Setbacks, startups, safe houses and speak-easys. Plus books and the owls of Wise Acres. Oh, and the Preakness.

Friday, May 19. What a great day to blog to friends; misting, gray, deliciously cool, an atypical Kansas day, more like Sault St. Marie. Here at Wise Haus (seen above) coffee is good and it rained last night after I put out fertilizer and grass seed. First, the setback and a possible startup.

Welcome to the May blog from Wise Acres, not so much the May Wise sculpture show in the Crossroads; that dog no longer hunts. I was apprised of that quite late in the game in a bit of an untidy tiding. Sort of like, oh there won’t be a gallery, don’t tell anyone yet.

Better times at the popular gallery…

This was a jolt to me as I was preparing for the May First Friday show and had bought a lot of lighting accessories; some 20 of the pieces were to be lit in unusual ways, all to be lit at once on the gallery floor. LEDs, neon, programmable color/music lights, even bug zappers for the odd unexpected snap crackle pop of a wayward fly.

I tried to inquire multiple times and ways about wall sizes as I was going to install mylar reflective sheeting, and also needed to know outlet locations and capacity. No answer. Ever. Odd to be ghosted by someone whose interests ostensibly coincided with mine in an artist/gallerist relationship.

Long sad story considerably shortened: the gallerist whose dream had started at The Hilliard Gallery in the Plaza (he worked there and later acquired the name and rights) did everything he could to keep the place going, aided by his artist-wife. It was named KC’s favorite several times, as well as Missouri’s favorite, and one of the top galleries in the U.S. So it’s not for lack of trying and pretty superhuman effort that this giant tree fell in the forest and nobody heard it.

 What went wrong?

The pandemic. The razor-slim profit line of a gallery. A barely sustainable space vs. art business model dependent on the whims of a public more interested in the catered openings than the carefully curated pieces on display. Lack of Chelsea white cube big name artists. And so on. Was it fun while it lasted? Sure. For everyone but the guy who spent half his life making it work, and his artists.

Enough. What of the future?

Artists will art; it’s what they, we, do. I now have a barn full of sculpture I made, painstakingly. I will offer these pieces. No free food and wine. Maybe a Dr. Pepper. It’s a barn, not a gallery. The prices will be way better than a gallery. More on that as I get it together. Hey, one door closes, two more open. And the gallery may go online as a more streamlined service.

Books I’m reading and re-reading. (Links in bold italics)

L to R: Amy Hempel, Joshua Cohen, Renata Adler, James Salter…

Take Salter, what a spell-weaving dark magician. He wrote Downhill Racer, great cult movie with Robert Redford. I would recommend Solo Faces to start reading Salter, then Light Years. Then the rest; bewitching, all. I’m re-reading his Last Night stories, and getting that first-read thump all over again.

Amy Hempel. I’m reading her 2007 Collected Stories (a NYT ten best of that year) for the first time and it is just (good) surprise after surprise, page after page. It’s Highly Recommended. Then, Joshua Cohen’s lengthily titled The Netanyahus: An Account of a Minor and Ultimately Even Negligible Episode in the History of a Very Famous Family, a Pulitzer winner—I’m not far enough in to pimp it or pass on it, but it’s becoming a bit more amusing and interesting with each page—this guy Cohen is good.

Finally I’m re-reading Renata Adler’s Speedboat, “One of the defining books of the70’s!” which I read forty years ago and can’t remember a word of. I looked all over for this book (I know I have it) and kept seeing references to it, so I ordered it which will now guarantee I’ll find my other copy. It’s kind of fragmented, which the critics gushed about (“experimental!”) but, so far, I’m not saying it should be on anyone’s shelf. It’s not bad, it may even be a classic. And I’ve got two.

You may have noted the Border’s bookmarks; I loved that store. Comfortable, well-stocked, and they let me leave my own bookmarks on their counter. Here’s my newest version of those.

Night Train Cold Beer, Ruined Days, Resume Speed, Scattered Cranes, Horses See Ghosts, I Was In The Vicinity, and, latest, Chickens One Day Feathers The Next…available here.

