Artomatic

Happy 60th, Mom.

Good Advice.

Amazing Stuff By My Friend Periodiko

His cover of Radiohead's Optimistic is here.

Before I Sputter Out

The Next Big Thing?

http://asthmatickitty.com/musicians.php?artistID=27

Click on "The Believers, Part I: John Shade, Your Fortunes Made" under the mp3 section.

I Have Figured Out Global Warming

I Didn't Think They Were Real Until I Met One

So today I took a cab home from the Metro Station because I didn't feel like waiting in the rain for the bus to show up late.

Cab rides are always awkward for me. I'm terrible at making small talk, so the rides are usually me giving short replies to the cabbie's inane questions.

Today was different. Today was wierd.

The guy seemed cool enough, an older, kinda fat dude with a salt-and-pepper beard, tortoiseshell glasses, and wearing a fleece vest over a polo shirt. We made the usual chitchat, talking about the shitty weather we've been having lately, local sports, nothing major.

Until I made the mistake of letting it slip that I work in DC.

"DC, huh?" says the cabbie. "You don't for them, do you?"

It was at this point that I realized I was going to be in for one interesting ride.

I played stupid "Them who?"

"The government, maaaan." Stifle your laughter. Hold your breath. Bite your tongue.

"No, I'm an IT Consultant for a firm based out of DC. We serve many different clients in many different industries," says I.

"Hmmph. Well just watch out for them. You ever read a book called Puzzle Palace?" he asked.

"Can't say that I've ever heard of it, honestly," was my truthful reply.

"Well, it's all about the NSA. You know the NSA, the National Security Agency?" He took both hands off the wheel to do finger-quotes when he said the word "Security"

"Oh yeah, I've heard of them. They're pretty important, huh?" I replied.

"Yeah, real important. Did you know that they used to shop at the same grocery stores as the 9/11 mastermind hijackers?! The same fucking Safeway!! There's no way they could not have known what they were up to. I bet they even parked next to each other!!" says my Mulder-esque cheauffer.

At this point, I was honestly afraid I was going to start laughing and the next thing I know I'd be smelling choloform and tied up in this crazy fuck's basement while he smacks me in the face with copies of Catcher In The Rye and The 9/11 Commisson's Report.

"Wow, that's pretty interesting. I never knew that." I replied, hoping that he'd either trail off or that we'd plunge a little deeper down the rabbit hole.

We go a few fractions of a mile farther down the road in silence. We turn onto a street a few blocks from my building when he asks me, in all seriousness, "You ever heard of Cold Fusion?"

Curiouser and curiouser. I think I see the White Rabbit hustling down the sidewalk.

"Yeah, I have. That's a way to create basically limitless energy, right?"

"It sure is! Back in the 80's I was working as a government contractor out of my basement. I had a very rudimentary lab but me and a few of my buddies were contracted out to perform experiments on Cold Fusion. Left here? Ok. Anyway, one day I got back from the grocery store and I saw that my door had been unlocked without first removing the invisible tape across the doorjam that I kept there for just such an occasion. Well I went down to my laboratory and didn't notice anything too weird, but I started leaving markers in my research. You know what a marker is? It's a specific phrase that you look for so if someone steals your research and publishes it as their own you can spot the marker and call them out on it! Well, a few months later I found an article in Popular Science that used one of my markers! I immediately called the FBI who referred me to Judge Lawrence Walsh. You know who that is? That was one of the Judges in the whole Iran-Contra affair! He was a stooge to Oliver North! And you know what that judge told me? He told me I should just keep it quiet and keep working. Oliver North's cronies were breaking in to my laboratory and stealing my research and I was supposed to just keep it quiet! I know what he was doing, he was giving my research to his buddies at the National Laboratories in Los Alamos so they could do experiments involving time travel! Well, I hope old Ollie North and his Los Alamos buddied are enjoying their time machine because I rigged the research! I made one intentional error on one of the equations, and if they ever manage to get it working, all it's gonna do is send 'em in to an endless loop where they become unstuck in time and jump back and forth between dimensions. Hahahaha I sure got 'em good. Alright, so that's 12.85."

