Blue?!?!?!

I write in angry red letters to protest. When I heard that the Atlanta Hawks were changing their uniforms, I did a little jig in my heart because our unis were pathetic. Not outright terrible, mind you, just dull, no imagination. I even wrote twice this past season, to the Atlanta Journal Constitution, to say that one of the problems of a destitute franchise is a lack of identity. Then the news came down that the top brass agreed so I felt almost vindicated, like I had done my bit, you know, one small voice... Then I clicked on the link to see the new uniforms to be worn by the Atlanta Hawks of the National Basketball Association..... and I felt like I had been punched in the heart bone. Normally, I'm optimistic to the point that borders on fantasy but I couldn't feel good for two seconds, looking at the steaming crap that floated off my monitor. One main thing that jumps out is the lack of imagination, that somehow things could get more forgettable. But the main travesty was that they changed the main color to BLUE!!! And a dull navy, at that. It looks like the color of airport carpet. The Atlanta Hawks are RED. Good God. I sat there on the couch feeling totally deflated for a good while and then angrily read the release from the team, saying that they took this very seriously and that tradition was extremely important. I can't say enough bad things and I'm tired of feeling that way about MY team. No wonder nobody gives a damn. AAARrrrrgggghhhhhhh.
Sorry to go so sports but I had to say that. When I finish this painting, I hope to make a more artful statement.

Able was I...

Pregnant and scared? I don't know what to tell you. Who's baby is that? I expect a new angle to reveal itself to me at any moment. Until then, hang on to those babies. Or do what your heart tells you- I'm no politician, thank God. I sit here just after midnight and wait for the revelations to come. Any minute now. Meanwhile I am assailed by advertising which I accept but hate, like a lot of things in life. You see, we, as race, are stupid, stupid, stupid. That's all I'm gonna give you.
It's a trap!! That phrase could bring laughter for a long time. Like a fester bester tester. I can't remember if I'm supposed to separate those with commas. Comas, maybe. If only an exile to Elba were in my future. It's all about perspective.

Spring shivers

This is my latest offering for sale NOW at the Lola Ricci Salon in west Atlanta. The proprietress of the establishment is Lisa Moccia, my personal stylist and quite a cool lady. She's an artist with the scissors and has turned her workspace into a mod gallery. Her boutique is on Marietta Street where Howell Mill dead ends. Go there for a great coif and buy some art.

A year's run from the west and I can't escape the dry and the dust which even sours the beer in my mouth. Some afternoons I watch and hear a tall storm rumble along the other side of the street while my lawn continues to crumble. All the rain is somewhere else in the world but things will rotate into the keyhole if I go freestyle. A new ritual is required since I've tried all the ones I know. The house keeps creaking all around me but I can't decipher the message of the wayward ghost that has looked over my shoulder for thirty-seven years. No one seems to hear it but me. Perhaps Dark Star was a bad choice for a soundtrack in these wee hours but this is the time when my thoroughbred is ready to fly around the track. I seek distraction for fear of what might appear in stark focus right now. The room is .....

Spidey rides with me!

That's right, world. You've been warned. The photo evidence and the sworn testimony proves that I am now a force to be reckoned with by virtue of my powerful friends, you see. And, mind you, this ain't the weepy waterworks Tobey Maguire Spidey that made Topher Grace look menacing. This is the Amazing Spider-Man that once staggered the Hulk, but enough about webhead because I'm tired from exposure. More chills and spills ahead.

"I'll save you, Mary Jane! Touch my can- with your hand, Spider-Man!"