Archive for March, 2012

“My life is holding the universe together.”

Dearest Icky-Poo-Yum-Yum,
My thoughts while searching for a vector ice cream cone on “images” in Google: is art an anti-depressant? If my laptop dies, I can always learn how to paint on canvas.
Do you, as a man, know the principles of basic plumbing?
Do we all know that your hands are your first teachers? There are way too many techno-brats in America today.
Keep the spark ! Eat the faith ! Slice some bread !
Rehabilitated gas stations. e-mailing-surfing-sharing-downloading-uploading-swapping information-videogaming-meetingpeople?- a brain chemistry love fest.
Are we not yet afraid of The monitor and the keyboard? The lion and the bear. The peach and the cobbler. The paint and the brush.
People need to know how to make things work!
Can you take apart a magnetic motor and put it back together again?
Did you ever build a plastic model? (of a car – of a war machine)
Can you use a sewing machine?
(not enough salt in the potatoes)
If the phone does not ring, it’s me.
I love the winter in the spring.
Please touch.
Ja !
Love me do.
Hand painted canvas ties. My idea for Etsy!
The business card will NEVER be replaced! Handshake school.
I will meet you, Mr Icky Poo Yum Yum some day. In person. Face to face. Not with Skype or a text or a mouse.
I will hold your hand under the roof of a house, look into your plastic brown eyes and shake your professional hand. Then we can have plastic cheese.

Kindest regards
Georgeous George. 2012.03.21


Mixed Greens

In this dream I am painting a huge steel bridge by myself. There is a date etched in one of the concrete supports that says; “1960” It is very hard work with scaffolds and ladders in all kinds of weather. Sometimes I feel as if the heavy winds are gonna knock me into the raging river underneath.
It takes thirty-seven months and almost sixteen days to complete the job. By the time I am finished, the paint is beginning to peel on the other side and I have to start all over again.

In my unending quest for (to) manhood, I have tried everything.: Carrying a hammer around with me at all times. Talking deeper. Walking heavier. Checking out woman’s butts whenever possible. Measuring my penis. Driving irregular and fast. Hanging up landlines loudly. Cursing. Watching controllrd violence on TV. The final signature to being a man is to be human. It may take a long time or you may have the capacity to get it almost right away: Just BE YOURSELF. Don’t ever give a crap what anybody else says. Take your time. Have fun. And ride a roller coaster whenever you can.


who cares?


This photo of George Joseph Hartman, my grandfather, our grandfather, to me is the quintessential photo of who he was to me. There is everything here. His cloths, his car, his posture, that face, the cigarette, stamped out cigarettes surrounding him. His loaded pockets, that CLASSIC station wagon, parked in the Westfield alley behind his third floor apartment with the wooden steps leading up to them. Grandpa had a certain way of letting his tongue hang out of his mouth sometimes. But really…who cares? My relationship with him…….zero…..I was petrified of him. He seemed too quiet and mean. His cigarettes stunk….his tongue hung out like an animal. Like almost ALL of our grandparents, uncles, aunts and family….he died before there was time for anything!!! Why does it seem like most of my friends had all their relatives for most of their lives? Even their parents ARE STILL HANGING AROUND!! But who cares?? When i saw this photo while thumbing through the literally hundreds from our history in Jaybirds (Robert Jones) home in Las Vegas, I got so excited. I couldn’t stop looking at it because I had to….there was SO MUCH in those photo albums … but WHO CARES? Why do I even put these things in the blog. He’s dead. Nobody hardly remembers him. He was my fathers father. WHO CARES? I think I’m just wasting my time with all these dead people. WHO CARES what they did, who cares what they looked like? Several people have told me I’m a fucking idiot for caring….so really….W H O C A R E S????????

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To write is to leave this world

The ocean is always moving, adjusting. rearranging. Never silent. The seahawks scream and the whales hold echoey conversations. The ocean goes on deeper then any scientist has ever imagined. Even in the deepest darkest corner, something lives.

My mind, like lazy honey, spills onto the pillows and sheets. I think of another day gone by, like I do every other night. In the last moments of near consciousness I rediscover last nights dreams. They come back in swift flashes of images, sound and smell. Then, when I fall asleep, they are forgotten forever.

I sleep in a front room that might actually have been a porch at one time. I sleep against the wall half buried in a blue comforter. I sleep now with a woman that is not from this country but from over the seas and the high castles of eastern Europe. Sometimes she is still lost for her homeland. In her dreams she runs across the hills chasing clouds and hangs her artwork on trees.

I am back at the ocean. In the Winter I come here to avoid the crowds. Pudding is best served cold.The sand is like snow between my toes as I watch the twinkling lights along the long coastline.

The place where we sleep: The wall in front of us is all windows. Every orange sunset and every yellow sunrise melts like ice cream. Even when our eyes are closed in sleep.

In this dream my father was a medieval giant living in the endless lush forest. My mother is a cow grazing in a green fields that is in front of the forest. The ten children are baby cubs playing around the cow. Every once in a while the ground and trees rumble and sway and we can see our father peeking at us from over the tops of the trees.

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