On the Road to Flesh and Bone with the “Pizza Man”. 2013 update.

Update - 

For  Danny McCloskey, Editor - “The Alternative Root Magazine”

5/16/2013

On the Road to Flesh and Bone with the “Pizza Man”.

By Ben Livingston

  

This is the improbable story of how the legendary Denny Bruce and I made a record together.

In case you have been living on anther planet and don’t know Denny Bruce, he has either signed and or worked with world class artists such as John Hiatt, T-Bone Burnett, John Fahey, Leo Kottke, Albert Lee, Albert Collins, Ike and Tina Turner, The Fabulous Thunderbirds and even Charles Bukowski just to name a few. He has also owned Takoma Records, which is now Benchmark Recordings. 

Back in 1967, about the time that I was getting kicked out of our Catholic middle school, The story behind my song, “Flesh and Bone”, Denny and his best friend Jack Nitzsche, arranger and producer for Phil Spector, were headed over to Laurel Canyon, LA where Denny’s ex-roommate, Neil Young lived. Neil would make rock and roll history by playing "Expecting to Fly" for Jack..

This moment and is a big reason we know who Neil young is today.

It all happened in Neil’s tiny cabin where, to quote Denny, “his jumbo 12 string sounded like an orchestra.” I imagine that at that very moment as the great Mr. Nitzsche listened intently, he looked around the hovel and thought to himself: “This man needs a maid!”

I love that punchline!

This is just one small part of the amazing musical life of my friend, producer and "Spiritual guide", as he himself - designated as his credit on our CD called “Flesh and Bone”.

The reason I bring up Mr. Bruce's pedigree is not so much to qualify this gentle giant, but to note one man's incredible wealth of knowledge and experience garnered by all the years of actually being there and doing that, which still “delivers” in a digital world where user friendly technology extrudes a “producer” or “engineer” by simply owning a laptop and learning how to operate “GarageBand” from a “How to - For Dummys” handbook. 

Like good wine, there is simply a refined elegance that comes from spending time breaking it down in the barrel.

A few years back, Denny Bruce and I were introduced by the director of The Performing Arts Center at the University of Texas – Austin.  She prompted our meeting with a brief description of “Ben, the renowned artist and songwriter”, to which Denny replied (after seeing my neon sculpture work and hearing a song or two): “Well, two seconds into his "world I said: "here comes Terry Allen again. But what a fascinating background Ben has, and the neon work he does is incredible. I have always heard it is hard to do art with neon, and his things are delicate and quite beautiful.”

This was the beginning of a mutual admiration between two somewhat self-realized characters whom might share the mantra: “Everyone to their own profession.” 

Eventually, Denny told me that he’d like to work with someone like me and asked what my vision was… That’s when he needlessly qualified himself by stating: “I am “The Pizza Man”… because I deliver.”

And deliver he did!

It’s always been a mystery how the “real deal - musical magi” producers hear music to be, where they go in their being in order to pull rabbits out of hats and choreograph the shape of sound to groove with the soul of a song… This is a special faculty that I have finally been somewhat privy to.

As a visual artist, It has always struck me as kind of funny how referential “music people” are about music.  Here’s a typical conversational exchange…

Musician #1: “So, how was Mr Garhoo and the Twang Dang Doodles last night down at the Ritz?  I’ve heard that they are really good.”

Musician #2: “Oh man!!! The lead singer went off on a Kirk Cobain scatting jag that was phenomenal and then the guitarist beat his Les Paul over the kazooist’s head just like Jimi Hendrix used to do to Tiny Tim back in 1971 during their “Twilight on my buns tour”, remember that? Then they hugged like Leo Buscaglia and sang “Walla Walla Bing Bang” A Capella just like “Crosby Stills Nash and Young.”

Musician #1: “Awesome!”

Kind of like that… You get my drift…

These guys are just hard wired this way, Denny is definitely one of them, except for the fact that this man walks around with an encyclopedic database of sound and song in his brain that he uses like a shopping catalog to match sound and new song until a crystal clear image of the sound’s new signature is created.. This is one of the maestro’s many paint brushes and when he is done, you know it, because he rarely changes his mind.

Bear with me as I am processing too much into "this" and need to focus on "whatever" made the light bulb go off over your head (like in a cartoon..)

Was it because Ben said :

(a) He is objective in hearing my songs. He evaluates the lyrics, the tempo of the song, and how my vocals step on an area in the music that should not have a vocal there, so it is more of a natural flow.

(b) There are key words to every song that need to be emphasized, not necessarily by the singer, but an instrument can convey the same emotion when played correctly at the right time.

(c) The key the song is in, the chord changes and the tempo (which can change at any time) are all a part of the canvas, your backdrop, to structure your song.

(d) We are talking about you and your song, naked. (With Ben, who has studio experience now, I have to go through every instrument, etc. it will take to make a record...this is my question to you, as I am just wanting to focus on the most important thing there is in the music business. It is built on having a good song to work with.)

(e) Call me a "writer's workshop" or a person who reads screenplays for Steven Spielberg. How many "demo's" has Denny B listened to and rejected? If I say 20,000 songs since 1967 I would be way short. I have made a lot of albums. I had an office (with Bug Music) for six years who were a publishing company, so it was non-stop music all day, and then I went home and tried to relax by listening to music I like (as you found out..) But what a pleasure to hear Mickey Newbury with you at Royce and say "I met him, with Kris K., at the Newport Folk Festival because Johnny Cash brought them with him to meet people. I was with Buffy S. Marie, and Johnny brought them over to her and said "Fellas, she is always looking for a good song, so just do your best ones, and by that I mean no more than two or three apiece." I loved everything they played, and felt they would make it, although they sure were not good singers.)

(f) But you heard them, just with a guitar they barely could play, and heard the song.

(g) That's what it's like being a musician. It's a leap of faith, now more than ever.  No one's interested in you.  You can make an album, but it's purely for fans, of which you've got few.  It's a calling. You need to do it, otherwise it's just too hard.

How can you be so good that people want to pay attention?

You can buy insurance, work with someone already famous, so your music sounds just like everybody else's, so you can advertise the connection.

Or you can realize you suck and it's going to take you years to get good and you've got to endure the abuse, if you're not completely ignored, until you get good enough.  And then you'll only grow if you're different, and we live in a world where people want insurance. There's no safety net for a musician.