Ok, so maybe there's a bit of hyperbole, but that's the gist of what this guy was telling me. That back during the 80's he was working on Cold Fusion in his basement and Oliver North broke in and stole his research and gave it to Los Alamos National Laboratory so they could make time machines but this guy was smart, and rigged his research so that it would fail.

I thank the guy, paid him, and got out of the cab. I had intentionally made him drop me at another building, because I sure as fucking didn't want him to know where I lived.

In Which Our Hero Punches A Horse In The Face And Gets Banned From The State Of Kentucky

(Author's Note: This is an out of order chapter from an autobiography)

I'd finished touring most of the East Coast at this point. I'd been as far north as Vermont and as far south as Florida. I came back to Virginia to tie up some loose ends, see my family, get some more of my things that I figured I'd need and then head west.

I made my way through West Virginia. It was absolutely beautiful in some places and down right soul-crushingly desolate and ugly in others. You'd be driving along a beautiful mountain road, admiring the views and all the beautiful flora when you'd come to a section of the mountain that looked like someone had taken a giant scalpel to.

It was a result of generations and generations of strip-mining for coal. Small little company owned mining towns would be built around this place, with the actual mine and processing plant being the heart. Sometimes the vein of coal would last for decades, which would result in fairly modern looking structures. Other times, it would dry up within years leaving a cliche-looking ghost town of Old-West style wooden facades.

The majority of these places were abandoned, or nearly so. When the mountain had finally exsanguinated, the company would close up and vacate, leaving the citizens of the town without work, without resources, and without hope. Most people left, living a nomadic lifestyle, following the company around and living in company owned houses and buying company owned goods from the company owned stores with money they earned working for the company. Until very recently, the money they earned was only good at businesses owned by the company. You would go to the local general store and pay your bills in company-issued bank notes. If you were lucky enough to have electricity, for example, you would pay the company for it in their own currency and they would in turn pay the power company in legal tender.

I'm sure you can see the problem with this. You were essentially an endentured servant to this company. What you earned was not accepted at any business that was not controlled by the mining company. All this was eventually changed and made illegal, but the sad truth of this is that nearly all the people who were working for these companies relied on them to survive. So when the company folded that particular mine, they either had to follow it to the next one or revert back to a modern hunter-gatherer lifestyle.

You'd come into these deserted towns and it was like driving through an episode of Carnivale. Depending on when the vein was exhausted, you'd see old, rusted, derelict mining trucks laying between half-collapsed stick-built boarding houses and the burnt out husks of brick coal processing plants. Every now and then you'd see a house that couldn't possibly provide anything beyond basic shelter, yet there would be smoke pouring out of the chimney. Someone who couldn't stand to leave their home, no matter what.

I was heading to meet an old friend in Kentucky. His family owned a farm in horse country, a huge rolling expanse of land that was ideal for some camping, introspection, and writing.

I showed up on a Thursday, and we rode in to town to hit the bar. At this point I'd started to cut back on my drinking and my drugging, but I still got pretty drunk. We ended up spreading the word that we'd be having a party Saturday night, and by the time we left it seemed the entire 20-something population of the town was planning on being there.

I woke up Friday morning, and decided to go out on the property to try and find a good place to set up my campsite. I loaded my camping gear on the backrack of one of his extra four-wheelers, gave him a call to let him know what I was going to be doing and took off.

Now when I say these people had land, I mean that these people had land. I'm not sure of the acreage, but it was easily 200+. I rode for nearly half the day non-stop before I decided to stop and eat lunch. I had a little bit of weed with me, so I unpacked a sandwich and some deer jerky, mixed up some gatorade, and rolled a joint.

I ate my lunch in betweens drags, and had a nice, pleasant buzz by the time I was ready to head back out and find a good spot. I was headed for Big Pond, which was, surprisingly, a big pond. There was a nice spot on the bank they had cleared for partying, so I decided to stake my claim early. I made my way around the pond, carefully, and parked the ATV. I pulled out my tent and started to set it up, stopping to smoke a cigarette and just admire the view.

