Pungsnotded

Neil Gaiman, I cannot be your best friend. I saw you in Chicago, back in December. You read Amanda Palmer’s Eulogy. Later, when I was in line for her signing, you walked by. I got short of breath, and started jumping up and down. I grabbed my husband’s arm, and started screaming ,”That’s Neil Gaiman, It’s Neil Gaiman!” over and over. He sort of looked at me, like, you know, so what? And what was I going to do in your prescence anyway? I was NOT going to get out of that long ass line, just to babble at you and try and get your autograph.But I was just so excite to see Neil Gaiman live and in person.

Afterwards, I thought about you Neil Gaiman. You seem like a pretty cool guy, and I wondered what it would be like to hang out with you. After long consideration, I came to the conclusion that we could never be best friends and there are way too many reasons. Actually, I don’t think we can ever be friends after these reasons.

Here they are:

You really need a better haircut. I would probably try and do this myself. I am sure you would not let me cut your hair, so I would obsess about it and not really ever pay attention to anything you had to say. I am sure that slipping some rohypnol into your drink and cutting your hair is not legal.And that is how our friendship might have to end over court.

I don’t know what kind of coffee table resides at the Gaiman house but I bet there are several and I bet they are expensive. Maybe not expensive, exactly, but you probably didn’t get them on the side of the road on trash day, either. I really don’t think you want me dancing to Twisted Sister songs on those things, I would leave footprints.

I have never actually read anything you have ever written. I am sure at some time, this would come up in conversation. I would feel bad. I would have to tell you that I don’t read very much, and you would point to the 17 books about Salvador Dali, towering next to my television and I would say Sorry Neil Gaiman, I will get to it! I will read your books tommorrow! But let’s be real Neil Gaiman, you know I wouldn’t ever get around to it.

I would buy you some of those fancy shirts like they sell at Express for Christmas and your Birthday, and I am sure you would be all, oh thanks, but you know you would never wear them, and then I would wind up bitter and cold toward you. And you would be, like, hey I like black and I like my haircut. And I would be, all, oh fuck off Neil Gaiman, I was just trying to fancy up your wardrobe.

I have a tiny problem with making fun of people. I am not sure you get made fun of very much Neil. How many times could you laugh about the “Heyheyhey hey hey Neil Gaiman, made you look-game”? Maybe once? That is soo not enough to sustain a friendship. And there is the issue of your name. Gay-men. Sorry, eventually, I would have to repeatedly bring that up. Eeeeks Neil Gaiman, you would be soo annoyed.

I am certain people do not drunk dial you at 2am to talk about characters from Kenny Roger’s songs and what awful bitches they are. (Ruby and Lucille) I am pretty sure you do not listen to Kenny Rogers, let alone, throw his records against the wall because you are so moved. Pretty sure that doesn’t happen in your world, Neil Gaiman.

At some point during our friendship the words- comic books are for dorks- will slip out of my mouth. I will quickly place my hand over my mouth to stop them, and my eyes will get real big, but it will be too late. The words will hang there. And I will not be able to take them back.

I am pretty sure you do not appreciate Miller Lite like I do, Neil Gaiman. And I would be willing to bet, that you have never polished off a bottle of Vodka and threatened to beat up the back yard. I just do not think this is how you roll. Do you drink tea?With lemon? Do British people really do that? I don’t know. I also don’t think you would find it funny to come over to my house for a private screeening of The Patriot while I scream “Brit Out!” at you over and over.

You see, Neil Gaiman, it is with regret that I have to write to you and tell you that we are going to have to just remain acquaintances. We can just be “hi” people. I will say, “Hi Neil Gaiman!” and you will say “Hey” and we will continue on our ways. We are just too different. I am sure you understand.

Sincerely,

Ashley Pungsnotded

The following is an email I received, I did not write it, but I wish you would all read it…

Subject:What Land is this?