That's what being an artist's all about.  There are no guarantees. It's like there's a fork in the road, and you go left when everybody else goes right and all you've got are the clothes on your back and twenty bucks in your pocket.  If you go right, you're on "American Idol."

Are you ready for this level of truth, of honesty, of desperation?

Being an artist is the loneliest life you can ever lead.  Even if you make it, only a small circle will know who you really are.  But your energy will be so electric that people will be drawn to you, while you'll be pissed you're famous and can't live a normal life.

But you were never normal.  Artists never are.

But the thrill of being an artist is you don't let others get your kicks for you.  That's the audience, living through you.  If you're not on an adventure, if you're not testing limits, no one cares.

So now you know why we've got so few artists.  Because few are up to the challenge.

"When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose"

I am only using Bob Dylan here because, for me, he was the first songwriter of my generation who really broke the mold of songwriting. It went from "June-loon-spoon" to "The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face." I'd say that's quite a jump.

(h) (PW-I am now getting away from the essence of the song, but after being in so many seminars about "this"- today's world doesn't even know Dylan, per se, and what he meant to "us." The Internet lets everyone with a computer think we're music critics or guitar players and some kind of a "star." I don't think there'll be a Gary Cooper or Bob Dylan. The culture has serious ADHD, as demonstrated by the rise and fall of Glenn Beck, for instance.

My point being with Dylan, for example, you get the impression that something is speaking to you. I think that is the difference between art and entertainment. With art you leave and you think, I might want to change something about my life or how I view things philosophically. Being touched by a song and you now look at something the way you never looked at it before.  You can feel sympathy for something, or someone who is different than you are. That's the power of song.

First rough draft.

Tomorrow I will probably change my tune.

Thank you for your time.

XXXX

Denny

Guitarist Leo Kottke (left) with Denny Bruce (center) and Jack Nitzsche (right), circa 1975.

In the 60s, Denny Bruce was the drummer in Frank Zappa’s band, the Mothers (Zappa was experimenting with a two-drummer band at the time). He later became the drummer for Western Union, a band featuring Jay Ferguson, Mark Andes, Matt Andes (Mark’s brother) and Michael Fondelier.

In 1966, Jack Nitzsche dropped into a Hollywood rehearsal hall. Thinking Western Union were an entirely different band that he had actually been invited to check out, he nonetheless liked what he heard and offered Denny’s band a record deal on the spot, contingent upon the ability of his new record label to be backed by a major. The band jumped at the offer, but unfortunately the label deal fell through, and Western Union ultimately disbanded with Ferguson and Mark Andes moving on to form Spirit. 

Denny was also an A&R consultant for the Blue Thumb Records label and he worked at Vanguard Records, producing and managing artists like John Fahey (Fahey was signed to Takoma but was able to record solo albums for other labels; Denny produced two albums of Fahey’s for Reprise Records) and Leo Kottke (Denny produced all seven of Kottke’s albums that were released on Capitol Records).

He later partnered with Chrysalis Records to purchase and sign artists to Fahey’s Takoma Records label; he managed and produced numerous releases by the Fabulous Thunderbirds, T-Bone Burnett, ”Sir” Douglas Sahm for Takoma (he produced two Sir Douglas Quintet albums as well). Denny also signed and produced Mike Bloomfield, Swamp Dogg and Charles Bukowski for Takoma/Chrysalis.

Denny and Jack became close friends and they were even roommates for many years. At one point, they were living atop Mulholland Drive in George Raft’s old mansion, where Denny says Mick Jagger and Keith Richards wrote “Sister Morphine” while lounging beside their skinny-dip pool. Denny, being a close friend and confidant, also wrote the liner notes to Jack Nitzsche’s 2001 Rhino Handmade CD collection Three Piece Suite: The Reprise Recordings.
- http://whenyouawake.com/2010/10/18/one-for-the-books-greasers-palace-an-absurd-acid-western/

John Fahey and wife with Denny Bruce center, at Chapman 

Park Studio 1970, with the later Mary Yeomans.

Photo: John van Hamersveld

 Manager Denny Bruce: during the release of Leo Kottke, Mudlark Cover photo taken in the Mt. Wilson Observatory parking lot, Jan 10, 1971. This is taken at the Chapman Park Studio. 

Will be included in T.V.LIFE book.

Out of the frying pan and into the frying pan

Gary Martin and I restored this beat up old neon sign for our friend Steve Wertheimer's brand new club back around 1987.

Back then, we'd go to meet up with Steve at the Watson - Casey Group where he worked as a CPA. Then he would take us over to look at “the club”.

As I was taking photos and rummaging around the joint, I remember Steve, sitting all alone at a table in that filthy abandoned dungeon of a place. I suppose he was master minding what was to be today, the most famous and historically significant music institution in Austin. Now revered as "the grandaddy of all local music venues".

That vision of Steve's, has helped solidify what is so extraordinary about Austin's music scene today as "The live music capital of the world" ... So if you ever go there, just look up on the bottom of the sign and you'll see us, were still there - "Martin Signs & Beneon" or something like that.

Ahhh, those were good days my friends.

Cut to my next life...

I think this is where I'll begin my story.

Back in 1993 my old pal Chris Layton of "Double Trouble" suggested that I dare myself to rent a PA system and play original songs during the opening night of my art exhibit at the Blue Star complex in San Antonio.

And what a great idea that was!

After the show my friend Heidi Goebel remarked that I looked as though I was breathing pure oxygen up there on the stage. No truer words have ever been spoken and so I have performed at my show's openings ever since.

As a visual artist, it's hard enough to put together an exhibit that makes any sense, especially if a performance is included in the mix. Now throw in the fact that the show just happens to be in Austin at the Continental Club; AND you've managed to have it open during the internationally renowned SXSW music festival.

This is a perfect storm for performance anxiety of the richest kind. A gorgeous blank page handed to me on a silver platter.
And for this one (once again, in the spirit of George Plimpton) I want to pull out all the stops if for no other reason, just for its own sake.

But here in lies a great delimma. Thanks to my soulmate and mentor of muddling through life, music and art - Jeff Ragsdale's sage advice.. (I paraphrase) "It's time to focus on what's really you in all of this Ben".

He's absolutely right..MY JOB IS TO STEP UP TO THE PLATE BY REACHING DEEP INSIDE AND DELIVERING THE REAL MCCOY, WHATEVER THAT MAY BE...





I've just been pasting together a silly variety show...I really thought I was on to something...Now I feel like David Frost just after he landed the interview with Nixon..OH SHIT MAN, NOW WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?







