E S Toledo, Artist Supreme

E S Toledo Linked at Worldwide Gallery

2007-01-24T18:36:00.000-08:00

Recently, I have been asked to allow the fine people at Art Gallery-Worldiwde to link up to here, for those who art seeking this type of art. Thanks very much guys!

Toss That Baby Over Here

2006-03-18T19:36:00.000-08:00

One year when I was married, before we had kids, my wife made me a lamp for a present. She had taken a lamp we had picked up at a garage sale, a socket and shade on a board really, and turned it in to a work of art. She covered the base in faux leopard fur, attached two basketball playing cake decorations that she had turned into demons and added a plastic baby. She then adorned it with plastic beads. It was really cool and attained a place of honor in my basement studio.
I had used the lamp in a painting I had done, called "Still Life With MR T Lamp and Ukelin", but it was hard to render as it was a smaller part of the painting. So i immeduiately started on another painting focusing solely on the lamp.
She used to bead up up lamps we purchased at garage sales and then would sell as art pieces at the vintage clothing store where we had a space. Many a night she would spend in her space with a glue gum and a tub of beads, tirelessly toiling on these lamps. And the people loved them, I believe we sold everyone we took down there. But then we had children, and all the time she had to do this was now spent on changing diapers and all the other joys that come from being a parent. This lamp is now gone but the painting remains. When I asked her back then what she called this lamp, she shrugged her shoulders, so I decided to name it.

Diverticulitis (Cornhole)

2006-01-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

Back when I was married, my father -in-law was hospitalized with a bout of diverticulitis. For those of you unfamiliar with this, it's when digested pieces of meats and nuts collect in the folds of your colon, causing a blockage. I loved my father-in-law very much and thought him to be very wise (although we rarely agreed politically).
Also, at the time, I was in a band, we had a song that our drummer referred to as "being really hard on the ol' cornhole", so that's what the song was called. This was also the time my wife and I were hitting a lot of garage sales where I would pick up things like farm animals and other little things for reasons I didn't quite comprehend. I had an old Steelcase filing cabinet in the basement of our duplex where I would put all this stuff, sabving it for some unseen project.
I also had acquired a stock of Maruschka screen prints, which I would paint over and use for canvasses. The idea actually came from my wife. I would mix up paints for one painting and always mix too much, so I would use that up before it dried to cover up the image on the old screen print. In this case, as in the case of Mystery Friend JHK (MJK), I left part of the original to be part of my piece, the swirl of a shell.
I wanted to create the illusion of depth, which you do by overlapping images, also I used increasingly smaller critters as the plane went deeper. It was done as a joke, not at my father-in-law's expense, but just a joke on humanity. Who knows what nasty things are collecting in our colons that we are unaware of?

HERBL

2005-12-28T07:09:00.000-08:00

In the land of Grullnidge, in the deepest darkest jungle
Two miles south of the vilage of Farflungle
Over the mountain by Ookala Rock
Lies the valley of the land of the willacok
Now no one has seen a willacik, only their hide
Some claim is just a rabbit pelt another person dyed
But that doesn't explain the part that sticks out
Where on the willacok is his dog like snout
And if it is a rabbit's pelt thentell me why does he
Have a long skinny tail where a bunny's tail is fuzzy
There is only one way at another conclusion you could arrive
And that's to catch a willacok and bring him back alive

Now, there's two kinds of willacoks, one of them is verbal

Like the one in our story who goes by the name of Herbl

Hiding in the jungle is how he spends his day

Talking to himself to scare hunters away

Herbl was camouflaged so hunters couldn't see him

Just like the pelts in the Grullnidgian Museum

So when they heard the voice but could not see the man

They would throw down their weapon, yell "Ghost!" and then they ran

It was always the willacok because nobody suspects

A beast who knows a thousand languages and a million dialects

Don't ask me hiow he knows them, but he never gets them wrong

Just like the freeblet werbler sings the same old song

"FREEBLET-WERBLER FREEBLET WERBLER"

