Painting Was
A Dinosaur dot com used to be Painting is a Dinosaur dot com. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Fire Don't Care has a website. Departure 3
MW Capacity is a midwest-centric blog about painting, edited by Chris Lowrance and Sam King.
Sam King live on Phoning It In (2007) From the Dinosaur House, Sam played guitar and sang into a phone, which was broadcast live on WMBR in Providence, RI. More performances available at phoningitinwmbr.blogspot.com.
Sam King: Two (2007) (unavailable)
Sam King: The baby & the bathwater (2005) (unavailable)
Fire Don't Care: Be What You Are CD (2006) Sam K. on vocals and guitar. Stevie Lee Ragle on the drums. A. Brown on the naked dino pics. "One of those records that makes listening through a foot-high pile of unknown/unsolicited promos completely worth it!" --Indiepages.com $5 ppd (mail) or $6 ppd (paypal)
1. Hipster Murder
Blues
Hank Willenbrink: "Lingua Franca" (2007) Bill Blast trades lessons in English for cigarettes. He likes Chesterfields the best because they remind him of his father aboard a submarine. If Bill Blast's father were still alive, he would be too old for naval service. But you don't quarrel. You can picture Bill Blast Sr. staring out a portal, smoking Chesterfields in a grey tube somewhere in the North Atlantic. Even though you're
fluent in English, Bill Blast insists on teaching you in the native
tongue of this land—a language you don't understand. You
can get anything in Europe by pointing. "Cheyenne, Wyoming." "Shoulda known that. Should told by your hat." Bill Blast has a dry laugh; it rattles your teeth. "I was born abroad," Bill says in a perfect American accent. "My mother was sickly and my father, you know, was on the submarine. Course I know my way around the States." They say all the rage in Japan at the moment is t-shirts with broken English phrases. Phrases like "Hello People Cabinet." Your ex who left you in Vienna was working on a way to market American model cell-phones to Dutch teenagers. The chubby German whose snores shake your bunk knows all the lines from Armageddon. Thank God for the sleeping Croat in your train compartment with the tri-lingual map. Otherwise, you'd never know you missed your stop. Bill Blast offers you a place to sleep. He leads you past the Medieval buildings decimated by bombings, redone by Stalin, renovated by capitalists after the wall fell to a park with discolored states and the greenest shrubs you've seen. The sun rises at 3 am here. And for the first time you think of Cheyenne without remorse or nostalgia, but just as a place and a time. Bill Blast rambles on in perfect English. You sleep for the first time, listening to someone speak your language. -Hank Willenbrink Worclaw/Krakow
Hank Willenbrink/Sam
King: Namesake (2005/6)
Hank Willenbrink: "To avoid you" (2005) To avoid you To avoid you To avoid you
That's the way it goes—you put on your jacket to go outside, have a non-smoker cigarette break, and here comes another round of nouveau-bohemians flooding in for their morning latte. I hate my job. It's all bullshit work—sweeping up the leaves just to watch them clog the gutters 5 minutes later. And my bosses hate one another. It's a constant turf-fight at Starbucks—who decides what the coffee of the week is, who sees that all the tables are washed—all so they can beat the other one up the corporate ladder. So, I grab the broom and head outside for another bout with autumn. For the record, it's 9 am. I've been at work for an hour and I'm sweeping the leaves for the third time. Oh, and I'm dancing. This seems like a weird thing for a dude to do, especially one my size (235 lbs) but every man in my family is a dancer. I just got stuck with the fat-ass gene. Halfway through the foxtrot, I slip off the curb and into the road, where a pile of leaves spins me around as an 89 Gold Volvo runs a red light and careens into my leg. I thought it was gonna hurt. People get killed like that, right? But the car just hissed and collapsed like a Hanna-Barbera Cartoon. "You fat fuck!" An old voice belched out of the car, "You killed my Swede!" He ambled out of the car like Jerry Garcia rising from the dead. His clothes: a mess of unwashed tie-dye and blue jean, ratty