After I had gotten my tent pitched, my bedroll made, and my firepit dug, I started to write. I finished up my stories about Florida, about meeting the Costa Rican girl that stole my car. About nearly getting arrested for taking a piss in the middle of the beach, drunk, around 1 in the afternoon. About getting in a fight with a Cuban national because I dared to speak honestly and openly about Che.

He gave me a call as the sun was setting, and I told him I was going to be staying out there that night and that I'd be up at the house around noon Saturday to help him start getting the party set up.

It was peaceful out there. The sky was clear, and you could easily make out the features of the sky. The Dogstar, Orion's Quiver. The stuff you have trouble seeing in the city. I fell asleep to the sound of crickets and an owl that must have been confused about the smell of my fire.

I woke up with the sun Saturday morning. I heated up some jerky over the fire, sucked down some more Gatorade, and hopped on the four-wheeler to head back. I ended up riding straight back the entire way, without stopping, so I made good time.

We started setting up for the party. His parents were out of town so we'd have the entire place to ourselves. His DJ friend arrived, and set up, and started spinning some good music while we were finishing the setup. We'd started drinking as soon as we started setting everything up, so by the time people actually started to arrive, we were doing good.

The details of the party are pretty hazy, but there was definitely booze, weed, coke, music, dancing, women, and all the stuff that made a good party a good party. Eventually people were either passed out or had left, so the few of us that remained awake decided to go "see the horses."

I don't know who suggested it, but by the time we started to head down to one of the huge barns, we had to "see the horses!" It was imperative to the integrity of the remaining party's fun that we "see the horses."

We get down to one of his barns, and cut the lights on. If you know anything about horses, you know that you shouldn't startle them awake. It freaks them the fuck out, and they can injure themselves, each other, or whoever happens to be unlucky enough to be near them.

I was leaning against a stall door that I had assumed was empty, because I couldn't see anything inside of it before whoever flicked the lights on.

The lights came on suddenly, the horses were startled awake, and a fucking caucaphony of whinnies and neighs erupted throughout the barn. However, I must have been standing next to the stall that belonged to the stoner horse, because he didn't stir along with the others.

Everyone was laughing at the horses going crazy, some of the girls were getting kind of upset and were trying to calm down the ones they were closer too, and I was just enjoying it all. Standing back and leaning against this empty stall, just watching this strange scene play out in front of me. A bunch of drunk, high, zooted 20-somethings acting like toddlers over a bunch of horses.

Suddenly I felt like I was being watched. I felt something hot blowing on my neck. I stood upright, and slowly turned my head to the left to see a giant fucking horse's head mere inches from me.

He let loose with an ear-splitting whinny, and I freaked out and took a swing at him, catching him in the nose while I took a step back. He didn't seem fazed; he just sort of shook his head and then withdrew back into his stall.

I looked to the rest of the party and they were all staring at me with their maws gaping. I started to say something, but all I could manage was some stuttering before the guy whose parents owned the place said, matter-of-factly, "Dude, you just punched my horse."

"Dude, you just punched my horse." Do me a favor, say that out loud. Really. Take a second to actually speak those words. Did you do it? No, you didn't! Come on, say it! Say "Dude, you just punched my horse."

Ok, so you said it. You heard it. You have some idea of what it sounds like. It's not a common phrase. In fact, it's probably something most people will never, ever hear. And rightly so, for punching someone's horse and then being called out on it is far from a common occurence.

You don't know how to react after hearing that. What do you say to that? My response was "I'm...sorry?"

Everyone laughs, we shut off the lights and head back up to the house. I decide to crash in one of the guestrooms since I was in no state to try and navigate my way back to Big Pond and my camp site.

I woke up early to find a strange girl sleeping half-naked, curled up beside me. I know nothing happened because I wasn't black-out drunk. I got up out of the bed, trying my best not to wake this odd creature curled up wearing only a tanktop, and something was stuck to my chest.

There was a note duct-taped to my chest. "You punched my horse. I have officially banned you from the State of Kentucky. Goodbye."

And so it was. I had punched a horse and gotten banned from Kentucky.