This is the story of "What now".

This morning I wrote this to Bob Livingston (not my dad Bob, but my new buddy from last years blog on South East Asian supernaturalism which can be found at spirithousesafari.blogspot.com

Here's an excerpt from that letter:

Hey Bob,

I have an art show coming up in March and since it's at the Continental Club, I'd like to also create a performance/show as an opening act. (It will be SXSW so the timing is perfect)

I'd really like to pick your brain about how you formed & structured the building of your Cowboys & Indians show. And then after that, I'll probably ask you to be a part of this thing somehow.

It's pretty far out there (kind of Dada style). This ought to be a fun stretch and I am digging deep for reasons why, beginning with a new blog on the subject that I think I'll call "Continental Drift".

I feel a conceptual connection between our conversation about Karma Yoga and the journey of one who's pulled by the force of an idea and always impulsively striking out into unknown territory for reasons that he can't always understand, much less, explain.

I'm suddenly interested in the contrast of objectives, like finding things without looking for them and/or the sheer love of the hunt. (Which is perhaps (in this context) virtually the same thing.

I hope that this is palatable information for you as I am relishing in this second strong-ass larapin cup of coffee.

Talk to me.

XOBen






Theatre is in my blood. I can't help it.

As the story goes, my grandmother ran away from home when she was sixteen years old. When her father found her in New York City she was getting auditions on Broadway. I'm not saying that I'm interested in that sort of thing, but I am compelled by the allure of the stage. There is a very special energy in the moment up there that draws out a part of my personality that I really enjoy experiencing. This feeling is strangely very natural to me, maybe comparable to a greyhound finally getting to run on a racetrack. I especially like the way that my memory gets better, as I hardly ever forget the words to songs…


A unique opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day and consequently it brings out my most glutinous tendencies begging thoughts of “there is so much that I want to do, and so how can I do it all!” But thanks to Jeff’s guidance, hodgepodge is not the answer. First things first, I need to dig deeper and try and put together some very personal conceptual bones for this thing… So I figure writing is the best way for me get to my inner bone yard.


Okay, here’s the dirt…


I’ve been thinking that because this place and time is so strategic for finagling a way to perform at the venerable SXSW, it’d also be a lot of fun to make a splash by creating a big publicity stunt on top of it all. Why? Because It’s in a place where despite the great mark in music history that Austin has made, things always seem the same to me, like not very interesting or entertaining. I also think that shaking things up a little over there might get some press which is one of my most favorite hobbies…

That said, in my mind, I'd be crazy not to take advantage of an opportunity like this..But What to do? And how to do it with elegant cohesion without coming off as acrimonious or bratty...

Here's an example of a place that I'm not interested in coming from.




Hum...

it seemed that he was always jumping through hoops for others instead

I'm feeling kind of crappy today. My mind is dull and I'm really tired. This feels just like when I was holed up writing in my hotel room in Laos last year so I guess I'll push on...I wish Patti was here so I could whine.

I was relaying my concerns to a friend the other night about how to get my artwork to be more authentic. She said that in the corporate world, a very common exercise is to have people write their obituary as a way to help establish goals.



She said: "What will people remember about you when you're gone?" I realize that this is not what I am after at all. It's more like right before I go, will I feel satisfied with how my life was spent...In my heart I really couldn't care less about what others will think when I go. It's before I go that I have that problem.

Obviously there is a major paradox here. On any given day it seems that all I care about is making an impression and on the other, I don't give a rat's ass about it. I've said it before: "I am cursed with a mercurial nature, I cant help it...The best I can do is to try and reconcile my beliefs through my actions.

LOL...

Be that as it may, If I did my assignment as I was instructed, I assume that my obituary might read a little something like this: Livingston was a fairly decent fellow. He had a pretty good aptitude for writing, making beautiful things and he wrote a few good songs. He had a great talent for finding interesting friends. His wife once compared him to Forrest Gump because of how he was always innocuously befriending the most amazing characters. Rather than being compelled to refine his own work for himself, it seemed that he was always jumping through hoops for others instead. He is survived by his wife, step daughter, a cat, a few very close friends and hundreds of acquaintances all around the world, three pecan trees, two live oaks and a few fish in his pond...Oh yes, and he played one hell of a raucous kazoo.

Wow, reading that obit makes me pretty sure that although it was not his intention, that Jeff has given me one hell of an inferiority complex about myself... Fuck that shit! It's time to move on and get with the program. That's NOT what he meant. Move along son.




I had a great time in Asia last year chasing down information on spirit houses because I was on top of my game. I was encouraged by my pursuit of new ideas and clues in talking with anyone that might lead to more clues that finally paid off as a big spontaneous jackpot, like for example an interpreted interview in Goey, the language of elephants as spoken by the world's oldest and most legendary mahout or elephant hunter/trainer. This was fucking great! It's time to feel that way again, timeto embrace a reckless abandon for my favorite thing...pursuit.

My latest song "Flemming Prarie" says it all:

I want me some immediate gratification
If I don't get me some soon
I'm gonna take myself another long vacation

It's been day in & day out
as I gaze in and daze out

She was a searching vine
married to the king
I once saw her reach for heaven
through the way that she looks at things

Hop up on that tuna fish can
I'll bet you can see a hundred miles
across that dried up Coletto creek bed
that's cracked into a million tiles

She got me to look
She got me to look a little
She got me to look a little bit deeper inside

I'm hungry for a midnight snack
one that'll chase that monkey off my back
I'm still looking to turn a cheap trick
and still hoping that I'll get rich quick

But she got me to look
She got me to look a little
She got me to look a little bit deeper inside

Flemming Prarie grass still does a hula dance in that south Texas breeze so fine
I'm here to tell you that Madeline O'Connor, she was a friend of mine

She got me to look
she got me to look a little
she got me to look a little bit deeper inside

deeper
deeper
deeper


It feels good to tell the truth.



I met a nice fellow named Bruce Feiler over the Christmas holidays. I went out to his place in Brooklyn to visit with him and his family about making them a sculpture. He's a New York Times #1 best selling author and he was kind enough to ask me about my Spirit house safari blog and book idea. Then he asked me if I had written a book proposal yet..I had to ask him what that was...

A book proposal is a great thing. It helps you to further understand why and what the hell it is that you are trying to write about and identify who it is that you are writing for and then why you are the best person for the job.

