And so the one who said sad things to me awoke in a fever and ache and then we looked at eachother and the newly cleaned dog and asked, “Hey man, did you hear that mouse trap finally go off last night, or was I hallucinating?”

So I moved a mirror (how odd to see your own face as you check on the life/death of another being) and the cheese art and low and behold…. Like Elmer Fudd now… Killed a mousie, Killed a mousie.

I’m not certain what it is about women and rodentia that turns them from pan throwing harpies, into helpless hysterics. But the lady did thus freak out and yell and yell and cry and tear and scream… more disinfectant… don’t touch that…oh god the horror, the horror, the horror!

Where’s the science then? I mean, we had pork chops up in the kitchen joint three days ago. What in the hell is more filthy than swine. Hell, its the only thing Jews and Muslims agree on… Svinefleish ist nicht!

I lit incence for the bugger. I actually feel bad… poor mouse.


Did you remember that Duke Ellington had a song called Magenta Haze? I keep forgetting and everytime I get to the disk in the box set by the same name, I have new regard for Jimi Hendrix and his Purple Haze. It is so sad to see an artist cut down in his prime… Basquiat on T.V. again… He was negtiating with Miles to record at Electric Ladyland. And I just found out that the Hit Factory closed down. I managed to watch Joan Thompson and friend do a piano duo in the Steinway room… I ended up giving Joan’s boy friend all my Rodger Waters Vinyl…. I miss it now.

I suppose, even then I was after soundtrack and I now have a Mozart piece I want as possible track for Willoughby… and I want no copyright issues…. do you think he owes me? I was arguing that The Wall – since it marked in concert the fall of The Berlin Wall – would historically be as significant as any Wagner or Ludwig Van, or even Amadeous… it had walked inti history. The poor guy had never heard the wall… so I gave him both the wall and Pros and Cons which Waters wrote simultaneously and they share a few songs and many chord changes. I’m sure he hated it… but I could use a good pianist now… do we call that planting seeds… maybe?


Speaking of sound tracks I finally got an e-mail from the DJ I used to do live shows with at Galopagos, etc. He’s had a kid and splitting time with Berlin and I’ve been begging him to get involved with this “immaculate contraption”… but he’s one of those guys that if he didn’t think of it, he ain’t sure its a good idea… I’m sort of that way too…so I dig… but he writes to me: :yo man, that’s way too much info for me to handle scrolling down the page of a website but it sure would be cool printed out as one big ass print running around a room…sb”

I want to know why a scroll in a gallery is more legable than this blog… no seriously…I want to see a long scroll made of this… don’t get me wrong… gears are spinning towards that effect… but that will be visual, I think, more than legable… take your time kids… I’ll just write more.

Yesterday I awoke from that perverse breakup dream all scared that I was empty and hack and worthless … and I really thought I’d never have a thing to say again to the fair reader… and so I posted thrice. My mom says I’ve always been like that. Sort of how I overwrote my own Greek Tragic nervous breakdown.

The key is to live long and not die like Jimmy Dean, or Romeo and Juliet… live long… love… prosper… respect, etc.

Now I almost forgot to put the icing on the cake of this Thiebaud colored confection of a sick in the head, achilles heel, ear ache, love song. The little woman called to tell me I’d be dining alone and to point out that the Woody Allenesque prostitution/masturbation joke never happened. Well not at the time, but any excuse to throw in a good masturbation joke I always say…

Now the prostitution thing seems to have had a good punctuation at the end of my walk. This fortish whore, or bar hag, or drug addict, or all of the above approaches me while I’m photographing the fake nails on seventh ave. She says to me in a slur of sandy blond bleach hair cigarette voice: “I’m stranded in this fucking town. How do I get out of here?”

I say, “You’ve come to the wrong place. I haven’t got any money.”

“I don’t want your money,” She barks. “I want directions back to Manhattan. Where is there a subway, or bus?”

“Sorry,” I say for the assumption. “You’ve got like four blocks to the F… that’ll take you to Manhattan.”