Why My Sister Loves Horses

It was the summer of 1992, and we were on a family vacation to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Now, Pigeon Forge, as I look back on it, was a tourist trap. Wall-to-wall with those "FUN PARKS" that had go-karts, bumper boats, batting cages, mini-golf, an arcade, you get the idea. Plus ever restaurant was some variation on "UNCLE JESSE'S DOWN HOME COUNTRY COOKIN'!"

Well, my parents were very diplomatic, so for the 10 days we were there, they allowed me and my sister to choose the "big activity" on alternating days. Of course, being the young pistonhead that I was, I of course chose go-karts nearly every time. My sister was a girl, so she chose boring stuff like going to Dollywood (Do you know what that is? It's a fucking theme park based around Dolly Fucking Parton. I mean WHAT THE FUCK?! Although they did have amazing food and some pretty badass roller coasters) or going to one of the FUCK-OFF HUGE malls they had. Blegh.

Anyway, it was nearing the end of the trip, and my sister had been dying to go horseback riding. It makes sense, she was a girl, girls like ponies, she wants to ride ponies. So on her last day to decide what the BIG ACTIVITY was, she said she wanted to ride ponies. My parents reluctantly agreed, and we drove out of the tourist trap area and in to the (now that I remember it) scary, extremely rural parts of the town looking for a guided horseback tour. We stopped at the first one that didn't look the owners would kill us all and make furniture from our bones and lampshades from our skin and novelty mustaches from our hair, and piled out of the minivan.

It was me, my mom in her better years, my dad, me, my sister, my aunt Ninnie, and my cousin Kathryn and her boyfriend. We all made our way in to the "office," which was just a drywalled-off partition in the barn, and my dad proceeded to inquire about a guided horseback tour. The guy behind the counter, which to this day I remember still looked shockingly like Charles Bronson, explained, his thick Appalachian accent, the pricing and the rules.

The rules were simple. Anyone 6 and under had to ride with an adult. Anyone 12 and under had the choice to ride a pony by themselves or a horse with an adult. My dad, in a lapse of judgement I can only imagine he regrets to this day, asked me if I wanted to ride a pony by myself or a horse with him.

Let me pause here for a minute. I was a nerdy-ass fucking kid. Glasses since I was six which had always been WAY too big for my face, more interested in science and reading and history than sports, with the exception of all things motorsport, straight-fucking-A's, Gifted and Talented program, doing third grade work in Kindergarten (but my parents didn't skip me ahead, and I thank them for that every time I see them), skinny-ass, picked-on constantly, science club in elementary school, the fucking works. However, I was also a bit of a thrill seeker. And when I say thrill seeker, I mean go-kart crashing, dirt-bike riding, head-first-in-a-sleeping-bag-sliding-down-the-stairs, laying-down-head-first-on-a-skateboard-and-flying-down-a-hill-with-no-helmet, hold-the-firecracker-as-long-as-you-can, thrill seeker.

I said I wanted to ride alone. At this point, my entire pony-riding career consisted of those little plastic horses that you put the quarter in and they move back and forth and shit. Oh, and carousels. To this very day, I have no idea why my mom allowed my dad to allow me to do that.

The Charles Bronson looking dude looks at me, looks at my scrawny little 8 year old frame, chuckles to himself, and says "Well, alright, let's get you ready." He leads me back to a back room in this "office" and tells me to pick something out, and that he'd be back in a few minutes after he got my dad to fill out some forms. Around me hung the most Garth Brooksiest shit I have ever seen. The term "Rhinestone Cowboy" pales in comparison to this collection of studded, multicolored, shiny, gaudy, outrageous "cowboy" apparel.

But you know me. I didn't reach for the shirt that was sequined in an American Flag pattern, nor did I choose the neon-green rodeo shirt that looked like it belonged in some bizarre gay fetish movie. No, I chose the dusty, faded, plain, black cowboy shirt and hat. I put 'em on and looked at myself in the mirror. My 8 old year old self thought the equivalent of "FUCK YEAH I LOOK LIKE A BADASS!!" and I proceeded to do my best John Wayne walk back to the front office.