This stuff sure is coming up a lot these days...Which suddenly reminds me of a time a few years ago when quite a powerful mystic transfered a lot of energy to me. I felt very high from it, and consequently, even though did this without my consent, I felt grateful and asked him what I could do for him in return. He thought for a minute and said "Just be Ben"... I crashed and burned a few hours later, but I have never forgotten him saying that to me. That was the real gift. And simple as it may sound, there is a life's work in fulfilling the true profundity of that request.




HEY, THAT'S NOT ME!

Okay then, WHERE AM I???

Well it's the next day after sending this thing out at midnight last night. I woke up feeling kind of stupid for sending it, like I am really asking for it by rambling on about all this self centered personal stuff that nobody really cares about...AKA "this stuff is some major drivel." I was getting really self conscious and hearing folks in my head thinking.."he should have quit while he was ahead with the Asia thing." What a burden.

I winced, "Oh man, what have I done?!?!"

I was getting ready to shut down the whole blog to the outside world but just as I opened my gmail to sign in, lo and behold, all of these replys were there about the new blog and it was only 8:30 AM!. It's miraculous to to me to see all of this great encouragement...I can't believe it.

I guess it really does take a village. Thank God!

"Variety shows come and go, but when the ringmaster can keep the circus animals quiet and beautiful, the external and internal show is magnificent".

-Phebe Reasoner




"Continental drift, plate tectonics, assembling the ground we stand on. I couldn't figure out where to intervene in the blog (actually yours is the only blog I think I have ever read, I guess I should get out more) the show is about things coming apart in order to come together from Pangaea to Gaia, I guess. Like Terry Allen says, the lord moves in mysterious ways and tonight, my son, he's gonna take yer car. Remind me to send you some of my poetry on the very topic of yer blog. xox, G



Ahh, Come together my village voice!...Thanks for the light, It gets a little dark in here sometimes.

This writing feels like Asia all over again. I'm loving it!

I'm so pleased that folks are getting something from my writing other than a headache but this is much tougher subject matter than Spirit House Safari for me. It feels really redundant too, seems like I write the same thing over and over in different ways.. But then I suppose one generally has to chip away at a lot of worthless ore in order to get to the good stuff.

There will be mud...



I never did like getting behind the mule like this anyway, but tis obvoiously the to season plow under the old dried out crap and sew some new seeds as it seems the ground is fertile for "the next big thing" and I've been without going within for a while now.

WHOA TRIGGER!

As far as I'm concerned, there is plenty of room in the world for randomness. The surprise factor is always a blast. I think that it helps us control freaks to loosen up a little bit and accept whatever curve balls life might be throwing at us. But help me out a little here, will ya?
I just want to know this...Am I trying to loose control so that I can be more in control?
or
Am I trying to gain more just so I can loose it?

"The life's the thing"...Air Florida - just another word for nothing left to loose

Going IS knowing. And sometimes I just want to know...

Why is doing all this stuff important to me? I have no idea yet, other than I just get interested in something and then I go after it.. I remember that I always just feel compelled to get in there and see and experience things first hand..Is it simply morbid curiosity? Maybe, but because I am always so naturally willing to jump through flaming hoops to see things spectacular, I will continue my calling.

I think this information chasing obsession of mine originated in January of 1982 when I had just moved to Washington DC.

I was hired by the Washington Project for the Arts to assist in building a new performance space & gallery because of the job I did for my mom who is an awesome party designer to the degree that she was commissioned by them as an artist, to throw a party for a big “Texas” show that the “WPA” was putting on. I was a prop builder for mom back then and I managed to turn the whole place into an old timey Texas saloon and dance hall. I did a great job and with no resources other than some help from the newly inaugurated president Reagan’s bleacher committee and a lot of inspiration from being around all these real artists in there natural habitat.

Other than working week on – week off shifts 120 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico in the oil field, I had never really lived outside of Texas…



Be it ever so humble...


I had only been living there in DC for a week...The first big snow storm of the season just blew in…It was so cold that I was trying to warm up my socks by waving them over a kerosene heater and then putting them on as fast as I could to get a quickly dissapating sensation of warmth.





I was looking out the big storefront windows of the old Franklin 5 & 10 cent store that was now the WPA’s new home at all the snow floating around in the air which occasionally twisted into a furious white ghost that would spontaneously explode against a geometrical backdrop that layed up against a dim grey sky that filled in between the dark umber sillouettes of old brick brownstone buildings that stood guard to the wet black tire tracked street that was lined with black naked trees and fresh white dusted dirty frozen slush.

I think it was Petey Green (who’s radio show I really grew to love) who was talking on the radio as I teased the cherry red hot steel disc of the kerosene heater with dangling socks..

The voice over tha radio spoke of strange breaking news. In this big snow storm, an airplane might have actually hit a bridge, possibly the 14th street bridge and fallen into the Potomac river.. This was interesting, but I really had no idea what that actually meant until my new friend Anthony Cafritz, who was a young intern from Bennington College suddenly walked up to listen better to the radio. “Whoa” he said, “what the fuck is that all about?!? Lets go down there and see what happened”…”You mean it’s close enough that we could like run down there?” I said. Hell yes, c’mon, let’s go!” he exclaimed with the great ogling look for mischief that I desperately needed to see in order to instantly quell my fears that I’d given up fun friends from home with an insatiable apetite for adventure in trade for the “Art” experience… Thanks to Anthony, that was hardly the case.

Like the time when we were unloading the snobby featured artist work who’s name escapes me. Anthony and I were helping him take the work out of wooden crates when I said for lack of sophistication “ that’s some really cool shit man”.
The snarky snoot quickly addressed my lack of highbrow speak by learnin' me that “In the art world, we refer to this as a piece.” (you know what’s coming, right?) Suddenly, the man shape shifted from young turk artist into Ed Mcmahon,the straight man to Anthony’s timless classic reply which was…”You mean this piece of shit?”

That story lives in perpetuity at the amusement park of my mind.



There's the old boy now.



I digress….

So we took off out the door of the WPA and started running down D street towards 14th. as fast as we could. I had never seen snow like this before in my life. There were homeless people holding up colored umbrellas that looked like beach balls for a roof. They huddled there over subway air vents on the Mall lawn that was so contrasting that they looked like big black squares painted on a solid white background.

The snow was really coming down and people were actually cross country skiing between the capital and the Washington monument..I had never!

"C'mon Ben, let's keep going! This way" he said... I regained my focus on our objective and took off running again towards the 14th street bridge..Wherever that was?



