The Death of Lou Grant

1 05 2016

A man is dying in his backyard of a heart attack. He begins to recall his life. Except that it is not his life. It is the life of a fictional character from a popular television situation comedy. And he can’t…

Read The Death of Lou Grant

Chapter 1.

I Am A Corpse

I am a corpse.

In a lounge chair.

On the outskirts of the American Empire.

On the ledge of a small blue planet.

In the suburbs of the Milky Way.

During the first days of the third Millennium.

There is a cat above me, walking along the telephone wire like a trapeze artist. Its tail like a balance bar. I wish I had a camera. Never seen a cat do that. Maybe she thinks she is a squirrel.

There is a lawnmower two houses down. Blasting out music. I swear. It sounds like a new Bob Dylan song. One I’ve never heard. There is no mistaking the great bards vocal tones. Now, that is a sweet treat. I love that boy. Can’t think of him as a grown man. When you think of it, he’s like me. An invention.

Sweat is rolling off my forehead. Into my eyes. I can’t move. It burns.

I shouldn’t have bothered to mow the lawn. Perhaps that brought on my stroke. But the grass was so long. I hope they don’t manicure my face before they place me on public display. I was never a handsome and was proud of it. I don’t want to be painted up. To look like one of Picasso’s blue women.

My fingers tingle. The muscles on my arms and legs are flaccid. I have a craving for bacon. And scrambled eggs and sausage. On toast. The American kitchen invented the stroke.

The machinery of my existence is breaking down. Like the sound of that. Machinery of existence. You think maybe that God was Henry Ford. Weren’t we all born on the assembly line. History.

My bowels are relaxing. A pool is spreading out from my crotch. There is no feeling in my legs. The muscles on my arms are twitching. By themselves. Like something is trying to get out. Throat has dried up. My tongue races around in my mouth like some creature caught in the jaws of a steel trap. My arteries are expanding like inner tubes ready to burst. My veins turning brittle. Popping like lights on a Christmas tree. The panic of stillness.

My Absolute Moment is coming to fruition. Think about that. I’m going to see my maker. A group of writers at Warner Brothers. Most of them are dead. Or the next closest thing. Unknown.

I’m not ready. This is not a good time. I still have payments to make on the house. I was losing weight. I stopped drinking. Not all at once. And I was trying not to think about sex every five minutes. My voting habits were becoming more conservative. I voted for Mayor Anderson and his recent crusade against pornography. I supported the movement to have cats put on leashes and bicycle helmets made mandatory equipment for cyclists. And a women’s rights to choose. I can’t seem to stop talking. Inside my head. Jesus, its like a town counsel meeting.

I’m laying here looking at God straight in the eyes. God has a receding chin. No wonder he’s always wearing a beard. And he has very little personality. God is a chartered accountant. He keeps two sets of books. (He works for the mob as an enforcer. God is the original Murder Incorporated.)

God is a publisher with a musty smelling manuscript getting wet in his lap. Sitting in an Adirondack chair at his cottage. In the rain. The ink is starting to run. And he has to read quickly. I am looking my creator straight in the eyes and I have a story.

 

 





Wilfred Satty

23 06 2015

Satty died on opening night at a show he was never meant to give in an accident that everyone who ever went to Sattys studio worried might happen to themselves, namely falling down the precarious ladder one had to make ones descent on to reach the bunker cave.

Now its 1998 I am sitting writing this story far away from San Francisco. American students rank lower in academics than any industrial country on earth. American citizens celebrate the American dream by eating out of garbage cans in every city of every state of the union. American homeless are a new class, along with American homeowners. The President of the United States, Clinton, who our deluded Psychedelic minds believed might be the first president with an expanded consciousness, has just sold American nuclear secrets to China for some cheap election money. Condemning us all to a new future of thermonuclear duck and cover neurosis. Something is very wrong in America the land of the free and the home of the brave.
The Monsters do rule America now
Satty was right. But nobody listened.
Satty was a noble man.
He fell down a hole and died

Michael Bowen – May 1998

Satty was amongst a large group of artists/bohemians in the San Francisco area in the 1960s. When I saw collages at that time, there was a very good chance that they were Satty’s.





Growing up…

20 05 2015

Many years ago I wrote a long novel about growing up in the 50s and 60s. The novel has since disappeared. (I should look for it.) I created a series of collages that were meant to be a photo album to accompany the novel.

airplane aWedgewood ball hockey Botfield boys Burnhamthorpe CCF12222008_00048a cleaning the rink girl talk go cart hockey home photos hydro field ice skating Jopling Lorraine Gardens Martin Grove Our Lady of Peace race school yard





The God of Six Points

3 05 2015

Palais Royale Shack Shanahan Place Silverthorn The Village The WifeI wrote a book called The God of Six Points about a man who thinks he is a god. These are a few of the illustrations I created for the book. There is also a short video.





BONA TIBERTELLI DE PISIS

6 04 2015

BONA TIBERTELLI DE PISIS. 1926 – 2000. (Bona de Mandiargues) I hope I’m not talking about 2 artists. (Chalk it up to stupidity.) I was in Paris in the early 1970s which would have been this artist’s prime. Perhaps she walked by me in a book store. Or slapped my face in a cafe. Who knows how close we come to meeting each other in this world.





Richard Avedon

2 03 2015

Not only has Richard Avedon photographed many famous people. But he has also taken some very odd pictures. All wonderful. A lot of fun and joy in his pics.





5 minutes with Krushchev

2 11 2014

5 minutes with Krushchev

an almost forgotten figure in modern history. When I was  young, he was the enemy.

 

by David Halliday





Park Avenue has raisons to fear…

26 09 2014

ParkAvenue has raisons to fearThere is something at a microscopic level that scares the shit out of me…

 

by David Halliday





Micheal Berry

11 08 2014

Old rich men. Young blondes. Almost no social sensitivity or criticism. The humor is mostly mundane. The pictures are signature. They are the same in each pic. Or I guess I don’t get the jokes.

Micheal Berry1 Micheal Berry2 Micheal Berry3 Micheal Berry4 Micheal Berry5 Micheal Berry6 Micheal Berry7 Micheal Berry8 Micheal Berry9





Stephen Abela

1 07 2014

Leisure. Summer on the beach. A timeless almost iconic pleasure. Sun, waves, children laughing. And the sunlight. Being absorbed. It is an absurd preoccupation of most human beings. Perhaps it is the closest to what people would call heaven.

Stephen Abela2 Stephen Abela3 Stephen Abela4 Stephen Abela5 Stephen Abela6 Stephen Abela7 Stephen Abela8