Speak-easys & Safe houses

In paleolithic times, or about that many years ago, I worked in Milwaukee at an ad agency that had Harley-Davidson. I was on police bikes, and worked my way up to the consumer scooters. Anyway, a bunch of us used to meet at a popular bar known as The Safe House. The doorway opened up onto a closet-sized room with an old 1920’s telephone switchboard and, if you looked hard enough, instructions on how to enter. A password would do. Or a little dance like wide receivers perform in the end zone. Whatever means got you in, you were on camera, and it was seen by all patrons. I recalled this when I saw this marvelous Moss & Fog pictorial on a Shanghai speak-easy “secret” entrance. (link)

The owls of Wise Acres

We’re owl-friendly and they like it here; several generations have called it home, and an inherited memory seems to reside in the family tree. One owl used to follow Freddie on walks and it landed behind me as I was passing the barn and walked along behind me for a bit. Probably for a meal; I had left it a mouse a few days before. I also plucked its kid out of the bushes and placed the fledgling in a safe place. Twice. One time the owl was close enough to touch and I spoke to it, “Teach this kid to fly, okay?” Anyway, it slept in a front yard tree, amid the racket of mowing and dogs barking, etc. (Freddie took this photo, right, of that owl sleeping)

Yesterday, F found a big (ten inch) owl feather in the driveway, and I found a similar one in the front yard, probably from a fledgling of a year or so ago, now fully grown.

They were like notes, billets-doux, from a good friend and they said, “We’re around, we’re just a little less outgoing than our forfeathers were, but we think Wise Acres is a hoot.”

Last and least; The Preakness

I bet a Benjamin on the Derby every year, my only gamble, and if it’s not all gone I bet the rest on the next two legs of The Triple Crown. Last year I won big enough that if I lose it all for ten years I’m still playing with house money. So, the 2023 Derby; I only got $40 back from the $100 bet and that will go $3 across the board ($9) on Mage (Derby winner), $3 across the board ($9) on First Mission, $3 across the board ($9) on National Treasure, and a $12 trifecta box combination of 3-8-1 (all Mage, Mission and Treasure). Total bet, $39. Let’s see if I get any back to bet on The Belmont Stakes. Right now there are only eight horses running.*

Riders up. Happy rest of May. See you in June. G

*(Sat. update on Preakness bet; Mission scratched so only 7 in field today. Changed Mission and box trifecta to Red Route #5)
(After-race update: got two out of three but now end up with a paltry $27.94 to bet on Belmont. Almost—the box trifecta would have made me a hundredaire. Oh well. Good to see Baffert back btw—he’s a staple, like hats and bubbly.)

Poetry Month, square wheels (that work), what to do with castoff cast iron water meter covers, the Bo Diddley Award, and much more.

  You never know when you’ll need a few hundred water meter covers.

That was my thought upon hauling a sagging trailer load of 13” diameter, cast iron water meter covers back to Wise Acres about ten years ago. Some were painted, most were rust colored, all were heavy. I got ‘em for a quarter apiece. A picker’s goldmine. Or not.

A few weeks ago, Freddie suggested a gravel walkway from the house to the studio, and since we had used some of the covers for walking tiles, they had become silted over and buried. A gravel walkway would solve that problem. A dump truck delivered fifteen tons of gravel, and I dusted off the pick, shovel and wheelbarrow and embarked upon a week of hard labor. This old boy can still dig ditches. I installed edging and hauled gravel until I was panting. Was it worth it? Heck yeah. We can now traverse the path to the studio without tracking mud and the walkway is decorative besides. The huge pile of gravel that remains will find its way to the driveway where it needs solidifying and I’ll get even more exercise. Can’t wait.

Studio building. Haven’t trimmed the pampas back yet, or turned the flower urns right side up, but Wise Acres wasn’t built in a day…

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” —Carl Sandburg

 April is Poetry Month,and if you’re one of the accursed breed, you’re always trying to improve your craft. Here’s one way; The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets, by Ted Kooser, Pulitzer Prize winner, former U.S. Poet Laureate, and writer of impeccable clarity, gentle humor and generous accessibility. It’s so worth reading, as is his The Wheeling Year, a compendium of thoughts from his workbooks. Enjoyable reading for anyone.

Another way I tried to improve my voice in the craft was by taking a Masterclass from Billy Collins, another U.S. Poet Laureate. We had to write a sonnet in this class, after Shakespeare. Here’s mine:

Iambic Tetrameter?