By the time we got to the Potomac river Anthony noticed that we were only at the Memorial bridge, one bridge north of 14th street where we heard all of the commotion was.

The first sign that something funny was going on was when we saw that the police were directing traffic. They were only letting cars go across towards Arlington but not into DC. There were also a few reporters plodding on foot through snowbanks that were quickly piling high on the sides of the bridge entrance. They were looking south, trying to steal a glimpse of something that had happened on the next bridge down. They had big ID press tags attached to them that said Associated Press and The Boston Globe. They seemed composed and very focused on getting across that bridge.

Anthony said: "We oughta follow these guys, they know where they're going." The police signaled and blew his whistle for us to get back away from the bridge just as an old grey haired black man slowly drove by in a really old dark green pick up truck. The bed was almost filled to the top with a big white pillow of snow. I motioned to Anthony and said "Jump in the back, he'll take us across..The cops won't come after us, they're too busy!"

Anthony, the guy who always had a quick answer for everything, suddenly looked a little confused and sort of just stopped like he was kind of paralyzed. Time was of the essence as this old guy was half way by us...It was now or never...I sprang into the back of that truck like a breaching whale landing flat on my back and banging the back of my head on something that was really hard and pointed and close to the surface. Luckily I had on my thick wool hat. The old man began furiously banging on his back window at me. I could see his breath as he was yelling for me to get my motha fuckin ass out of his god damn truck!

I lifted up my sore head and looked out the back to see Anthony getting smaller and smaller as we headed west towards the state of Virginia..I sat up as the old man had quieted down as he had grown weary of the fight .

What!? We're about to be in another state?? You've got to be kidding me??!?!?

We were about 2/3rds of the way across the bridge when I saw the Associated Press reporter so I jumped out of the truck and walked over to where he was. From there you could see across to the 14th street bridge where it looked like there had been a bad car wreck or something, that's I could see without my glasses. Suddenly the woman reporter from the Boston Globe started yelling dramatically into the little microphone of her cassette recorder "It's utter pandemonium here on the 14th street bridge where Air Florida flight 90 has careened into the bridge and is scattered about the Potomac..bla bla bla...The AP guy and I looked at each other as we both chuckled at this idiot of a reporter who was fabricating the whole story from another bridge a half a mile away from where she said she was. I couldn't help but wonder if this happens a lot, I asked the man and he shrugged and said "It's a shame when that happens." I guess that answered my question.


We continued to walk to the other side of the bridge. He kept going straight on the road, I didn't understand why because the deal was going down to the left and up river.

I don't know what that guy had in mind, but I grew up in the country and so common sense would tell me to simply follow the river up to the other bridge. So I made my way down the snowy embankment towards the river's edge. There wasn't anybody around, it was quiet and I had it all to myself. It was really pretty. I had never seen a frozen river before.

I just kept walking, making my way across snowy boulders all the way to the 14th street bridge where I walked up the embankment. I saw that the road was closed as ambulance and police lights were going around all over the place. It was really trashed out with shattered glass and concrete all over and bashed in cars resting peacefully all around, next to what was a busted out section where the railing had been sheared off of the first quarter or so of the bridge on that one side. I guess the plane hit it on the way down.



The 14th street bridge as I saw it.


There was a police car barracade blocking the roadway and so there was no way I could get across until suddenly an red cross helicopter launched off the ground creating a huge white cloud of snow all around which not only distracted all the cops but rendered everybody snow blind for just enough time for me to run like a deer across 14th street and down the other side to the river where all the action was.

I arrived just about fifty feet up from the bank of the Potomac. There was a fireman closing the back door of a big ambulance truck-like vehicle that was pulling out as it's red lights began to silently go around. I asked him how it was going and he told me that there were six survivors in there and they were all suffering from hypothermia and that it was a miracle that anyone had survived considering such severe conditions. I remember my first glimpse of the huge broken aircraft that looked as though it had just been snapped in half like a toy. I stood in a stupor gazing out across the shattered ice and tons of ripped up plastic and torn metal debris that was strewn all over the place. It was so tragic. To this day, I'm still haunted by an imagine of the two hundred or so bodies that were bobing around lifelessly just under that ice.



Noticing that the firemen were hustling to get lights set up for nightfall which was coming soon, I joined in and made myself useful. Divers were standing by, zipping up their thick wet suits and donning tanks and regulators. An ice breaker was making it's way toward the largest part of the plane. It was obviously going to be a really really long night.

I ran out of stuff to do and decided that I had had enough. So I started up the hill only to find that almost at the top there were a bunch of reporters (including the AP guy) all standing around bitching and moaning that the police wouldn't let them go down to the river to see what was actually going on. Casually, I strolled up and said"Hey ya'll, I was just down there, what do you want to know?" Oh my God, All of a sudden I was completely surrounded by the microphone clutching extremities of at least twenty reporters.

"What's your name? What did you see down there sir?

"My name is Ben Livingston.. I'm from Victoria , Texas I was just down there helping with the lights and...Jesus, I must have sounded like Gomer Pyle to these people. I rambled on and as I did, I was beginning to notice how bloody cold I was becoming. My hands and feet were wet and suddenly I realized that I had no money on me and I had no idea where I was. In fact I really freaked out when someone told me I was now in the state of Virginia..Texans don't just walk across bridges into other states very often...Now that's down right weird.

A big man in a trench coat wearing a nice felt hat reached through the thick pack of reporters, took my arm and gently but firmly pulled me out with no resistance from the heard. He said "I'd like to have a word with you please." Uh oh..Was he the law? I didn't know but this dude was all business. Maybe I was in trouble for going down there..I had no idea but it was understandable that I could be in trouble...I was quiet. He said my name is Ike Pappas, I'm with CBS news and I'd like to ask you some questions. I said Mr. Pappas I am cold and hungry and for some reason, I'm in now in Virginia. I'm not going to say a word until you get me something warm drink and something to eat. He scowled and muttered something underneath his breath (as I studied the lines on his face)... I held my ground long enough for him to escort me up a hill to the Marriot hotel lobby where there was a fireplace where I could warm up my socks again. He gave me a hand full of saltines and a cup of coffee. And motioned that we to go towards a quieter area of the lobby.

There was a room full of pay phones. All of them had a line of these reporters three or four deep waiting to call in their reports.

Pappas' mic'd me up and asked my name..About this time, these reporters were getting interested in me again and coming back to listen for anything that they might have missed..