De-Sensitizer

2005-08-25T18:01:00.000-07:00

This is my award winning piece of art, although one photograph cannot do it justice. I took an old television cabinet from the fifties, gutted all the innards and started from there. I had a styrofoam wig head that for some reason had a plastic face on it. then I took a rubber mask I had and glued it to the head, then taped it down and painted it flesh tone. This sat around the basement along with the tv cabinet for a week, looking spooky as you could still see the face under neath. I went to the Salvation Army and bought a plastic baby doll. The arms were ripped off and made to appear as if they were coming out the ears of the original head. The doll head was put on top of the other and it's torso came out where the mouth was. Red latex paint was liberally dripped at all contact points, then glossy Mod Podge was dumped over the whole thing. I mixed some plaster of paris and put it on the insides of the television, on one side using it to hold the

bottom of a plastic bank I had put a small blinking Christmas light under it, and on the other side I secured a small rubber skeleton in it. I slid the head(s) in on a small screen print I had painted over and towards the front is a pile of plastic Easter eggs painted flesh tone. The top of the pile has a broken open egg, with a small baby hatching out of it. There are blinking lights run along the top front, with the wiring being buried under the plaster.

Finally, I took another screen print and painted a background similar to the background on "Angry White Male"(see Archives), in fact, I believe it was the inspiration for the background of that painting. I cut it off the frame and stapled it to the back. It was a lot of work, but I entered it in the Urban Institute For Contemporary Arts Rerun Recycled art show and took second place in the artistic merit division.

television offers up images every day designed to desensitze us to the brutalness of the world. Often times, it offers up people for us to worship, adore, and celebrate, only to chew them up when they need a distraction from the atrocities of the government.

PASTORAL

2005-08-22T17:50:00.000-07:00

I've always been taken with the artists who put a lot of detail in their work. Impressionism relies on representation to stand for detail, but I like the Masters who painted every hair on an animal, or put elaborate yet miniscule images in their work.
When I paint, I start with an old screen print that stood for cheap art in the seventies. I must cover that item before I can start my work and the way I do that is by using leftover mixed paint from another painting, bit by bit forming a layer over the original image. On this one, by accident, in the center was an image that reminded me of Salvador Dali in an officer's cap, so I set out to incorporate this in the finished painting. I always start with the background so when I put paint over it, it creates the illusion of depth. All art is based on illusion. Then I work towards the front, at the bottom adding overlapping images to create even more depth. As you draw closer in the image, more items are detailed, as you would see it naturally with your eye. So the trees in front have every leaf painted on, every blade of grass is painted on.
This used to be the magic painting when Wilbur was a baby. I would put him over my shoulder so that he faced the painting and slowly rock back and forth and in no time, he would fall asleep.

Portrait Of The Artist With His Father (From Photo)

2005-08-20T14:52:00.000-07:00

I Painted this for my father as a gift, but when I gave it to him, not knowing much about art or shading, he complained that I made his teeth too black. I did this from a photo taken at a family reunion at his trailer, where he moved with his fourth wife. I would chase the nieces and nephews around the trailer while he sat around and argued politics with my brother while we all sat around drinking beer and grilling burgers.
When he moved to Arizona, as he packed up his car and trailer, he had to decide what he could and couldn't take with him. The trip to Arizona was for my step-mother, who had asthma and couldn't breathe the pollen laden Michigan air any more. We all sat around watching him get stressed as his wife was in the hospital and he tried to get his meager posessions in the Mazda he had at the time. He brought this painting out and thrust in my hands saying, "Here, take this, I don't have room for it, and anyway, you made my teeth too black." So I put it my car and watched my dad for what would be the last time I saw him. The following year, he had a stroke and was in the hospital. While on the operating table to have a pacemaker put in, he had a coronary and died. At least I have this painting. You can see, my dad and I were very close, and I miss him sometimes, especially after my children were born. However, if he had never passed away, I would have never had the urge to start my own family, and would never had talked my wife into having Wilbur, my first born son.

2005-08-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

These are two digital images I created from a single photograph taken by my son with my digital camera. I then ran the image through my Print Master 16 repeatedly distorting the image incremently. When I put them in my Windows Moviemaker and run them, they appear to pulse disturbingly. I have a lot of fun with my PrintMaster16 and have created many similar images that look nothing like the origianl image.

Mutant Virus Attack Healthy Kidney

2005-08-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

This is made from entirely recycled items. The shadow box is an old desk drawer. It is covered on the outside with ceramic tiles from a bathroom redecoration. The kidney is a model from a doctor's office I bought at an estate sale. The lettering are from old board games. The mutant virus are from an atomic model kit.
Renal malfunction is another term for kidney failure. I learned that from continous watching of episodes of M*A*S*H, which at one point in time was on television four times a day, until the local television stations forced legislation to block shows in syndication on non-local channels(TBS, etc., etc.,). It's pretty heavy, weight wise, but has lightness to it, humor wise. This is one of my favorites, but it took a long time hunched over a table, individually gluing each tile into place.