Sonnet?

it would make a cat laugh

my trying to write a sonnet

bring me a full coffee carafe

Ain’t no rhyme but bonnet

two more quatrains shit oh dear

will I come through unscathed?

it’s really ill advised I fear

to be thusly so enslaved

but it’s a Billy Collins course

and it’s only lesson eight

I fell behind, to my remorse,

and, rabbitlike, I’m late

It may be iambic, I’m not sure

but more of this I can’t endure

I think Mr. Collins would have graded me severely, had it been a for-credit course. I hadn’t the temerity to run it by him. But the course is quite good and, who knows, may have improved my outlook if not my craft. Happy Poetry Month. Did you know there’s a Masterclass in hostage negotiation? They have quite a menu. Check it out here. And take a poet to lunch.

 

Next up: Beats walking. No it doesn’t.

It actually works! Sort of. Thanks to Moss & Fog for this one…

This thing really speaks to me as a sculpture. But as a working thingamajig it says someone had far too much time, money, genius and lust for likes on Instagram or some major social medium because this is more than a sparetime project. It’s a “let’s go viral.” (See video.) In standup comedian terms of the 50’s, it’s cockamamie. But I can see it, alone, commanding space in a large white room at MOMA with erudite folks strolling around it stroking their chins and making notes. It beats the hell out of a lot of stuff in the white rooms. It’s art, and I love it as such. But it actually works. Wow. And that’s all I’ve got to say about it.

 

About walking. And the BoDiddley trophy for same.

It’s a handsome trophy, and it’s inscribed, GW, GW where you been, around the world and I’m goin’ again. It’s self-awarded and exists only in my mind. Recently I passed the twenty million steps goal on my Fitbit, and that is supposed to be once around the world. I started this adventure on my 80th birthday, four years and eight months ago— walking no less than 10,000 steps a day, sometimes as many as 16,000 a day. And for those of you who put up with this indecorous and outright brag here’s a very energetic video of BoDiddley performing with some of his colleagues on stage in 1968. Talk about putting in the miles and delivering the goods, no one outperformed BoDiddley. No one. Go BoDiddley! Around the world and he’s goin’ again!

Henry Thomas—Talent will out.

Canned Heat paid homage to Thomas in the 60’s…

Thomas was born in 1874 to a family of freed slaves in Texas. He took off early, maybe to escape the grind between emancipation’s gritty beginnings and the harsh life under a virulent Jim Crow system to became a hobo with music in his soul. The talented black musicians of the time had no agents, no ASCAP, no major labels vying for their work. They played where they could, ate and slept where they were allowed. Their work spoke for them. I had never looked further than Canned Heat on this song, but ran across Henry Thomas on Youtube’s treasure trove. Going Up The Country was one of his; here’s a 1920’s version. Note that Canned Heat’s 1969 homage cover changed very little in the arrangement and the instrumentation, even down to the quill panpipe, canebrake flute, once played by slaves—if it ain’t broke, don’t mess with it.

On that note, I’m going up the country. Thanks for stopping by. Hugs, G

Got your Banksy F**k Putin stamps? Got your MOTH reader? & much more, in our Wise Acres March Number.

I missed February, but it didn’t miss me. Kicked my butt like a plow horse; savage cold. Worst one I’ve had in fifty years. After a negative covid test and four gallons of Nyquil, it left me trembling and weak, repeating “Wha…” over and over in comic book balloons. I’d draw it, but you get the picture. Aa-choo!

So what did this big crybaby do? Surrounded myself with stacks of books. Something about the high of a Vicks VapoRub haze laced with codeine and coricidin makes the reading experience shimmer anew; I re-read Annie Proulx’s Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2, Close Range: Wyoming Stories, and That Old Ace in the Hole. I so recommend ANY Proulx, but these re-reads had me laughing and empathizing with tapped-out ranchers and desperate denizens of the single-wide community so much, I forgot myself and that, folks, is what great books are for. I would go to the crossroads and make a deal if I could write like Annie.