There was Mr. A.P. guy and as I began to state my name like Gomer again, I looked over and noticed the lady from the Boston Globe. I looked back at the A.P. guy and with all of my thespian genes I blurted out: " "It's utter pandemonium there on the 14th street bridge where Air Florida flight 90 has careened into the bridge and is scattered about the Potomac..bla bla bla....

Months later I heard that my ex girlfriend almost ran off the road in Houston as she heard this on the radio on her way to work.


Something that I didn't know until now...


Ike Pappas, CBS newsman
Ike Pappas, 75, the CBS newsman who reported, live on the radio, the shooting of JFK assassin Lee Harvey Oswald, died Sunday in Arlington of complications from heart disease. In 1987, he was among more than 200 employees laid off by the company.



Ike Pappas, in the light raincoat, broadcast live the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, accused presidential assassin. Pappas later worked for CBS and was a Pentagon correspondent.
Photo Credit: By Jack Beers -- Associated Press


I swear he still had on that coat when I met him, His momma would be happy to know that he had gone out and gotten himself such a nice hat.



Oh man, it's really late. I gotta get some shut-eye. I'll illustrate manana~

"The Life is the thing"...Dada's just another word for nothin' left to loose...

Sometimes I just want to know...

Why is doing all this stuff important to me? I have no idea yet, other than I just get interested in something and then I go after it.. I remember that I always just feel compelled to get in there and see and experience things first hand..Is it simply morbid curiosity? Maybe, but because I am always so naturally willing to jump through flaming hoops to see things spectacular, I will continue my calling.

I think this information chasing obsession of mine originated in January of 1982 when I had just moved to Washington DC.

I was hired by the Washington Project for the Arts to assist in building a new performance space & gallery because of the job I did for my mom who is an awesome party designer to the degree that she was commissioned by them as an artist, to throw a party for a big “Texas” show that the “WPA” was putting on. I was a prop builder for mom back then and I managed to turn the whole place into an old timey Texas saloon and dance hall. I did a great job and with no resources other than some help from the newly inaugurated president Reagan’s bleacher committee and a lot of inspiration from being around all these real artists in there natural habitat.

Other than working week on – week off shifts 120 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico in the oil field, I had never really lived outside of Texas…




I had only been living there in DC for a week...The first big snow storm of the season just blew in…It was so cold that I was trying to warm up my socks by waving them over a kerosene heater and then putting them on fast enough to get a quickly dissapating sensation of heat.

I was looking out the big storefront windows of the old Franklin 5 & 10 cent store that was now the WPA’s new home at all the snow floating around in the air which occasionally twisted into a furious white ghost that would spontaneously explode against a geometrical backdrop of a dim grey sky that filled in between faded and sillouettes of old brownstone buildings which stood guard to wet black tire tracked streets lined with black naked trees and dirty frozen slush.

I think it was Petey Green (who’s radio show I really grew to love) who was talking on the radio as I teased the cherry red hot steel disc of the kerosene heater with dangling socks..

The voice over tha radio spoke of strange breaking news. In this big storm, an airplane might have actually hit a bridge, possibly the 14th street bridge and fallen into the Potomac river.. This was interesting, but I really had no idea what that actually meant until my new friend Anthony Cafritz, who was a young intern from Bennington College suddenly walked up to listen better to the radio. “Whoa” he said, “what the fuck is that all about?!? Lets go down there and see what happened”…”You mean it’s close enough that we could like run down there?” I said. Hell yes, c’mon, let’s go!” he exclaimed with the great ogling look for mischief that I desperately needed to see in order to instantly quell my fears that I’d given up fun friends from home with an insatiable apetite for adventure in trade for the “Art” experience… Thanks to Anthony, that was hardly the case.

Like the time when we were unloading the snobby featured artist work who’s name escapes me. Anthony and I were helping him take the work out of wooden crates when I said for lack of sophistication “ that’s some really cool shit man”.
The snoot quickly addressed my lack of highbrow sophisticated vocabulary by learning me that “ In the art world, we refer to this as a piece.” (you know what’s coming, right?) Suddenly, the man shape shifted from young turk artist into Ed Mcmahon,the straight man to Anthony’s timless classic reply which was…”You mean this piece of shit?”

That one lives in perpetuity.

I digress….

So we took off out the door of the WPA and started running down D street towards 14th. as fast as we could. I had never seen snow like this before in my life. There were homeless people holding up colored umbrellas that looked like beach balls for a roof. They huddled there over subway air vents on the Mall lawn that was so contrasting that they looked like big black squares painted on a solid white background.

The snow was really coming down and people were actually cross country skiing between the capital and the Washington monument..I had never!

"C'mon Ben, let's keep going! This way" he said... I regained my focus on our objective and took off running again towards the 14th street bridge..Wherever that was?

By the time we got to the Potomac river Anthony noticed that we were only at the Memorial bridge, one bridge north of 14th street where we heard all of the commotion was.

The first sign that something funny was going on was when we saw that the police were directing traffic. They were only letting cars go across towards Arlington but not into DC. There were also a few reporters plodding on foot through snowbanks that were quickly piling high on the sides of the bridge entrance. They were looking south, trying to steal a glimpse of something that had happened on the next bridge down. They had big ID press tags attached to them that said Associated Press and The Boston Globe. They seemed composed and very focused on getting across that bridge.

Anthony said: "We oughta follow these guys, they know where they're going." The police signaled and blew his whistle for us to get back away from the bridge just as an old grey haired black man slowly drove by in a really old dark green pick up truck. The bed was almost filled to the top with a big white pillow of snow. I motioned to Anthony and said "Jump in the back, he'll take us across..The cops won't come after us, they're too busy!"

Anthony, the guy who always had a quick answer for everything, suddenly looked a little confused and sort of just stopped like he was kind of paralyzed. Time was of the essence as this old guy was half way by us...It was now or never...I sprang into the back of that truck like a breaching whale landing flat on my back and banging the back of my head on something that was really hard and pointed and close to the surface. Luckily I had on my thick wool hat. The old man began furiously banging on his back window at me. I could see his breath as he was yelling for me to get my motha fuckin ass out of his god damn truck!

I lifted up my sore head and looked out the back to see Anthony getting smaller and smaller as we headed west towards the state of Virginia..I sat up as the old man had quieted down as he had grown weary of the fight .

What!? We're about to be in another state?? You've got to be kidding me??!?!?

