year. It carries the memory of my mother's death on this day many years ago when I was young and losing my mother was about the worst thing that could ever happen. I didn't tell him about that. Didn't need to. I did tell him my mother had liked Robert Prestion. She always said, "what a head of hair that man has!" Her hair was red and she was really good at math. She always had tissues and Rolaids in her purse and she taught me to notice things like how people spaced themselves out in elevators and on the beach. That's good enough. I love you, Mom.
G'night

Clown Balloons

Clown Balloons, pencil on illustration board 2000 [If you can't see this image, email me and I'll send you a jpeg]

The only thing that makes me want to gag more than what sheep do to St. Valentine's Day is what sheep do to Easter. The cheap lace, the candy, the pink, pink, pink. Fluffy bunnies, fake sentiments, sugary store displays guilting us into buying ugly plastic and plush crap for all the wrong reasons. Here's a nice monochrome to cleanse the pallette. I created this drawing to illustrate a really good Phil Brucato story for a collection that sadly never came to be. For details, contact Phil or Alan M. Clark . Every time I look at this drawing I so want to draw with pencils. It's so neat---not messy like sculpting. I'm going to have some prints made today. Ravyn wants one. If you didn't know this, she does all this brilliant work for the website in exchange for art. Maybe I'll have several prints made, send them out at Easter....
Ahh...I love everything about drawing with pencils---the mechanics, the process, the smell, the squashy erasers and the satisfaction when I'm done. I want more, dammit.
I'm staying in today. Tomorrow all that unbought shit will be there for 75% off!!!
For what? I dread to meet the people who buy that crap, after the holiday. Shudder.
But in a couple of days it will be gone, replaced by St. Patrick's Day stuff. At least St. Paddy doesn't goad us into buying gifts. We can mostly ignore the plastic shamrocks and go have a fucking drink.

Stuff as illustrated by monkeys

In case you missed it, Greg P. offered The Law of Monkey in response to my last post on anger non-management. I'm posting it here because it's worth the read. I spent a bit of time on the site and for a few seconds thought "Hey---that's what I'm talking about. I don't even need to post, I can just send people here. " Then, reading on, I decided to hang in there for balance. This is a very testosterone-heavy site. Good information, and funny in places, but it reminded me of exactly why I stopped playing Magic, The Gathering. I think I started playing (about 7 years ago) just at the time the game got to be a lot more about buying cards, and the rules changes turned intelligent people I enjoyed playing with into monkeys in a pissing contest. It was a good game too...
It works out in the end, because as of late, I'm learning far more than I ever wanted to know about commitment to art. No time for games, Dr. Jones...
Thanks Greg. Cool site.