FRANK WITH ALARM SAFE HATES MY GUTS

At least, that is what I hope. I told him when he called that I did not have alarms, didn't want alarms, and didn't need them. Now kindly piss off and goodbye. But that's a new one. What on earth makes that man think that invading my privacy with his phone call will persuade me to buy his product?

My relationship with the cell phone is tense. Almost always the ringing represents sales calls which I don't want, from people I do not wish to hear from. In the morning that is the extent of my social contact once my apartment mate has left for the day. The turkey vulture on my pile of clothes doesn't say much, save for telling me that my wallet which he grabbed is his baby, and that I should go out there and clop some old geezers over the noggin so that I can harvest their fatty inner thighs to feed him.
Now piss off, inferior human.
My baby!

When Frank called I was busy with a painting. I find myself falling into the same neurotic and obsessive pattern as when I still worked in oils and acrylics, namely fussing with the hues and depth. It's not as intense on the computer, but a whole lot faster.
In a way I'm spinning my gears more efficiently now.

The computer painting below reflects insanity.

There should be bunny rabbits in the picture. New year and all that. But bunny rabbits on a beach would be odd, and actually this painting represents a mental state more than anything soft and furry. Imagine a grumpy forest creature, half daemon, plodding along with a pipe in it's mouth, wondering why on earth he woke up so early.

Cold.

Heck might freeze over before I venture to the headlands on only one cup of coffee.

Do they have a bakery there? A warm inviting place with no people? Distant hubbub but not in the same room? Electronic hot beverage equipment and ventilation?

Old geezers with fatty inner thighs?

Frank?



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