We were about 2/3rds of the way across the bridge when I saw the Associated Press reporter so I jumped out of the truck and walked over to where he was. From there you could see across to the 14th street bridge where it looked like there had been a bad car wreck or something, that's I could see without my glasses. Suddenly the woman reporter from the Boston Globe started yelling dramatically into the little microphone of her cassette recorder "It's utter pandemonium here on the 14th street bridge where Air Florida flight 90 has careened into the bridge and is scattered about the Potomac..bla bla bla...The AP guy and I looked at each other as we both chuckled at this idiot of a reporter who was fabricating the whole story from another bridge a half a mile away from where she said she was. I couldn't help but wonder if this happens a lot, I asked the man and he shrugged and said "It's a shame when that happens." I guess that answers that question. We continued to walk to the other side of the bridge. He kept going straight on the road, I didn't understand why. The deal was going down to the left and up river. I don't know what that guy had in mind but I grew up in the country and so common sense tells me to simply follow the river to the other bridge. So I made my way down the snowy embankment towards the river bank. There wasn't anybody around there, I had it all to myself. It was really pretty along that frozen lake all the way to the 14th street bridge. I walked up the embankment. The road was closed as ambulance and police lights were going around all over the place. It looked really badly trashed out all over the first half of the bridge. There was a police car barracade blocking the road and so there was no way I could get across until suddenly an airlift helicopter launched off the ground creating a huge white cloud of snow all around which not only distracted all the cops but rendered everybody snow blind for just enough time for me to run like a deer across 14th street and down the other side to the river where all the action was.

I arrived at the bank of the Potomac. There were firemen closing the back door of a big ambulance truck-like vehicle. I asked one of them how it was going and he told me that there were six survivors in there, all suffering from hypothermia and that it was a miracle that anyone survived. I remember my first glimpse of the huge aircraft that looked as though it had just been broken in half like a toy. I stood in a stupor gazing out across

That DC story was a pretty good one, wasn't it?

I'm thrilled to say that there's plenty more where that came from. As is the same for most anyone who gets out a little. I am pleased to say that I have gotten out at least somewhat, at least enough to say that if it was my time to go, I'd feel pretty good about not missing too much or having too many regrets along the way. I'd say that that's pretty dang good.



I think I might be on to something here...




I have an idea, I think I want to conduct a little experiment that might be kind of fun. I'm going to take a moment and make a little list of random things that come to mind that I have been intimately involved with within my short lifetime of fifty years...

After I get finished doing that, I want to see if, how and why these experiences might have a common theme.

Okay, here goes.

Let's see now, as of today I have been involved in:
True love, trekking as a troubadour in the Himalayas, creating multi-media public sculpture, 50 birthdays, a love adoption of a wonderful daughter, designing and building neon shops in two hemispheres, creating the classifieds section of a very popular little magazine and local entertainment rag in Austin,Texas, the Capital 10,000, wonderful friendships, my own bicycle shop, theatrical set design and construction, fighting hard and loosing, massive hangovers, professional photography, bad car wrecks, a plane crash, abortions, trying to reason with an abusive suicidal drunk, volunteer work, becoming a National Endowment for the Arts fellow, bad juju, sail planes, anxiety attacks, giving presentations at Universities and many schools and different organizations, carpentry, awesome love making, being a temporary emergency room surgeon, house painting, song writing, a robbery in Mexico, live stage performances, getting electrocuted, overwhelming depression, fighting hard and winning, threats of muscular dystrophy, grant writing, drawing, getting struck by lightning in a helicopter over the Gulf of Mexico, surfing, a trans Atlantic ship crossing, 11-11, profoundly effective qi gong, starting and running successful businesses, enduring betrayal of false friends, ditch digging, writing, barely avoiding big trouble in China, good food, mud slinging, wild romance, gross misunderstandings, capsizing at least two sailboats, shamanic journey, major schlepping of other people's stuff, gardening, drunk driving, teaching and learning neon in New Zealand, children, uncontrollable laughter, deep despair, stargazing, painting, a broken bone, failing miserably, fist fights, problem solving, a 1st place sand castle contest victory, passionate kissing, day-dreaming, high fever, getting my ass kicked, nightmares, great literature, February water-skiing wearing a hefty bag, landscaping, horse trading, boxing, printing, matrimonial bliss in Bhutan, difficult relationships, chasing down all 37 of the Nat spirits in Burma, hurricanes, overcoming threats of muscular dystrophy, true love, major schlepping of my own stuff, book making, skateboarding, experiencing a religious community, offshore gas production, overwhelming beauty, blows to the head, loneliness, having no bad feeling about killing animals, moving, steel-bending, welding, tree hugging, learning to be silent, surgery, cool inventions, having terrible feelings about killing animals, altered states of consciousness, car stereo installation, journeys with a shaman, cooking, playing the therimin, ditching a religious community, unsuccessful engagements, bliss by nature, benevolence, nitro glycerine explosives, altitude sickness, tolerating annoying channel surfing, intolerance, meditation, scary big wave wipeouts in Oaxaca, Mexico, crazy fun dance, insane dares, neon studio demonstrations and workshops in schools and my studio, writing a book about spirit houses in SE Aisa, international art exhibits, boredom, whale watching, gratitude, dying and death, good and bad architectural design, making neon, bathing in mud, creating a recycling infrastructure in Nepal, bicycle racing, car sickness, camping, International food poisoning and bad drinking water, a triathlon in Hawaii, a deep lightness of being, building my own homes & studios, recording an original cd with a real good band, playing music for the Austin State School Christmas party and pet care just to name a few.

Okay already, bastante es bastante.

Now that I have a list of things that I've experienced, my question now is, is there a common thread that runs through out the list?

Well the words engagement and reflection come to mind first. Maybe that's because as I was writing these down as they randomly came into my head, I seemed to kind of sentimentally examine and reflect on each of them for a split second as the memory began to unfold. Generally, the impression was that there was an impression made because of the intensity of the activities. DUH... Maybe motivation to engage in something is just an expression of the soul's appetite for experience.



One other big common thread I'm noticing is that if I was told of those things on that list, I doubt seriously that I could access much in the moment on demand. Which brings me to the point that it everything is being recorded in the Akashic record of our mind. I know that because of how easily what I haven't thought of for decades just spilled onto this page a minute ago.

In other words, no matter what one does ( barring unconsciousness ) the mind is always recording, filing and integrating all information that one comes into contact with in order to be called up for a whole host of reasons. The primary point that I am trying to move towards here though is about these thoughts that come to be reflected upon for refinement, resolution or just plain joy.