dreadlocks and hashish. "What the fuck you doin'? Killin' a man's chariot." "You hit me, pal." I returned, preparing to use my broom. "It's hard to miss a fat-fuck fag dancin'." I eyed him uneasily. It's something I've gotten used to, working in a bohemian district. Hippies rarely use racial slurs. This guy is different. I know those dreadlocks. Those are the dreadlocks of fascism. "A man's chariot is sacred, fuck-o. Sacred!" Obviously, he had already chalked the car's demise to some larger karmic scale, rather than everyday flaws in the laws of physics. "I didn't mean any disrespect." I said coolly, not wanting to upset any of the fascist tendencies that lay dormant in his hair. "Too late, brah." "I didn't know cars could do that." "Don't play the fool." "I mean, I'm not hurt" "Fuck you, man!" I grabbed the broom and started to sweep away from him. "Where you goin'?" "I gotta sweep the leaves." "For who? The MAN?" His eyes bugged out like a pedophilic chaperone on prom night. "You got something against Starbucks?" "No, just Latte servin' assholes!" He bellowed. "Especially one's who jack my ride!" Well, physics or no physics, he was certainly right about that. We serve a lot of latte. And I did mess up his car. A rush of steam poured out of the hood, as my mouth formed: "radiator hose." "What's that, pig?" My eyes scanned the car down to the cocked wheels. "Axle," I thought, but how did I know—? "Pop the hood," I hushed. The hippie reached inside, springing the hood open. Scanning the tangled mess of gaskets, belts, and hoses, I found myself picking out the slightest ailment to this dilapidated import. And, I don't know anything about cars. As a child, along with dancing, my father taught me to fear "car people." He looked at Mechanics and Policemen with similar disdain. "If the world was perfect," he would say, "we wouldn't need those bastards." Since his death, I've made it a point to never change my oil on time. I wouldn't know an engine if it bit me, and I've often thought that it might. And yet, here I was, mind-melded to some Volvo. "You see somethin' chief?" "Yes…your car…it's…it's…" Inside my head, the car spoke: "You dance very well." "Thank you." I said, without thinking. "What?" The hippie bellowed. "Nothing." "I love the foxtrot." The Volvo said, with a slight Germanic accent. "Do you know any Swedish folk dances?" "I can polka," I replied. "Let's see." The car cooed. Throwing down my broom, I kicked my heels dancing for the Volvo. "That's very good!" The Volvo exclaimed, wiggling its fender. "What're you doin'?" The hippie scowled. "I was…" "Wastin' time!" "No—" Suddenly, the car let out a piercing scream. "THIS FUCKING HIPPIE IS KILLING ME!" It repeated this phrase over and over. I stopped my dance, undid my apron, and dashed inside. Within the coffeeshop, my bosses were stoking their passive aggressive search for Starbuck domination over the Frappuccino machine. "Well, it's chilled so—" "That doesn't make it your department. It has coffee in it." "True, but is it more chill or coffee?" "Coffee!" "Chill!" "Coffee!" I slid past them, hung my apron up, and clocked out. "I'm on lunch." I whispered, trying to slip past the counter. "Hey! You can't. You've only been here—" "Oh, shut up." The coffee manager countered. "I do personnel." "And I do coffee. And he touches coffee, so I say when he can go. Go ahead, Max." I was already out the door. Outside, the fall air nipped at my ears, as I watched the hippie, fuming around the Volvo. The car let out a cry of delight as it saw me near. "Did you go get your tip jar to pay for my ride, buck-o?" "No." I countered. "I came out to tell you that Starbucks has just introduced a Jerry Garcia inspired Frappacino. It's called a Garcia-chino. Go ask my manager inside about it." "No shit?" "No shit." He ran to the door and inside. "Hello, friend." The car purred. "We have to get you out of here." "Pick me up, I'll do the rest." The Volvo exclaimed. Without thinking, I reached underneath the chaise and pulled the car on to my back. It's back wheels spun and soon we were moving down the street. We traversed the medium taking a left down away from Starbucks and to freedom. "Whee!" The Volvo sang in the breeze. Yes. Whee.
