I almost like these videos more then the actual album. Thats fucked up man.

Bob, Ed, you boys need to relax. What’s all the trouble? Take it easy boys.

Oh I see. No judgement. It’s just the falcon in him. Video approved by the Lord.

Some random videos, PSA’s, Seahorse birth and David Lynch commercials.

I watched this while taking a break from editing yesterday. Searching for inspiration. Success!

I made this painting a couple nights ago. It’s been a long time since I’ve painted. It’s called Face Eater 72.

An excerpt from an essay written by Philip K Dick, the Science Fiction writer.  Really puts things in perspective.

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What could a man living in 1750 have learned about himself by observing the behavior of a donkey steam engine? Could he have watched it huffing and puffing and then extrapolated from its labor an insight into why he himself continually fell in love with one certain type of pretty young girl? This would not have been primitive thinking on his part; it would have been pathological. But now we find ourselves immersed in a world of our own making so intricate, so mysterious, that soon a man may have to be restrained from attempting to rape a sewing machine. Let us hope, if that time comes, that it is a female sewing machine he fastens his intentions on. And one over the age of seventeen-hopefully, a very old treddle-operated Singer, although possibly, regrettably, past menopause. Of course a time may come when, if a man tries to rape a sewing machine, the sewing machine will have him arrested and testify, perhaps even a little hysterically, against him in court. The leads to all sorts of spin-off ideas: false testimony by suborned sewing machines who accuse innocent men unfairly; paternity tests; and, of course, abortions for sewing machines that have become pregnant against their will. And would there be birth control pills for sewing machines? Probably, like one of my previous wives, certain sewing machines would complain that the pills made them overweight-or rather, in their case, that it made them sew irregular stitches. And their would be unreliable sewing machines that would forget to take their birth control pills. And, last but not least, there would have to be Planned Parenthood clinics at which sewing machines just off the assembly lines would be counseled as to the dangers of promiscuity, with severe warnings of venereal diseases visited on such immoral machines by an outraged God-Himself, no doubt, able to sew buttonholes and fancy needlework at a rate that would dazzle the credulous merely metal and plastic sewing machines, always ready, like ourselves, to kowtow before divine miracles.

I am the spawn of a Buzzard, and that bastard wants retribution. Seven A.M. and my bedroom door is opened. 45 minutes of a drunken sleep, and now that’s over. The buzzard is my Mother, and the beak speaks. “Take my black skirt to the dry cleaners.” Oh my God. Yesterday it was the sand colored high heels for the fucking Cobbler.

But here I am in the spare bedroom like a Vulture.  Like Mother like son.  So who am I to complain. “OK“.  Anyways, I have some dry cleaning that needs to be done.  Let’s piggy back this Pony boy’s.

First off, the Velvet jacket I bought for Halloween from the women’s section at Value-Village. Its a tight fitting deep brown like the feathers of a Night Owl.

Then there’s the crushed blue velvet blouse Darrell and Kate bought me on Thanksgiving. They said when they saw it they just knew it was made for me. And they were right. It was a dark midnight blue with large dark blue buttons that looked like depressed flying saucers. Every director needs an outfit to feed off of.  If you don’t feed, then what the fuck is there to get out, how can you deliver?

These velvet numbers stunk of smoke and the other things that lurk in the shadows of the night. This is the dry-cleaning receipt. It describes my velvet blouse better then I ever could.

FANCY AS FUCK MOTHER FUCKER.