Perhaps this somehow explains why family becomes more important as one gets older.

I'm no psychoanthropoligist so I'll get off this train right here and now before I get myself in trouble with the idiot mob.

I'm making these speculations for a reason and I'll use the great Chinese Taoist calligraphers as my example.

East meets west

Chinese Calligraphy is so abstract and sublime that in Chinese culture it is universally regarded to be the most revealing power of a person. While one has conformed to the defined structure of words, the expression can be displayed with great creativity by individuals.



Master Wang Hsi-Chih

To become an artist or expert in Chinese calligraphy, one has to practice word by word and stroke by stroke until the spirit of the practice gets into one's mind. Just as Chinese Qi Gong, the Chinese brush calligraphy can temper a person into a state in which one can apply subconsciousness got from the daily practice to control the concentration of ink and the compatibility of font and size of each piece or word.

In contrast to the Western calligraphy, diffusing ink blots and dry brush strokes are viewed as a natural and free impromptu expression. All the varieties of the operation depend on the mental exercise that coordinates the mind and the body to perform the proper sense to choose the proper way in expressing the content of the passage.

Here in the west there's only one thing to say about the way that them Chinamen use total integration of a four thousand year old discipline as a medium where tradition is so cherished...You see, we do things a little different here in the west. Specially where us post war baby boomers invented the "Me generation".

YEEE-HAAAAA Fuckin' -A - here's some burn't rubber traffic calligraphic for you Mother fucka!!!




Bigger faster meaner better...It's all about ME!...Let's roll!


----------------------BREATHE-------------------

Oh yes, I mean..uh hum, I mean, can we like share how to best address our needs so as to totally support the eight-fold path that I've chosen to journey?




We can't help ourselves, we are pilgrims, always moving "up", never quite satisfied with the way things are and yet we don't learn much from history because we are so focused on the future, always racing to slam on our brakes at the next red light just up ahead..

We're pacing back and forth in our lives like tigers in a cage...There's just got to be a better way, a way to....Hum?



(This is starting to remind me of a set up for really weird children's story.) Am I going to resolve this thing or what??!!

What I think I was on to here before I so rudely interrupted myself was that it's all in there. I've been so busy looking for answers that I forget that I already know them. My problem is that I'm just not paying attention. You know it seems like ever since I became a husband I have lost the ability to listen..No wonder!


JUMPING AHEAD..

So this is all about how we search for our identity by trying on different personas until we either get tired of doing it, or we realize that our own fits us just right.

This is where I get interested again in what Gary Martin calls "Picture takers". I've seen them called "face in hole cut outs". Nobody really knows what to call them but I feel a lot more resolve and justified in my earlier intuitive choice to use them. Back then I just thought of thm as a "better mouse trap" a cool idea that no one has done. Now I see these as a very clear metaphor that accurately represents visually what I have been arriving at for the last three days of solid processing and writing of this essay.

In a conversation yesterday it was suggested that the cut out figures would be a screen that images could be projected upon.

Here is what I wrote Jeff about the idea early this morning:

Thanks again Jeff.

I'll consider the time thing but I rather keep on course with the external clock for now, It's got my lazy ass a goin'..I'm not feeling like it's all that short of a time actually. You know me, With a good motivational idea to carry out, energy gets high and expectations lower. A perfect mix for a schlep like myself. But I know what your saying, "This time can be different since I'm going to all this trouble".. The thing is that just because I am doing all this thinking, it is different. I always rely on luck, my intuition ..This time I'm upping the bar by 33%, I'm using luck, my mind and intuitition as a guide. Not too bad for starters...

Thanks for that push bro. It finally is beginning to seem like a great direction to be going in.

I feel like I'm something's finally percolating & getting ready to break loose here..I wish it was this fever or whatever the hell has had me bedridden for the last 2-1/2 days..Ugg. I'd probably be writing better too, but this is the state that I was in a quarter of the time that I was in Asia so I guess it's all the same. I like your idea about talking with Victoria. Perhaps a shamanic investigation would be productive..Hell, I may as well see Yani while I'm at it. I like tying these things together as it all seems like it comes from the same ether anyway.


I'm also starting to understand more why the cutout "picturetakers" thingys are relevent. They go perfectly with what I'm writing about which is merely a persuit of self discovery.Trying on personas until one just is reminded that the one you originally came with is the best fit. I want to play with the idea of not painting any subject matter on them at all, but having them just be pure white, blank cutouts..just like these blank pages, that could become a reflective screen to what might ever be projected on them such as photos or moving pictures (movies or animation) of say, myself at different times of my life or relevent meaningful people and or animals. The subject will always be himself or his fully intact spirit self behind the reflective "listening" or "observer" surface of the cutout screen that's being projected onto..Ideas for projection might include stills or a montage of say, (Vicky's co-discovered Cheetaah-power animal with story) or things that are important to me, perhaps from these stories I write about or songs like "Evil Spirits" Fat golfers, Smart fools and so on...

Put that in your pipe & smoke it will ya?

You heard it first right here. I am having trouble getting myself to go to the blog as I wrote from 9AM till 12:30AM with a 1 hr break.yesterday..No wonder my neck hurts.

I'm loving this!

Yours truly
XOB.Log Jammer

I like that a lot because I think that a montage of images could be projected as the subject possibly remains unaware of what is being reflected.

Expanding on this theme, I also like the idea of the moving montage finally stopping on a final projection the subject's picture being projected on the cut out as he stands behind it.

Then it dawned on me. An idea that I had years ago. I wanted to hand out mirrors to all of the homeless people who were "working signs" on the corner of 5th and Lamar. That's where a large concentration of Austin's wealthiest are stopped at the traffic light. There at the intersection, a part of their soul is suddenly stripped bare for 120 seconds until the light turns green again. They just sit there having to deal with not dealing with the myriad of feelings such as fear, guilt, anger and so on that they display by ignoring these poor people ..I thought "if these non compassionate drivers got shown a reflection of themselves by the homeless, then they might reflect on through the simple twist of fate that could so easily switch their places and then act accordingly.


Mirror cut outs. Solid reflection, no technology...That's where I have arrived today. And I still kind of like the idea tonight .

Better sleep on it. This is enough for today.
TaTa for now Ya'll

XOB



Here's some out take photo bloopers for you...
















Check THIS out ya'll!
Oh man this dude definitely suffered for his art!

You think he got his paint at Dick Blick???



AMAZING !