He wants to get "DRIFTER" tattooed across his arm, like the guy he saw at the gas station. It seems romantic, but he knows that he doesn't have the body for tattoos. Those things are best left to athletes–men with a big biceps who ride motorcycles and have an unnatural preoccupation with barbed wire. So, he gets in his pick-up (the one his father coerced him into buying by making most of the payments) puts on the rawest Southern rock he can and drives down the road, hoping to be flagged down by an attractive woman. *** She knows not to
get involved with strangers. It's a common trait among women. Men seek
out strangers. At least, that's how it's been with every boyfriend she's
had. In public places, their eyes wander, seeking out strange, beautiful
women. She's always been afraid of these phantom beauties. Afraid, that
one of them - lurking behind a dark corner – is laying in wait
to snatch her boyfriend away from her. Thus, before a date, she goes
to the location and conducts a reconnaissance mission – checking
all the dark corners for the strange women. These are the things she thinks about at the crosswalk. *** I want to note here that I have written more about the woman of this story than the man…this is not a veiled political statement, for certainly he is some part of me just as she is. He just told me to be quiet. *** He drives to a coffeeshop down the road to read revolutionary books and hope that a communist will talk to him. He believes that most people at coffeeshops are, in fact, commies. He likes to think he's a communist, too. But he knows it's more of a political commitment than he's used to. He considers this, and then changes his stance on the coffeeshop crowd. They are not communists. But, they are most certainly liberals (like him). They think communism was a good idea and lousily executed. He feels the same way about his favorite sports team. *** At the crosswalk,
she wonders why she is alone. Around her, the night is absorbed in couples:
friends dangerously close to touch, a couple on the bench sharing one
last cigarette. "This is a stupid line of thought," she thinks,
and resolves to think without emotion. And, she thinks the same thing
again, without feeling lonely. No strangers here. No strange women.
To be sure, she looks behind the fast-food place. Only a dumpster lurking
in the blackness. *** This is not why she's alone tonight. Thought I'd throw that in. She is, actually, not alone. She has just finished a date with a promising young man. He wants her to stay out and have a beer. But she'd rather go home and have a cup of tea and go to bed. She no longer has the stomach for beer. I don't approve of this, but I cannot judge. I will say, though, that she is too hard on herself. She is looking for defects in a good record. Not perfect, but certainly not terrible. She is under the assumption – as the man is – that all 20-somethings should be sexual and happy. This is a common misconception and rarely the truth. The truth is: the man from the date is, quietly, sneaking up behind her. *** "Anonymity,"
he thinks, "is something I fear and crave." It's paradoxes
like these that he believes make women attracted to him. He doesn't
recognize that it is paradox that makes us human. He parallel parks
(which he's good at) and heads toward anonymity. *** She has a tattoo. It is a sentence across her abdomen. When making love, she prefers to be on her knees, so her partner cannot read it. Even when she gets comfortable enough with a man to be on her back, she covers up the tattoo. The one man she let read it convinced her to get it, one late Wild Turkey night. This was in College. Many weird things happen in College. His name was Alex. She was with him for two years. Initially, she loved him because he didn't insist on being called "Alec" like so many other Gen-Xers. It seems trivial now, but profound at the time, like he was flipping off his generation. She began making love to Alex lying on her back. But that night, after the tattoo, she had to be on her knees because of the pain. Even then, he hurt inside her. When he collapsed on her back, she felt something had changed, but she didn't know what. "Now I have something to remind me," she thought, "as long as I have it, this tattoo will mark this change." Six months later, they graduated and broke up. Their love did what the best love does, changed and simmered out. Walking to her
car tonight, she thinks that one of the phantom women has snatched up
Alex and married. He was very charming. She rubs her tattoo, for the
first time in years. He notices her when she is walking back to her car, rubbing her stomach. But what he notices more than her is the fellow chasing her, ducking behind cars, jumping out of sight so that she does not notice his approach. *** I want to tell you their names now, not out of connection to the story, but rather because it's going to get very difficult with two "he's" and a "she" running around. Her name is Lark. The boy from the date, chasing her is "Jon." The boy at the coffeeshop is "Grif". Continuing... *** Grif has always felt bewildered by the lengths other men go to when approaching women. But, this is merely because Grif, like most single men, is infested with a simple kind of arrogance. This is the arrogance that women will ask him out without him doing a damn thing. He supposes that on their first meeting with him, they will immediately ask him how many sexual partners he's had, to which he will respond with the focus-group tested: "3". This is somewhat true. He has had sexual relations with 3 different women; however, there was only one who made him feel whole while making love. When Grif parted with her, he was devastated for several weeks and made meals out of chips and beef jerky. Grif is convinced that he could turn this time of his life into a movie, if the period wasn't already motivated by the Hollywood idea of loneliness. Even now, sitting in the coffeeshop, watching Lark move across the street, he finds himself thinking how this could be like if it were a movie. "Cut. A Blockbuster,
2 weeks later. Grif has just had an amazing date. He comes in, cheerful,
and runs into Girl we have previously seen walking across the street.