“This is the land of fiery lakes & brimstone floors. Terrible stories exist about this land: tales of protectors beating & killing the innocent, vultures preying upon their neighbors, politicians selling democracy, and more. But today i read some news that shocked & disgusted me.
In Michigan a 93 yr old man was made to freeze to death alone bcz he owed some money ($1000, not much really) to the Bay City electric company. Not in Southern Florida or Hawaii where it might not matter if there is no power entering the house, in the frigid north where this winter has been hard. The company put on a limiter which trips if the energy limit is exceeded and cuts energy totally until soomeone comes to reset it. The temperature in his house was 32º, freezing; the autopsy showed he had died from cold.
What land is this where a shamless financier (Bernard Madoff) who has defrauded so many of so much can be allowed to stay in his Manhattan penthouse even as his victims contemplate their ruin? What land is this that says companies like Haliburton can operate illegally & then simply pay a small fine w/out further ado?
What did that 93 yr old man do wrong? There are others who might deserve to suffer such a horrendous end of suffering & lonliness, but did that man?
What land is this? This is the land of Mammon. They will speak to you of Christ but they worship at the temple of Moloch & Mammon. And i tell you this: no new president can change it. We must change it.
IN my opinion the Bay City electric company should be investigated for the wrongful death of Marvin E. Schur who died due to the company’s negligence.
of course even if everyone i know & everyone they know wrote to the District Attorney or Mayor or whatever it might not do any good. But still there would be one thing we could try to do: make sure it doesn’t happen again. How? By looking out for neighbors (not in a busybody way either) & speaking out when some unjustice is done.”

This email has stuck in my head all week. I have the greatest respect for my friend Matt, who is one of the most intelligent and kind people I have ever met. A rare combination, these days. We need to look out for each other. But more importantly we need to write. How much time each day do you spend watching/commenting on the news? For one day, I challenge you, to take that time to write. Write to the power company, write to Mayor or the District Attorney, forward this to your friends. These things should NOT be going on. This should not be acceptable, in our land. This is murder. Corporations, you need to be taken down for shit like this. It is time for some responsibility! Are we going to continue to look the other way?

Bay City Electic Light & Power

www.baycitygovernment.com

900 S Water St
Bay City, MI 48708
(989) 894-8104

Mayor Charles M. Brunner

cbrunner@baycitymi.org
301 Washington Avenue
Bay City, MI 48708
Phone: 989-894-8189
Fax: 989-894-0704

Oh my gosh, people, our Governor has lost it. Maybe he never had it. I can’t quit watching. I cannot figure the man out. His hair, his lawyers who keep quitting, and his cowboy movie stories. What is going on? Last week he was quoting Rudyard Kipling and this week he is just making shit up! I don’t know. I do know we are living in some wierdo times. The news is really getting strange, but the good thing is at least we have a good man in charge. Sheesh.

So, onto the snaps! The top picture is what snaps look like today. I hate that font. I seriously HATE all of the fonts on that package. It represents everything that disgusts me with society. I have begun collecting vintage packages from thrift stores to quiet my inner hate. Imagine when we were a country that hired illustrators to design, by hand, these beautiful cards. Now we have puked out computer guts on a card that should get a big F- in  it’s design elements class. Idiots, you are all settling for this! We are all settling for mediocracy!

This is a Dritz package, when Dritz was all cool and diamondy!

This is Delong and it would NEVER rust !!

Starsnaps are for fancy ladies!

Oh Vogue, you snappy Art Deco snap, you!

Oh, Eversnap, so ovaly and brother to Everclear, we love your design!

This is the Prym, from the Eighties, the beginning of our descent!

Demand the return, the return of the noble product packaging!

Even Woolco was great. Electric Kool-Aid Acid/Colorblind testing cool!

Even Bonita, was so well, Bonita!

And my favorite, the Clinton Snap Fasteners, all blue-printy and great!

You see, people used to have these things called skills. And skills were things that one went to school to learn. 18 year old kids, sat hungover, at desks, with rulers, meticulously learning to make fonts, and responsibly use the formal elements of design. And now, well now, sigh, now we have all settled for crap and a total wack-a-doo governor. Save us President Obama, before it is too late!

There is only one reason I would put these two artists together. One simple reason. Because I can.

There lies much of my angst with Art History. I took just enough Art History in college to leave an opium-flavored resin ball stuck to one of my tonsils. You just cannot cough that shit up, and so it stays with you forever leaving you confused and bitter.  Lucky for me, I am not enrolled in any such soul-sucking courses, so I can compare at will, and without logic. Lucky for me, I am an Artist, and I do not have to add any pesky little “historian” to that.

Robert Irwin is an inspiring conceptual fountain of neatness. I have no idea what he would bring for the family reunion pot-luck, but I am thinking it might be the day-glo chicken and noodles, like someone in every family makes, but they would be very square and perfect.

