Merry Christmas, here is a rap song by me and the Lord.

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TAWDRY HOME.

Every once in a while I look through my stats to see what sort of searches have brought people too my site. Here is a list of some of the latest ones. There are a few gems.

Giantess – up her asshole.
Organ makeup.
You suck, blow me.
Liverlips.
Bird sex organs.
Octopus fuck.
Cat menstrating.
Tit licker.
Clavical music.
Toad and dove.
The screaming painting.
Female cats sex organs.
Titgrab.
Contemporary art hates you.
Ashamed cat.
Polio.
Robot self portrait.
Pink walrus puppets.
Beautiful toad.
Cigarette burn.
Anatomy of a fox.
Picture of cat dick reflection.
A couple of clueless ernies from the midlands.
Gangster sylvester the cat.
Her thighs killed him.
клаус кински.
Kinski fucked daughter.
Walruses on police cars.
Paranoia.
Wheelbarrows. (I’ve also gotten an email from someone letting me know that they would like to order 1000 wheelbarrows ASAP.)
I followed a young hippie couple who lived alone with their pets. I waited. I watched.
Toto the land beast.

TAWDRY HOME.

A video I shot a few years ago. The neighbors of a friend had left so we used the abandoned place to smoke and drink, it was covered in garbage. The landlord got wise so we decided to shoot a short there before it was too late. I went to my friends house that day while he finished work. There was no script, even idea. Just a shark head. I hadn’t slept the night before so I took a nap while I waited for him to return from work, and then, in that state between waking and dream it came to me. ATLANTIS. Here it is. My acting debut, I retired later that night.

Starring: Hart, Darrell Smith, Geoff Clifford, Mellissa, O.J. and Elysha.

TAWDRY HOME.

The world is a better place. Olive. Valerie. Clarke.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.,….

HOLY SHIT, shit, shit, the ainsgnaoignasnsgjasg ainstrumental.

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really fucket that up.

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I have been trying to get some music to work for my new movie.  Here are a couple of songs I’ve been playing with, Their lost, nothing is locking right now.  The explosion when things lock in place and vibrate and make the world seem bearable is not happening, I feel a rumble in my head, but it’s more like a head-ache.  But I still hear something that at least might lead to something else, sometime, when I really drink and the beer drowns the pain of the headache and the sound breaks through the wall and fills the dark.  But that is just a deception and reality is nothing but a frigid mirage.  Either way, Oh fuck it.

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TAWDRY HOME.

Click the image for an interview with Danny Trejo. An ex heroin addict bank robber shooting for the stars. I don’t know if he did heroin, he seems like he needs the fast lane, but sometimes it gets too fast, and then the quickest way out is the slow road. Feed the poison to the tattooed snakes, sink the fangs in, bite into the hand that needs.

An excerpt from Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut.

The widow Berman and Paul Slazinger were obviously born to tell stories better than most people can. Other people are obviously born to sing and dance or explain the stars in the sky or do magic tricks or be great leaders or athletes, and so on.

I think that could go back to the time when people had to live in small groups of relatives-maybe fifty or a hundred people at the most. And evolution or God or whatever arranged things genetically, to keep the little families going, to cheer them up, so that they could all have somebody to tell stories around the campfire at night, and somebody else to paint pictures on the walls of the caves, and somebody else who wasn’t afraid of anything and so on.

That’s what I think. And of course a scheme like that doesn’t make sense anymore, because simply moderate giftedness has been made worthless by the printing press and radio and television and satellites and all that. A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but world champions.

The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tap dances on the coffee table like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an “exhibitionist.”

How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, “Wow! Were you ever drunk last night!”

pickles. pickleS. picklES. pickLES. picKLES. piCKLES. pICKLES. PICKLEZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. ahhhhh.