The finished piece of a cover. I am trying to valiently get something back into my work, which, frankly, drawing black and white squares which fit on a folded in half sheet of paper seemed to have taken out. I am going to buy the first box of oil pastels I can find, as it was when I had a nice set of a few hundred that I did my favorite work.
I am interested in how the sopranos seems to be devolving in front of everyone's eyes. They have , like say the drunken wife beater t shirt wearers that they present themselves as , stayed too long at the party and now have made a pass at the bosses wife, or are no longer being laughed at as they dance with lampshades on their balded head. Also, in a sad turn against them of fate, the sadness of an empire which seems to like killing in its streets more than its fronts, the vicious remnents of the use of domestic violence is everywhere again, only hours after another of their bloodied , grinning, outings. A local dee jay is still doing the ritualistic monday lauding of this minstrel show crap, which again, almost worthy of a dantean simile or a anology, finds itself in an uncomfertable side show for a bloated, potatoes chips as eucharist, america . The plebs now play with racism, like a bored cat with some twine, which, of course, it can throw aside at the first moment it is bored. But, I note the real antipathy now being shown this show from some quaters which had just lauded it, and according to people I am aquaintances with in hollywood, the cast and crew and the doegs of hbo, all there are not unhurt by this about face. This is the america of Imus, Giudo, there is a two faced ness here that is beyound that of a roman god, none of you pollocks has ever even heard of, coming from the now sainted Rutgers as you have.