Lit

2005-08-13T20:47:00.000-07:00

Just an exercise in illumination, quite a large painting really. Also, I wanted to practice reflection as well as transparency, while making some sort of vague statement about drinking.

Mr. Dimesteakdinner

2005-07-30T05:40:00.000-07:00

Back around the time we first were married, my wife and I used to have a small antiques business operating out of the corner of a primarily vintage clothing store. On Saturday mornings we would get up early and hit garage sales looking for antiques, pop culture collectibles and vintage clothing that we could later resell in our space.
At the time we lived on the West Side, which was a prime location as most of the people were old, their children grown up and moved out, leaving behind a treasure trove of sixties and seveties items. The ethnic make up of the neighborhoods were changing, from predominately Polish to a Latino populace, as the younger residents fled to suburbia and their parents headed for nursing homes.
There were a lot of characters we would run into, pickers for antiques dealers, collectors, and people just looking for a deal. There was Baldy and her husband(so named as her hair was thinning out), Larry (who looked like one of the Three Stooges), and Mr. Pushy.
There was another guy, who always wore a white T-shirt and blue double knit slacks. He had a black trucker cap and large framed glasses. He was always looking to haggle for the best price.
At one sale, when he asked a price on an item, the seller told him it was a dime.
"A dime," he bellowed, "Why, that's like a steak dinner to me!" We took this to mean that a dime was a steep price for something. He was always always buying crap and junk, passing up good items as they were just too high priced. Anyway, we started calling him Mr. Dimesteakdinner when ever we saw him at a sale.
"Oh no, "one of us would say as we pulled up to the sale,"It's Mr. Dimesteakdinner!"

Later, we moved to the other side of town, started spending weekends at my wife's folks place up north and doing our junking up there. But occasionally, we would venture back to the West Side, and there he would be, Mr. Dimesteakdinner.

Ebay has now replaced vintage clothing and antique stores, we're now divorced, and weekends are spent with my kids. And I'm sure that Mr. Dimesteakdinner has gone on to that great flea market in the sky.

Mystery Friend JHK (MJK)

2005-07-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

Back when I was in art school, I stayed for a while in the basement of my brother's duplex(years later, I would move back there to start my painting) which made it hard for my friends and I to party with chicks, as I wouldn't dream of imposing on my bother and his wife.
One friend, Rick, stayed at the dorm of a local Catholic College. My buddy, Rob, stayed with his dad and step mom shared a room with a guy who was running up his long distance bill. So Brian and I decided to get an apartment together.
The place we found, was an upstairs apartment with 2 possibly three bedrooms. The front room, which faced the street, had a small room to the right that was missing the french doors. Brian said he'd take that and hang curtains. The room at the top of the stairs, facing the door, was mine.
As you walked in to the left, before you crossed the hall to my room, was another room we thought of renting out or turning in to a dining room, as beyond that was the kitchen. Across the hall was the bathroom. At the back of the hall was a small room where the stairs used to come up when it used to be a single family home. between that space and the bathroom was a small shelfless pantry with a closet big enough to put a matress in.
"Maybe we can find some one who'd want to rent that out," Brian and I reasoned. Rob, my buddy from Jersey said he might know of somebody.
His name was Jim but he had another name he preferred you called him. He was the talk of our class and all the girls wanted to do him. He had a Flock Of Seagulls type hair style, except that one whole side of his head was shaved from the part on down. He wore faded jeans, ripped (artfully) tee shirts and had studded leather bracelets.
I first encountered him in the student lounge. His dollar was all crumpled, and the change machine wouldn't except it,so he pantomimed to me he wished for a new dollar. Which I gave him.
As soon as he moved in, it was really cool, as he had met a lot of people on the punk rock scene in town. But Brian, the other roommate, wanted to party every night, where I had to work and Jim had aline of females who wanted to sleep with him waiting. By Friday, Brian was bored and would go back to his home town to hang out with his friends, while wild parties after punk rock shows went on all weekend at the apartment and all kinds of people were having sex in Brian's bed. Then Sunday afternoon, everybody'd clear out, I'd go to work and Brian would come back not knowing what transpired that weekend. Once again he would bitch all week about how lame Grand Rapids was (compared to PawPaw) and clear out Friday and the whole thing would start again.
Jim was okay, but you never felt he was being honest with you, that he was agreeing with you so you'd like him. So there were all these different sides to him. Later, the Rollins Band did a song about him.
But I liked him. I got to meet a lot of interesting people through him. He hooked me up with some guys to form my first band. He introduced me to the woman I married (fuckin' bastard)
But he will always remain amystery because you're never really sure who he is.