Now the scenario seems one of two things… late night bar pick up, or call service. She’d clearly been on the party all night and it was noonish now. Sun was burning her fried eyes. I pointed her along to the train and stopped to photograph this blossom and that cloud and several minutes later she swings by me now smiling and says, “I’m just looking for a hot dog.”

And the Freudian in me says, “I bet you are, but isn’t that what got you lost to begin with?”

Then she get’s called over by some Puerto Ricans in Shiny Silver Chevy and I leave her there, trying to seduce the world for a Weiner. Me I like Chicken Patties.

That said, I suppose it should be legal and rather than have scary skanks spreading disease and bad vibes, register the working women and men. Make it sanitary and satisfying … in a land of fast food, can’t someone get laid on the fly?

And speaking of registration: The reverend Al is singing, “Let’s get marrried today…” and it’s like my sweety already got married without telling me, or atleast she registered for gifts: Dyson vacuum cleaners, and boxes of pans and wine glasses from Williams-Sonoma poured in from UPS today.

I say to the man in brown, “I don’t know what she bought now.”

He says, “I know exactly how you feel.”

“The scary thing is,” I smile. “We all do…. Women be shopping, but we love them…”

“It’s true,” he says handing me the weird electonic clip board they use now. “It’s so true. You’d kill ’em if they weren’t so pretty.”

“God in his wisdom….”

“And the way they dress…those little jewels and shit….pearl earings?!”

And we just sighed, it being spring and we being pigs in heat.

value drawing with found nickel bag, ©ITIN ’05

Archroom, ink on plaster and panel, (in progress), Forest Parachutes, mixed media on canvas, ©ITIN ’05




And so I walked out to breath the air around Tom Pain and get the gunk out of my lungs. I don’t know if it’s a Swiss genetic thing, or just a Swiss psychological thing, but when I feel crummy I find it helpful to hike hills and deep breath the humors of spring. Now when you find the knot of your heart hard to unravel, it also helps to listen to Ravel (and Bolero is great and sexy despite Blake Edwards and Bo Derick and the rest of his Spanish music too). Now all this was great, but for my left Achilles heel, which is acting up like it’s been nailed with a poison dart of late. Makes for tough retreat march.







So lately I’ve been doing chalk tags using Jay Gould Stuckey’s old vibe of Kunst Kat text interventions. The kids were also chalking up Brooklyn to Beat the band (Gil Evans’ band for Miles’ Sketches of Spain).




And so I’m spinning and it is all yellow as the dog wood blooms and I’m dressed as some sort of Brooklyn Kabuki actor, holding a fan and Mr. Lee’s press on nails and I will scratch out mine own eyes and heart shaped palette rather than see you walk away from me Willoughby!

I awoke again in panic and self doubt… For this I will blame Jaques Boyreau… Why the fuck not? He sent me this novella of e-mail exchanges between an aging hipster and an ingenue hippy/dancer chick… a sort of love story with a sad ending. He thought it might help focus some dialog on omEGG where we have an aging financial guy and ingenue art/hipster chick… hopefully a sort of happy ending.

Anyway, it’s left me with dreams and ghosts of ex-girlfriends breaking up with me all night long and it may just leave me with an anxiety disorder. I have issues around abandonment and loss as it is, but having these old mind fuckers show up every night and reliving imaginary scenarios of domestic bliss and foreign travel only to have it hit the fan in the third act and me wake up sweating and sad and the ghosts of an impossible twenty year old errection blue eyeballing me from over in the curtain corner…. it’s too much.

Then the sweety of the last eleven years chimes in like a death knell: “Funny I had a dream I was breaking up with you too.”

And I say, “I wasn’t breaking up with you. It was the dog fish, and the Wagner Blonde, and the Amazon Austrian, and the Korean Harpie, etc…. I thought we were fine.”

“I’m turning thirtyfive. I’ve got to get rid of you and find someone to mary.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You have no money.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought we were talking about love, but it turns out we’re talking about prostitution.”