They are looking for the same movie. They reach for it at the same time.
Laugh and kiss." *** Jon doesn't really care what he gets out of life. He was born with one special gift – the gift of knowing that he will never be happy if he is single. This has led to many dates out of sheer desperation. Even two days alone and he is petrified of his own depressed demise. Keeping up a romantic schedule like this is taxing. He has a large planner that he always carries with him. Jon felt his time with Lark was so promising that he has already called off his dates for later this week and is prowling the parking lot looking for her car. The only problem is that Jon doesn't know what her car looks like, so actually he is following Lark. If she were to confront him about it later, he would claim that he is looking for her car and didn't mean to alarm her. He believes that the one thing women hate is being alarmed. As a result, he gets dates by befriending women then asking them out. His appearance is middle-of-the-road and he is average looking. Something most men would curse, but Jon knows that an average appearance is a gift since it puts women at ease. It keeps them unalarmed, emotionally average, like he is. *** Lark knew Jon in college. This is why she agreed to go out with him. Jon was an acquaintance of the aforementioned Alex, who Lark never quite got used to, because she knew he was content with being average. And now that she is marooned in Louisville (this is where this story takes place), when she heard Jon was in town, she jumped at the opportunity to go out, because she had been so complacent the previous weeks. Jon's presence didn't help her sense of the doldrums at all. He heightened it. The date had started out all right, but as the night progressed, Jon seemed to be too aware of what was going on. He was like a maestro, guiding the symphony beautifully, not feeling a thing. Two appetizers that they split, main course – privacy – he didn't ask for a bite of her lentils. Then he ordered one piece of pie for them to split. "They have wonderful pie," Jon hummed, slurping on coffee. "I don't even really like pie." "What are you, a communist?" Jon chortled and stopped, realizing he had alarmed her. "I think communism is a fine idea that was executed lousily." Lark replied earnestly. "Well, of course, who doesn't think that?" Jon quipped. He was going to say that he used to admire Stalin but figured he had done enough damage for one night. "Won't you at least have a bite?" She knew what "a bite" meant. It was intimacy – the old intimacy through pie trick. This hook has stuck every woman at least once in her life. Lucky are those with allergic reactions to flaky crust, for they actually have an excuse to not share pie and intimacy with strange men. "Strange - there's that word again," she thinks, nibbling on pecan. Does she really know Jon? She peers at him across the table. He has applied just enough whipped cream to keep it from getting on his face. Is he a friend – or just some stranger that she is using to keep the idea of Alex alive? "Would you like a beer?" "I better not," she says. "Are you sure? I know this wonderful bar..." "I should get going, thank you for the meal." "Anytime." "Okay." "I'll call you." He smiles. It makes her skin crawl. "Yeah." Jon has already ordered a beer and it is served after Lark leaves. He downs it quickly and rushes into the night to follow her. He used this beer as a buffer, a legitimate excuse to prove that he is not following her. But, he is. *** Grif has descended
from his perch on a small wall outside the coffeeshop. He is running
after Lark, to warn her of Jon, who he presumes to be a murderer. Just
last week, there was a shooting down the street, a block away. And not
long after that, a former Miss America ran over a German émigré
on her bicycle. The émigré had been in the States for