"When I Grow Up, I Want To Be Just Like You. Daddy"

2005-07-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

Tim was a talented musician who could play damn near any instrument by ear and play it well. He was also a gifted artist with a sharp intellect.
Unfortunately for Tim, his parents divorced, his daddy remarried and emotionally disowned Tim by telling him "I never wanted to have you in the first place". His dad told him this when he was drunk, he would get drunk and mean.
Tim had problems of his own, as do most talented people, he abused every substance that came along.
One time, I had a "showing" of my work at local "coffee house". One of the pieces in it was the aforementioned "Devour By Convenience", which I was asking $500.00 for, as I really didn't want to sell it as I had just made it and was quite proud of it.
One day, I went to said place to find that the piece was missing, somebody stole it. I was pissed as the only witness to the theft was a certifiable nut case with green teeth who slept in a garbage heap in the back of the coffee house. I took all my paintings home and vowed never to darken their door again.
A couple days later, I went outside to find that it was mysteriously returned to me. Half an hour later, Tim's roommate Larry stopped by. I could tell the way that he was measuring my reactions, Tim had sent him over to observe. So I acted all relieved that 'someone' had returned it.
"But, I just wondered, how did they know where I live?" I wondered out loud, all naive-like.
"Maybe, someone took at as a joke, " offered Larry." Like maybe they thought you were asking too much for it."
Tim later apologized for it, drunk at a punk rock bar one night, but I had already painted this picture. I saw Tim very much like the dad he hated so. Last year, in the spring, Tim's dad passed on, leaving Tim a couple hundred thousand dollars. So he bought a house. One night, the heroin dealer came over with some good stuff and warned Tim, don't too much, it hasn't been stomped on too many times. Tim went in the bedroom to split it up for he and his friend. Instead he did it all. Not more than six months after his father died, Tim was gone , too. What a waste!

The Ballad Of Ron Nasty

2005-07-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

(unfinished project)

The Guru sleeps in a crumbled up heap, clutching a bottle of gin at the top of the stairs

A puddle of vomit, he uses as a pillow, this is what it's like when no one cares, yeah

This is what it's like when no one cares at all

Another brick in a wall

All through school we always were cool, growing up in the same neighborhood

Rich and I and them Weavers kids, seems like we were up to no good, yeah

Seems like we were up to no good at all

Another brick in a wall

(chorus)

Got hit so hard his head spun around

Started falling for the ground

Burst a vein going to his head

Now, Ron Nasty is dead

Thinking back to that old Pontiac, teaching me to drive so he could get drunk

Remembering the days when we had to part ways,he was rock and roll and I was punk, yeah

He was rock and roll and I was punk, that's all

Another brick in a wall

He joined the service, but he made them nervous, so he moved in to a room down the hall from mine

My new friends laughed at him behind his back from fear he'd join the party any time, yeah

From fear he'd join the party, anytime at all

Another brick in a wall

Got hit so hard, his head spun around

Started falling for the ground

Burst a vein going to his head

Now, Ron Nasty is dead

He used to love getting into a fight

Even if he knew he couldn't win

I had to kick his ass a couple of times

But I never could do him in

The Guru thinks it's okay if he drinks, it makes him feel better than his doctor's pills

Not so great to self medicate, when the cure to the problem is the cause of your ills, yeah

The cure to your problems is the cause of your ills, alcohol

Another brick in a wall

Got hit so hard, his head spun around

Started falling for the ground

Burst a vein going to jhis head

Now, Ron Nasty is dead

Sugar Buzz HFE

2005-07-23T17:42:00.000-07:00

HFE- for hideous folk art eyesore, or is it head f**king exploding, I don't remember, maybe it was either or both. Folk art lacks any depth and it's charm lays in the extent of the brain damage by the folk artisan themselves. I find folk art enthusiasts to be patronizing towards these damaged souls, a reaction against the perversity and arrogance of "fine artists". The point is to appreciate this painting, one must do fifty bong hits, eat half a box of Pop Tarts, a half a bag of Reese's peanut butter cup miniatures, drink half a liter of NutraSweet laced "diet" soda, then not only will the painting start to vibrate, but your stomach will feel as the guy in the foreground's stomach does.

