Oh Townie Girl I am gunning for you

Loopholes appear and blink out like lights twinkling in the night sky. And my time goes by on a ninety-nine dollar italian leather sofa. Tweaking the website, and often feeling empty or lonely. Ah home sweet home. But outside my house I am collecting, buying, going to the workshop/gallery, trying to put in hours to survive, surviving. Buying new things that need a tweak or a change to become something special, something of desire, something someone out there wants to put in their house. But despite the ends to my toils, I have learned one thing very important in life, LEAVE YOUR HOUSE AS MUCH AS YOU CAN, it all happens outside your door. No old girlfriend has ?(snuk)? into my house and waited for me to get home, though I do find myself racing home at night, not sure why, occasionally thinking that some chick will be in the parking lot leaning against her beater car, in a tube top with her gym socks pulled up real high, waiting to go inside with me, that's weird, but has never happened, and if it has it was a long time ago, so I say again, it never happened. Which leads me to this, I love townie girls! Yea I am putting that out there. Innercity girls, hillbillies, the farmer's daughter, the whole lot of them outside the suburbs! And this fucking interior design business only seems to get me dates with much older gay men. Of course dates I am not going on Dae, seriously I am not gay. Let me define the women I might be able to hang with for an extended period of time.

"Townie Girl" - my definition: A woman of rough or overlooked beauty (which really means a woman that I think I can get with) If uneducated meaner than me, If educated then smarter than me. Hot but not a Hot commodity, more like an aquired taste like uni or pho (stinks or leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but in a good way) She uses base means to attract men, not the corporate suddelties you may be used to, more like a tube top and high pulled tube socks, in general means that often incite other women to mumble about how she is disrespecting womankind. She ususally does not get along with other women. Gets into fights if not physical then shouting matches here and there. An independent. Often uninterested in the conventional middle class ways of creating her beauty, she may paint a tooth black or scar herself. Likes to get dirty and not wash it off. She's a hustler, known to bite the hand that feeds her. Has more of an animal nature than that of the human sort, that is often what I mistake for inner beauty (which really means she not looking for a normal man, which again really means I think I can get with her) She doesn't buy into the theory that she needs a man to make her compete. It's more like she is looking for someone to run with.

These days I am not sure how old I look, or how old these women I am attracted to are, mostly 17-27, I would assume. Trying to tap into the older woman thing, but only because I think they are easier to get into the sack. That ain't panned out yet. I only know what I want and what I think about most of the time, especially at home. So occassionally some young lovely, like today, smiles in my direction and flicks her hair like some commericial, and I will try to think of the words I won't say to her. I try not to think about the shrinking portion of myself that I am able to offer her. A part of myself that shrinks a little more everyday, taken up by something else inside, probably something darker or more bitter. A drooling wanton man, I am. A beast inside a little little man that will eat them up, drool and spill, then smile and go about my life until I need them again, which is right before bed daily, and perhaps a few midday meetings out in the field, unexpected or at a bad time. This life is a solo ride. I haven't had a backseat in my ride since 99. Saddness is a norm, or maybe the middle ground just seems a bit melancholy to me, but happiness is a fleeting thing. Spirits can change that quickly, but don't drink that new stuff called SPARK. It make the young girls look older and that about did me in, took me days of penance to get over those evil thoughts. But I assume not much worse than any other mans' head.

My bed is swallowing up my waking hours and I guess one day it will swallow me up, like my fathers before. Okay, Dying in Public vs. Dying at Home? On the one hand, some neighbor smelling death and calling the authorities, a uniform cop knocking your door in to find you dead in your bed, stiff as a board, maybe with a late mortgage payment or two. Or on the other hand, falling down on a couch at a country auction, and when they try to sell the thing they realize you ain't sleeping. Well with the latter, the house won't be tainted with the stench of death and your relatives will be able to sell it for what it's worth. My stepfather's caddy had to be totalled on account of that fore mentioned immoveable smell.

Perhaps my house is a sad place, but it is a place of action too, I mostly work at home, even when I had a day job, I worked feverishly on Modern50 or paintings when I got home, my girlfriend hated it, the three months she tried to live here with me, I was a bastard, we got along much better when she had her own place, I could come and go as I pleased and she could be rid of me. You know packing chairs, taking photos, painting and drawing ignoring your loved one, is not the solace most look for, not even me, but actually I still liked it. When I am outside of the house, things are alive, and real. I am a junker, outside of my head, it is a good place to be, driving the streets in a piece of shit, trying to feel irie, home is a place I do not escape from enough, a pretty place to me, but a "candy jail" for sure. All things dissolve inside a silent home, and wash you back to your core, to the person inside, unaffected by experience, and left to your darkside to devour and give your body disease.

Sorry Mom but I think this blog is going the way of the Doh Doh. We'll have to get back to email and phone calls. Not sure I really want anyone to know what I think, and judge me for putting it out there. It would be just as cathartic to put it down in my future paintings. I want to keep most of the happy misery for the conversations in life, the random people I meet in the field. The instant laughter, the mistaken comment, taken for wit or humor, that I always pretend I meant. This happens a lot. Is this a bad thing? Can't tell if they know inside I was not being funny. But I like it anyway, I like taking those little insignificant credits especially when they aren't mine. It leaves me wondering who the hell I am, and if I don't know they sure as hell don't have a clue.