under a month. *** Her keys jangling, Lark continues down the street, when she hears a bush by the coffeeshop rustle. She used to go to that shop and write in her journal after the tattoo and the change happened. She was trying to figure out what had switched. Now, all she sees is a boy, composition book in hand, running towards her with a crazed look in his eye. Lark picks up the pace. *** Jon has ducked behind a golden volvo station wagon. He figures that Lark drives something imported and safe. He looks inside the windows, nothing, then peers up to see her down the street near the corner where a man was murdered. As to not alarm her, he figures he can use it as an excuse to walk Lark to her car, take down the license plate, and see where she lives. He will use this information only for the purposes of delivering flowers tomorrow. Jon has started a purposeful stride towards Lark when he sees a crazed coffeeshop denizen leap onto the street, towards him. THIS IS THE MURDERER! Jon runs toward Lark, screaming: "Lark! It's the—" "Murderer, Lady, it's a—" "MURDERER!" They both scream staring at one another on the street." Lark looks back, noticing the men, eyeing one another like gunfighters. She runs to her car, gets in, rolls up all the windows, and slams on the gas. Grif and Jon stare at one another. Just from their appearance, they don't like one another. "You cost me a date there," Jon pointedly states. "Whatever." Grif walks back up to the coffeeshop. Jon returns to his car and leaves as well. *** I am sitting in the coffeeshop now, Grif beside me. "You're fucking insane," I say. "Tell me about it."
D: "Route to Arkansas" (2006) A
Monkey Puzzle Tree starts out as a hearty bush with branches that grow
upward at approximately 45 degrees. The branches exhibit
a slight arc downwards that, if not for the plant's healthy color, one
might believe to be indicative of an irrigation issue.
When I was a child, someone close to me was fond of telling anyone
who asked that the tree is called 'Monkey Puzzle' because
it's the only tree a monkey can't climb. If that's the only problem
a monkey has... "If a dog were about to attack, would you shoot it?" "With a gun?" "Yeah." "No. I don't like guns. But... I would use a knife." "You would kill a dog with a knife?" "Yeah." "What do you think about capital punishment?" "That's... wrong." "What about hanging?" "Well, I guess that's alright." My
friend's subconscious is always trying to find compromise. I think
it tries too hard for the wrong people. Rigidity. My navigator's consciousness continues to wax and wane. I stop asking bizarre questions when my ability not to laugh approaches its limit. He remains semi-awake in the dark silence. Finally, "Hey, man, pay attention. Where's our next turn?" "Take a right at Monkey Puzzle Tree." Simple/rich complexity.
D: Equation (2006)
D: "Uniball Deluxe Micro" (2005) Uniball Deluxe
Micros are the best pens (ever),
D: "Justin Mitchell is a Hypocrite in 200 Words" (2005) Justin Mitchell is a want-to-be hippie who bathes and uses deodorant with harmful dioxins and aluminum that damages both his body and our environment. He shops at Wal-Mart in order to hurt small businesses. Justin Mitchell hates omnivores because he is jealous of the iron in their blood. He wants everyone to be anemic and pallid like him. He is worse than racist. Justin Mitchell uses electricity to light his dwelling and cook his vegetarian "food". This electricity is created by burning coal and oil, which release sulfur, carbon monoxide, hydrocarbons, and other greenhouse gases. If left alone (i.e., ALIVE), the plants Justin is implicitly responsible for killing could have converted greenhouse gases into healthy oxygen. Justin Mitchell perpetuates "consumer culture" by exercising, thus requiring him to consume more calories than he really needs to live. This is terrible economy and regressive politicks. Justin Mitchell thinks nothing of killing and eating chickens, provided they are at the politically correct stage of development. Pre-brain = ok to callously destroy for sustenance; consuming an organism with dendritic ganglia = immoral, according to the laws of Justin. In other words, Justin eats babies (but shrimp are verboten).