Both good, way different from each other…

I also started some new (to me) books; The Shards, by Brett Easton Ellis, and Sutton, by J.R. Moehringer. I have always confused Ellis (Less Than Zero) with Jay McInerney (Bright Lights, Big City—which I enjoyed immensely) as both tend to write about privilege (a hand-me-down car might be a fairly new Mercedes, a sedan, but one makes do when one is sixteen), drug use and fighting boredom in the Big Cities. I’m only a few chapters into Shards but it’s hooked me, so I’ll say, yeah, the story looks quite good. Dark, but good.

Sutton is about Willie The Actor, the famed bank robber (“…because that’s where the money is” in answer to “Why do you rob banks?” and now we know he never said it.) But this book is unusually well written, in back and forth eras, with an engrossing interwoven love story. It’s quite gritty in places with descriptions that’ll squinch your face up and curdle your innards for a few paragraphs but it’s also worth reading and pretty entertaining. (I thought I saw Willie on a bus in Tulsa in 1949 [I was eleven] and our eyes met. He got off the bus, but winked at me. I zipped my lip in pantomime and he nodded. I forewent the reward. True story—as true as you get from an 11-year old with delusions and a lively imagination.)

One other book while I’m at it: The Moth. It’s a collection of 50 NPR staged events, but in print. All the same length, by different “raconteurs” as the editors call them.

I was introduced to this one by happenstance; I was watching News on Public TV and they were interviewing a young reporter from Washington on Zoom; his backdrop was shelves full of paperbacks and one spine I could read was The Moth.

I tried to read some others but they kept switching back and forth. I agreed with what the reporter was saying on whatever subject, maybe the illegal murderous war on Ukraine, and I looked this book up. Turns out The Moth was a series of “front porch” events that fell flat at first, but years of tweaking brought them fame if not fortune.

Frankly I disliked some of the stories (one, a researcher making light of wiring up monkeys’ brains for the benefit of Big Pharma—animals were harmed in this story) and wondered how the “raconteurs” could tell them. Stories range from a doctor who performed a life/death operation on Mother Teresa to a pole dancer who performed other stuff on the Sultan of Brunei. They’re all over the place, but all told within a specified amount of time. The staged events had a sax player who would start loudly moaning away if the raconteur was over the time limit, ten minutes I believe. True stories, fifty of them, and bite-sized. I recommend it as did the Washington reporter. It’s on both our shelves.

Speaking of the illegal murderous war on Ukraine, Banksy has done some art projects there and donated the proceeds (he gets a LOT) to the Ukrainian effort to kick the putinthugs out of the autonomous, fiercely-loved country. I ordered a sheet of official stamps, his latest project, and will frame it when it arrives. I like Banksy—if you look at the links to the left, you’ll find a Banksy shop, but the stuff has been sold out for a year.

This stamp gets right to basics; it shows a diminutive judoka kid throwing a phony baloney “black belt” putin, thumpety thump. It says “F**k Putin!” I hope it’s a Forever stamp. I ordered mine on Ebay but you can find them at a number of places.

And this is what fifteen tons of gravel looks like, plopped down on Wise Acres, awaiting distribution, one wheelbarrow at time. In case you think it’s all fun and games and layabout reading here. G is back to his hale hearty self and the first project is a gravel walkway to F’s studio from the house—a much-needed improvement as the path is kind of muddy. Water meter covers will form the walking “tiles” as we have about 100 of them. A bunch of gravel will go on the various driveways and corral crossing, too. Exercise! (Walking daily still: 19,742,597 steps so far, 2 mil makes once around the world) I don’t walk with Freddie, can’t keep up with her.

And finally, J. David Osborne’s BESTSELLER blog. JDO helmed Broken River Books, a press that came up with some very impressive offerings, some of them his. This blog features Iain Ryan on shifting from "bestseller" to "just seller" and is titled Exiting Hitsville. JDO is always worth reading and so is this Ryan fellow. He says forget about bestselling and focus on Just Selling, and he tells you why. If you’re a writer or a reader it should interest you. I read Osborne’s newsletters whenever one pops up (not often enough) and may look for Ryan as well. Interesting stuff.

And, with that, I’m exiting. xx, G (PS: if you bought Chickens, please leave a review. Thanks!)

"We interrupt this broadcast..."

…to bring you my first podcast from 1949.