“Oh finally a subject you know something about.”

“No that’s masturbation.”

All in all, I feel like diving out the window while on fire and drinking vodka and landing in silver Porshe and driving off a San Francisco cliff ….and the cold has gone from retreat to offense again…. Bloody battle of the bulge (oh I’m getting fat too).

Now I’ve been trying to hook Jaques up with Adam Goldberg (through Relativity channels) who did a real haunting version of Solitude in the only great (so far) film Spielberg ever made, Private Ryan. He also had the most freak out death scene I’ve ever seen on film. Me and Quigley saw that right before I went to Paris and we were blown away and went straight to Farrel’s across the street and drank a big beer in a foam cup in silence and didn’t talk untill the second round and that was just mostly grunts and groans.

But this is a love story. I might as well show you the pornographic part of omEGG (what’s a love story without naked hot actors?). I’m sort of imagining it like the limo scene in Pink Floyd The Wall where Pink gets encapsulated in goo… maybe the love scene should just be KY goo taken to a Who Tommy baked beans level… where it all becomes abstract stoned/drunk bliss of body to mucus body. Slippery when wet.




omEGG Love, mixed media on paper, ©ITIN ’04-’05

Now if Hiroshima really was an amour and you wanted to send that fine city a designer perfume… maybe it should be called: Shiva, by Oppenheimer for the Manhattan Project Collection 1945… comes in its own silver Enola Gay flask.

Ring of Fire (detail)ink on painters calk on silk and canvas, ©ITIN ’05



Here’s another odd piece of post 911 public terrorism art by an Asian in New York, Cai Guo Qiang. This ring of fire, burned burned burned over Central Park in 2004. It was raining and the umbrellas seems to allude to Rosenquist’s F-111… like maybe an F-111 dropped some circular cluster bomb and New York is Vietnam at the turn of the century.

That explosion looked pretty amazing and I use it for omEGG when Pat blows up M. Tristan’s palace at Egg in Grindewald. It looks and sound particularly great with Wagner’s Ride of the Valkaries, like Apox. Now. I just did a greenfaced improv of Clark and the narrator. Sadly my makeup is all dried out, so I was limited in effects. But looking like a dead man in the mirror reminded me of the charming editor of Paris Review, George Plimpton. He wrote a delicious little book for all you pyros out there called, Fireworks and in it he predicted that the way technology and certain inovators like the Grucci’s (and the Grucci’s produced Light Cycle for Cai) were heading, one day fine artists would work in the medium of fireworks. He said, “Can’t you imagine Ruachenberg working in fire?” and I say leave it to a Chinaman to make Plimpton right. Bravo Cai and the website has some really amazing video (this from a guy who used to build model airplanes with the firecrackers already situated for future explosion fun… art shmart fart, let’s be boys and blow shit up…he is a man after my own heart for sure)

We seem to have an easter mouse who is leaving little shit colored eater eggs all behind the stove, where it eats the poison seeds with spite and spittle. So the lady of the house has me listening to sweet Sir Duke (only the Germans can make wax and shellac sound good on digital and this box has all the out put up to WWII… what a God was the Duke of Jazz). So I’m smearing peanut butter into these little cheese shaped modern trap doors and hiding it behind the brie and banana art. Poor French mouse (term of endearment of Mom and new Husband, Hooker… sorry Sigmund).


The dog likes peanut butter maybe more than mice… so we hide the tounge trap with cheese kunst.

Now I’m not the biggest pop art fan… not by a long shot. But I have to say that going back to our Paris HUB, F-111 is the finest airplane painting of the sixties and ergo sum: one of the finest paintings of the late 20th century. It was a thrill to get the opportunity to do James Rosenquist’s portrait. He’s not Rauchenberg, but damn is he close… and at times (if you consider politics and general beat to hippy pedagogy) better… and he talks like Laurie and Spalding try to talk, but he’s a real natural.