The shirt was at least 5 size too big, as well as the hat. My family tried to keep a straight face, as they could tell the look on my face meant BUSINESS. Our fearless Charles Bronson look-alike chuckled and said "Slowdown cowboy, you still need a pair of boots!" He disappeared into the back and came back with the most bad-assed pair of 8-year-old sized Rattlesnake cowboy boots. He showed me how to put them on, and after I was totally decked out, we headed out to meet our rides.

The adults all got nice looking, well-put together horses. I got a fat-ass, flea-bitten, sway-backed pony that looked like it was out of breath just walking out of the stall. Old Charlie Bronson wasn't gonna be riding with us, but he introduced us to our two guides, how proceeded to give us a quick tutorial on how to drive a horse. Pull the reins to one side and dig your heel in to turn that way, squeeze your legs together and pull back on the reins to slow down and stop, give 'em a little kick with your heels and say "GIDDY UP!" to make em move. Pretty basic shit, the horses were well used to it and didn't really need any guidance, but we felt like we were The Earp Gang and this trail was our Tombstone.

We made our way up the trail, up into the mountains. It was beautiful, and I was enjoying every minute of it. We stopped periodically, and one of the guides would hop off his horse and tie my reins to a tree for me so my pony wouldn't wander off with me still on it. By the way, my pony seemed to be the reason we were taking so many breaks, as after about 45 minutes worth of riding it was making noises like the fat, asthmatic kid in gym class when you had to run the mile for that stupid fucking PRESIDENTIAL FITNESS bullshit.

Anyway, we made one stop at a fork in the trail. One trail led down the mountain a bit, and was what we were going to follow. The other trail was an emergency trail that led straight back to the office, and had huge signs warning inexperienced riders not to attempt to follow that trail, as serious injury or death could occur.

For whatever reason, my pony didn't get tied up this time. One of the guides had a walky-talky, which crackled to life telling him that he was needed back at the office ASAP. He proceeds to turn his horse towards the emergency trail, give it a good kick with his heels, and take off.

Well, I'm not sure if my pony decided it was time to show everyone what he was really made of or was just plain trying to be a dick, but he proceeded to take off at a canter and beeline down the emergency trail, me on his back, holding on to the reins with all my strength.

The next few minutes are a blur. I remember thinking how cool it was, until we hit one section of the trail that was literally three feet wide. One side was the exposed rock of a mountain, and the other side was, what appeared to me to be, a 15 billion and a half foot drop down onto a rocky river. I stopped enjoying it immediately.

I began tugging the reins as hard as I good, and without even thinking about, screaming at the top of my lungs "WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!"

Eventually, I remember popping out of the woods and arriving in the gravel parking lot of the office/barn. I was shaken up, but I hopped off the pony and tried my best to pretend to be cool about it. The guide that left had arrived only moments before me, and I'll never forget the look of shock on his face. He walked up to me and said "You ok, boy?" to which I replied "I'm fine."

He picked up his walky and said "Hey, the boy followed me, and he's ok. He's bleeding from his mouth a little bit, but he seems like he's doing alright."

The guide went in to the office, and after a minute or two, came out with the Charles Bronson-looking dude. The old guy said "Son, you know you weren't supposed to follow him!" I tried to explain what happened, and he stopped me, saying "No, no, I understand. Sometimes that one gets a little crazy."

They gave me a psychotic pony. What the fuck.

Eventually the rest of my family makes it back, my mom was practically in hysterics. I had knocked out two baby teeth, which is why I was bleeding.

The old guy comes up to my dad and says "Sir, your son is a natural. I recommend he get some more experience." We all piled in to the office, and my dad, my aunt, and my cousins boyfriend all being to pay. I took off my over sized hat and shirt, and gave them back to the guy. I began to take off the boots and he stopped me, and told me I had earned them.

My sister was obsessed with horses after that. Shortly after we got back, my parents found a farm that gave lessons, and signed her up. Since then she's earned Grand Champion at multiple state shows, and she even placed as Champion at the National Equine Show in DC.

I took lessons for a while, and I still know how to ride. I got bored and moved on to motorcycles.