Justin Mitchell: "D. is Totally an Asshole" (2005) D. will insult your friends. He will call them ugly. He will call your girlfriend ugly and stupid. He will do this to your face. Some people could liken this behavior to suggesting a friend might apply more deodorant, or wear slimming clothes. By some people, I should say some sociopaths. D. is a drunkard. Recently, D. and I went to a rock show. I drove D. from his apartment to the venue because he was drunk. It was 9:00. We hung out as his place for some time before going to the show. We arrived after the bands started playing. In his early evening stupor D. forgot his ID and his cash. I paid his cover. D. quickly fell asleep near a speaker as his body digested rotten potato juice. ...A few weeks later he drunk dialed me from his car. It was 6:30. And a weekday. D. sells real estate. D. will post essays on the internet pointing out his friends' hypocrisies. He will do this to people who feed his drunken ass at 6:30 on a weekday so the food can absorb the alcohol he has already consumed.
D: Conversations that started/ended badly (2005-6) "Conversations that started/ended badly (#84)" D: Faith is a belief in something beyond proof. Guy at the bar, after brandishing a switchblade: Following your philosophy, why shouldn't I stab you in the back while you're not looking? "Conversations
that started/ended badly (#2)" So, a Jewish kid asked his father for 5 bucks, and his father said... I told you that tire was flat, you asshole. Durr...hur ..hur.hur...hurrrr... (Ok, so I paraphrased that last one.) "Conversations
that started/ended badly (#1)" Are all of these sandwiches ham...? Then, after they removed the tumor... What church do you go to...? Do you know where...? ...in Jesus' name, we pray.
D: "Yet another case of Mistaken Ethnicity" (2005) Today, I got home around seven. My roommate was already home and has taken a liking to leaving the front door open on nice days. He left to work out, leaving the door open, as, I assume, it had been for some time before I arrived, while I sat, eating a bowl of canned beans, at the kitchen table. Not five minutes after he left, I heard someone calling in, "Is anybody home?" I thought, "Oh no. Not another of the roommate's frat-friends." I called twice, "Yes" and "Come in", but there was no response, so I left the table to see whether someone was really at our door. It was not a frat-friend, but instead a red-haired young man, with a short bowl cut, slightly crooked teeth that were otherwise basically in the right places, and a U.K. accent of some sort. I could barely understand him on account of the provincial nature of his dialect. He was soliciting for some sort of college savings bond which required him to get the public ("the public" being me today) to subscribe to one, from a long list, of magazine subscriptions. Because of his difficult accent and my lame attempt at being polite about not understanding him, it took more than half a minute for me to understand the reason this person was at my door. As I explained to him, I don't need a magazine subscription. However, as he explained to me, "If it was about people needing magazines, the whole thing would fall apart today. The reason people do this is to help me go to college." I said I guessed that was right, but that I didn't even live here, and maybe he should return when my buddy who lives here would be home. He said, looking at the Guinness in my hand which I had been drinking since he came to the door, "So you just come here to drink the beer. Is that it?" And I turned my free hand skyward, pushed my shoulders forward, and raised my eyebrows to signify "Yes". He retorted, "Well if you're here to drink the beer, then you're here to subscribe for a magazine." I said, "I'm sorry. I just can't use it." To which he looked me up and down, shook my hand, and departed, leaving me with, "Shalom". I promptly shut and locked the previously wide open door.
Dinosaur paintings.
Sam King. Alibi (2004)
Sam King. Out of the thin air (2004)
AWOL PIAD projects (gold star for you if you remember them): Dirty White Sweatpants: Laptop Smashing Orthodox Tree Hater & the "Larry The Lobster" video Imaginary Band Project Spam Poetry - - - - - - - - - - - - - When ordering CDs by mail, make checks payable to Sam King, and please specify what it is you're ordering. Send an email if you want to expedite the order, as I don't check my PO Box every day. I don't charge anything for the downloads of Two and The baby & the bathwater (obviously). If you want to, you can donate money by paypal or mail.
email: samueltaylorking at gmail dot com mail: PO Box 703 Fayetteville, AR 72702
Copyright 2004-7. |