Standing in front of Robert Irwin’s, piece, Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow & Blue³, I found myself floating in a mess of my own brain. It was so clean, and measured. But in those lines, there was some cloudiness, Irwin just didn’t throw it out there for us. It was reflective, it was shiny. The type of thing that would never find itself in my world. And THAT, my friend, is pure gold to me. From conception to the gallery, there is a process that some artists possess that I am so envious of. I believe it all stems from my basic misunderstanding of math, rulers and not returning library books on time.

Salvador Dali. My long lost friend who I avoided for so long. I put him off, I avoided him, I ignored him. It is my own stubborn fault. It is just that by the time I was of drug-consuming age, Dali posters wall-papered dorm rooms up and down the co-ed halls of my halluconogenic experiences. I probably spent some time looking and escaping into his fine images, via poster, and having some crappy esoteric thoughts, like everyone else. You know, along with some Bukowski and Geiger and Escher,and pass the bong, dude. I am always reluctant when Art becomes a t-shirt design. (or worse, Ed Hardy. I do not even know who you are Ed Hardy, but I really do hate you, from deep inside my soul.) *ahem*

One year ago, I stood in San Diego, at the Museum of Contemporary Art, trying desperately to form some opinion, but also content to appreciate the piece my eyes were showing me. I am in complete awe of Robert Irwin, and I struggle to understand him. I stick his work back in my brain, to relate to it later, I know it will be there when I need it. I am in awe. But I am not in Art-love with Robert Irwin. Yet.

And then exactly one year later, I walked into the Dali Museum in Florida. Something happened inside me. It was directly related to the progression of the paintings, but I was beside myself with that warm-fuzzy-Art-love. You know. You know what Art-love is. You get it, you know it’s there. Like mashed potatoes and gravy. Like Henry Miller and red wine. Oh, Salvador Dali, why had I forsaken thee? Was it all due to psuedo-educated potheads and their stupid dorm room posters? Is it because of my obsession with Garcia Lorca that you were overlooked?

I don’t know. But this year, just might have to be the year of the Dali.

Help us, our household is under siege! The aliens have landed!

They are too cute, to turn away! So I think they will stay and live with us!

I swear on the Curb Dog

     My older brother, Josh, has always been cooler than me. When we were little, he went to school first and he got to walk there, all by himself. He could climb things and ride a bike and throw hammers off the treehouse and hit me in the head with them. Or toss our newly hatched baby bird off of the top of that thing, claiming he was teaching it to fly. He could skateboard and freestyle. He can still walk on his hands and ride a unicycle and juggle fire,  the list goes on and on. He has the most grace and balance, more than any of my sisters combined.

I remember, when we were little, making a bicycle out of like 4 garbage bag twist ties once, and showing it to him. He laughed at it, and ten minutes later he made a bike with handlebars and functional forks, with brakes and spokes and even fucking pegs on the back wheel. Such was my life. I hated him for having way too many talents. And for shooting me in the leg with a staple gun, and mercilessly throwing me in the swimming pool, and throwing food at me constantly and sticking a burning hot glowing spoon to my knee. But I loved him, for understanding why we needed to keep throwing bologna onto each kitchen window, and giggling when we watched my mom try and figure out what caused the greasy circles that she tried to wash off all the time. And for listening to King Diamond. And for agreeing to pierce my tongue with a needle and salad tongs in my parent’s kitchen when I was 17. He can draw and paint and withstand any form of self-mutilation to an supernatural degree.

-but-

I always thought I was the cooler one. I have more fashion sense, I would never wear chaps or sleep in a flannel nightgown, like him. I am much wittier and he may be a Brad Pitt look-alike, but I am the cute annoying younger sister who is much more fun. Way more fun than Josh on a Friday night, he doesn’t even drink Miller Lite and he goes to bed early. He could at least have let me be the cooler one! But nooooo.

It was bad enough that he had to wind up living across the street from a member my favorite band this year. It was bad enough that he lives somewhere cool and gets to do things that I can only see on Youtube. It was bad enough that he once told me when I was 14 that I would never understand Jim Morrison’s poetry because it was way to deep for me. That was all bad enough. And then I find out that he met Buckminster Fuller’s great nephew, the other day at some community planning meeting. FUCK. What is next, Josh? Are you going to dig up Andy Warhol, bring him back to life and go drink fucking Miller Lite with him?

That’s right BUCKMINSTER FULLER’S NEPHEW.

I lose. But at least I have all my teeth.

I am so telling on him!

This is a bird I photographed while in Florida.

Lucky bird.