His voice is that of the greatest generation… (no irony) who really changed all, and we sing and suffer under these politics of WWII… but this guy could draw from the get go, and so we speak of the prodigy… but he was painting whiskey bottles and his dad and him were in love with airplanes… all he spoke of was family and planes (oh how I love that) and painting was a way to capture these intese memories of flight. It is no accident that F-111 is his masterpiece… but I beg you to realize how great that piece is… it is installation painting, pop, politics, grid minamalism, etc. way before the bastards.

I say this now to Allan Stone: somtimes your confidence will allow you to miss a great artist… that said, he doesn’t really paint well… it’s all commercial tricks… so… after D.K…. well… hard to groove on his bullshit, but he deploys bull shit with such reckless beat abandon… that it flies… it does fly.

Now it was the delightful and delicious and delovely M.P. who managed to get me in on a press pass to video her Art Actuel interview with the man. Between reading Jaques Boyreau’s novella and seeing Samo©’s show at BMA, I’m all about the old hipsters. Some how there is nothing quite as happy/sad as an old beat still drumming. Rosenquist was a treat beyond treats to listen too…. He’s also the only guy I ever heard give a good shout out to Allan Stone (I mean outside the gallery)… however, it was to say that Allan hated his work, but unlike my old man, that just pissed him off and made him go to Castelli and Ivan Karp and they were the only three back then. Rosenquist was at Coentese Slip, which I didn’t know. He’d probably be my favorite pop artist, if it weren’t for Lichtenstein and Warhol… but there he is still talking and still painting. God bless all old artists.



Pauillac label collage, ©ITIN ‘o4

Look at how a contrail is sort of like a scroll of water vaper, or a line drawn in clouds. Just a reminder: We here at the place have decided to start archiving things in the interest of saving download times… right now it is by month (or rather thirty day increments), so if you get down to the end of this page, please check out Febuary and March in the archives. Thanks.

Pyramid: a geometry for perspective, from omEGG, ITIN ’04

enhanced found grafitti 5th ave. bagel joint men’s room, Brooklyn ’05



KingAuthorBenHurDogGodMontyPythonAnnubisMuppetSamo©, ITIN© ’01

Chalk Path Pepto Pink Poem (first stanza) ITIN© ’05

I had to do a whirlwind tour of the Samo show, but it was somewhat odd. You come away with a sort of weird tripple crown realization. First, most of his work comes off better in reporduction than in person. Those exceptional canvases that really sing in person are worth the price of admission, but I started to ponder how no 27 year old kid could ever know enough to really paint. Painting is an old man’s game and no one seems to really get the wet mud untill their thirties or even forties. Plus he was using acrylics and they tend to look shitty in person. That said, when he throws the oil stick around right, carving into gesso and pthalo green grounds. wow! What a line!

Chalk Path Pepto Pink Poem ITIN© ’05

Now the other thing I came away with was how much easier the pieces are to read in person. The texts tend to get reduced to illegibility and thus become decorative in reproduction… Like how cats in the fourties must have seen Japanese and Chinese calligraphy as they set it afire and shot it full of holes and internalized it on the road to victory and Ab Ex, but the guy had a great command of words. They should be read. The third crown is sculpture. I started to think about how important sculpture is to the work. Some are really great objects in the manner that Rauchenberg’s combines sort of exist between painting and sculpture (or art and reality)… I got the sense that samo was first recreating a wall and then painting on it, in order to have the same sort of bang as his on site grafitti poetry had. They become landscape fetishes.



Now the other thing I’v been thinking about is the sort of language of Brooklyn: Brooklynese. It is famed in hollywood movies… that sort of patois, but it occured to me that that patois is really Italian, Irish, Jewish and there is this new Brooklyn growing around me that includes Samo’s Hatian patois and the afro-carribean and Hispanic, and Sountern Black, and now the Chinese and Vietnamese. What will Brooklyn sound like in fifty years? This is becoming important as the more improv’s i do for Willoughby, Clark starts to sound real Brooklyn street…. maybe he should sound Chinese?



As you can see, Brooklyn already tends to look pretty Chinese on a good day.