I got that box and microphone from a novelty catalog back in 1949. I was eleven and becoming proficient in building model airplanes, little cars with gas engines, and assemblages that I called time machines and smallizers. A smallizer, when perfected, would make adults tiny; then you could deal with them, but only those who needed it. The folks sitting around the armoire-sized radio didn’t need it as they were the kindest folks I’d ever met; my dad, my grandmother and my aunt Mickey. But they were, at the moment, unaware of a fine joke I was to play on them in a few minutes. “A riot of fun,” as the box promised. The box sides also proclaimed “At last, be the talk of your friends with your fun provoking, Home Broadcasting!” and “Great fun fooling your friends over your own radio!” These people were onto something; they probably invented Meta years later. Twitter. Riots of fun.

I had installed the mic per instruction sheet to the wires and tubes of the radio, somehow without electrocution or blown fuses, and concealed myself behind a sofa next to the radio. I keyed the “Vogue Sheridan Electro Corp Mike” and read from a typed sheet of paper (my first radio script; there would be many others over the ad years):

Only the equipment has changed…oh, and the price of admission…

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an urgent news bulletin!” Then, between giggles and various distortions of my voice trying to deepen it, I described a car theft (theirs, an old Green Dodge) from an address (theirs) by Willie Sutton (the famous bank robber) and said the KCPD was in hot pursuit.

My grandmother said, “My word! What will we do for a car, now?” And various exclamations followed. Mickey said, “I don’t think it’s so old.” My dad said, “Something’s fishy here,” and scooped me up from behind the couch. The jig was up, and I was discovered, but a certain Riot of Fun had prevailed for a few seconds.

A podcast or two later…to about the same size audience, I’m using more sophisticated equipment (Anker and Shure) and my actual voice on a few trial runs with various guests and I must admit, the ROF factor (Riot of Fun) hasn’t diminished all that much. At least for me. Stay tuned. I’ve got some interesting guests in mind, most people being interesting if you take the time to listen to them. Over to your left are a sprinkling of podcasts that are quite good; This American Life is the classic Big Dog.

Bramfords: Flexible, with insoles and stretchy laces that stay tied…

These shoes were made for walkin’…and so was I, apparently. It gets me up from the welder and the computer six or eight times a day for 15 or 20 minutes at a stretch. Then ancillary walking (doing laundry, picking up lawn trash, etc) it adds up, to well over 10,000 steps a day. I’m closing in on 20 million (19,145,710 at this moment) which I’m told is once around this haggard globe.* I’ve trashed four pairs of Timberlands, and began to look around for something that didn’t pick up gravel and clay in the lug soles that track in all over the house.

 I saw a commercial (link) on Youtube for Bramford “minimalist walking shoes” with a wider toe box; the Timberlands were hell to break in to where they were comfortable due to a narrow front and stiff leather. That, and they came untied now and then. Annoying on a walk. These never come untied. So I have ordered a pair of these flexible boats, and if they’re as great as I think they will be, I’ll be a walking commercial for these folks. Literally. I will chronicle them from Day One, good or bad, but I expect good. BTW, I almost always skip the commercials on Youtube but this one drew me in. (See video at bottom of website) And they’re $50 less than the Timberlands.

What I’m reading: Almost finished with Braiding Sweetgrass, still recommend it; it’ll empathize us bob-war fencing, tree-clearing, lake-poisoning “settlers” with an indigenous population who treated Mother Earth with deep respect and always did well by her before we showed up. (It has 15,000 5-star reviews but it is not a fast read.) I read a Sally Rooney book (Beautiful World Where Are You?) to see what the fuss was about, and I decline to recommend it. Unless you like long texts and emails and wondering about yourself to the point of anomie. And I’m re-reading Tom Hennen’s Darkness Sticks To Everything, great (!) poems with a trenchant foreword by Jim Harrison, who says if you write three good poems in a lifetime you’re ahead of the game. (Which puts me right smack in my place—and could give many a poet pause.) Anyway *”haggard world” comes from Churchill’s Iron Curtain Speech at Westminster College, and it seems to fit right in nowadays. But cheer up, it’s a new year, and here’s to its magnificence. xo, G

The day the music died poster, Haring’s boyhood room, Fran Leibowitz, Anna Delvey, oulaw fetish, gas station chargers, more.

Color of the day…Glacier Gray.

It’s an oatmeal morning; brown sugar, butter, milk, oatmeal, stick-to-yer-ribs morning. The sky is Pantone P 179-2-C gray. Not a color of any year, not even last year. Wet. Cold. The calendar says it’s Human Rights Day. Tell Putin.

Enough of that. This could be the best day ever. Or just okay; I’ll take that. On my first walk of the day, I pass a parked pickup at the tractor fixit place; a deer in the bed. In the metal building another deer is strung up and two men, one of whom I know, are skinning it. Bounty of the season. Freezers full of venison this and that. Cost of gas, ammo, license etc figured in to fight inflation. I wave, walk on remembering the taste; sausage, deer chili, gamy tough cuts, stepdad insisting how good it is. The chili was okay.  When I return, there’s a Chewy carton and a mystery box for F. The dogs are happy; treats from the driver or not.

Got one of these? I’ll give you a hundred bucks for it.

So starts the day. How’s your day? Good, I hope. Maybe you’ll find something of interest in the following melange (gallimaufry to you, Skip) of tips, facts, links, books.

Some of us remember The Gray Day The Music Died.

It’s a safe bet that none of us have the concert poster of that day that just went for $447,000 at auction. It might be the only one ever discovered. Think of that. Think of the guy in charge of posting these; he had a big sack of them, some of which probably got tossed. This one had been stuck to a phone pole in Minnesota; a maintenance man found it on the ground, put it in a closet, forgot it for 50 years. (Link)

 

Speaking of finding great stuff:

Photo Courtesy of Scott Garner

I really liked this story because of what they did with the art. Short version; Keith Haring lived in this house as a boy, painted one of his quickie, later to become iconic people on the wall near a light switch in his bedroom, years passed, they moved, the Garner family that bought the house and moved in thought the wall drawing was familiar. They didn’t paint over it. Whew. (Link)

 

And Fran Lebowitz interviewed by Questlove. You’re welcome.

A few minutes, a lot of laughs.

There’s a commercial for Scotch but it’s okay, then, in the first couple of minutes FL defines New Yorkers and discusses leafblowers (not a NYC sound) that she encountered outside in “quieter places.” QL and FL, wow. Worth watching. Maybe fifteen, sixteen minutes. (Link) I love Fran Lebowitz and for Questlove’s first interview, it’s a solid five stars. And a bonus interview: me by Roz Morris. Hey, it’s my blog, I can do this.

 

Casey Kelbaugh for Variety

Remember Anna Delvey/Sorokin? Con artist, Netflix series, house arrest? That Anna.

Her “art” sells for a lot. I’m going to say it’s because of her celebrity, no sour grapes here; she worked hard for it. And, at least she wasn’t Caril Fugate, pulling the trigger on innocent farm people with psycho partner Charlie Starkweather, but she did commit financial mayhem between Manhattan and Marrakesh. Fugate, by the way, is another story, one that I was going to write some years ago and pitch Esquire with. She’s still living—maybe I’ll do it yet. Clyde’s Bonnie, Manson’s “family” and Charlie’s Caril were possibly affected by hybristophilia, a condition of attraction to outlaws (to oversimplify), an angle I was going to follow in the Fugate piece. Anyway, Anna says she’s living well under house arrest, “better than most.” You go girl, but don’t ask to borrow my platinum/titanium Amex card. (I don’t even have a zircon one anyway.) (Link)

 Gas station chargers; as good as gas station food, gas station aviators?

Some “Review Geek” is above me; things like building your own PC or how to blockchain your VPN put a glazed expression on my face and tickle my ‘delete’ gland. But the geek often comes closer to earthtalk and those articles are worth a read. Here’s why you’d be better off spending your dough on a pine tree air freshener or a pair of reflector aviator shades that might last a week. At least they won’t damage your phone’s battery or leave you stranded. (Link)

And that’s about it.

Except for a “buy this book” and a stolen Garrison Keillor joke. The book is Chickens One Day, Feathers The Next, nonfiction by me. And if you’ve already bought it, thank you! If you’ve read it, please leave a review. Dog walks into a bar. Says to the bartender, “Got a drink for a talking dog?” Bartender says “Sure. Rest room is down that hall, first door to your right.”

 Happy December. xo G