Still Life # 1:Devoured By Convenience

2005-07-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

When I first began to paint, I felt I needed to improve my skills as a painter. I have had some training, attending art school for one year, but when I took up the brush again, I was not that good. So I set up a still life in the basement of the duplex I lived in at the time with my wife. Using items aquired at garage sales, I set up a display, using left over halloween skull fabric for the background. I also wanted to include lighting, so I could better render it on, well, not canvas but old screen print wall hangings. I put a devil mask on a Spiderman Halloween bucket that I had converted to a lamp by sticking a low watt bulb in. The skull was something I picked up at a sale, a fake one of course. The tv was part of my vintage television collection.
The guitar is a piece I had made earlier. At a flea market, I picked up a beautiful vintage Harmony Monterrey for fifteen dollars thinking I was getting the deal of the century. All it needed was a new set of strings. That day as I tightened the strings on the guitar to tune it, I saw why I had gotten such a bargain. The neck snapped off and I was left feeling like such an idiot for not checking it out better when I bought it.

I became angry with myself and so I created a piece by running the strings of the guitar through a skeleton model. I then glued the skeleton to the body of the guitar using copious amounts soit would resemble melted fat when dried, as well as forming a skin over the bones, which I then painted flesh tone. Some boiled spinach fettucine serves as the intestines, and you get an idea of how I felt that fateful day when I bought the damn guitar. I called the piece
"Devour By Convenience" .

Any of these paintings may be purchased if you wish, just contact me at estoledo@sbcglobal.net. I also am willing to do commissioned work as well.

Coulda Had That Job At Wal-Mart, But..

2005-07-22T13:09:00.000-07:00

One difference between men and women is the way we express our vanity. Women's vanity is expressed in their beauty, or lack thereof, men's vanity is pegged to their self-importance.
Back at the contractor bar there's always that one guy on unemployment who, self importance inflated by alcohol consumption, tries to make it sound if he's just too good for any job. Most self-respecting people wouldn't even think of applying at McDonald's or Wal-Mart, but if they turn you down , how are you supposed to feel good about yourself. Well, you make it seem as if you turned them down. Then you can sit at the bar, confident in knowing that you're just so much better than the guy next to you who actually has to wait until three o'clock before he can start drinking.

The Big McGaffle

2005-07-21T17:31:00.000-07:00

They say "he won't know what hit him". Sometimes you know what hit you, you just don't know who it was as they put out a false front. Sometimes you don't know why they hit you, or you hide behind a facade of innocent ignorance.
The only truth is, you got hot by something

No Significant Meaning

2005-07-20T18:35:00.000-07:00

Being a creative person, sometimes you get a lot of ideas. And I've found that sometimes you have to work out an idea, no matter how bad it may seem at the time. If the idea gets stuck in your head, it may block other ideas that may seem better.
I write songs as well as paint and last summer had a song in my head that I thought was not good, it had no meaning. I was struggling on another song at the time, a ballad for my departed friend Ron Nasty. But this other song kept getting in the way. So I started working on it. As it turns out, I found I liked the song. And it did have a special meaning. Then, a couple more songs popped out and I was able to finish the ballad for my friend.
I don't know what this picture means, or if it has one. But the idea was in my head, so I followed through. I really like it, though, even though it has no significant meaning.

Farewell To The Mating Ritual

2005-07-19T13:45:00.000-07:00

Chris the Clown lost his parents to a drunk driver and began swimming in a pool of drugs, alcohol and self-pity. That would only numb the pain, the next day nothing had changed, so the whole thing began again. Eventually, the buzz was all that was important to him, more important than his only child, who now was also losing a parent. But it was harder for his son as his dad was still alive, just choosing to live under a viaduct rather than remaining a productive member of society.
Choosing homelessness and substance abuse is not very attractive to the opposite sex, in order for one to live this existential lifestyle one must give up on going through the rituals of attraction that unite two souls united in the pleasure of the flesh. Pity is not a healthy way to have a relationship, it leads to frustration on the part of the pitier, and is negative reinforcement for the pitied.

White Trash Day Care Center

2005-07-16T20:17:00.000-07:00

Back at the contractor bar, most these guys got an old lady, legal or not, and they got a kid or two before he ties up his nuts in a vain attempt to get more action because they cannot afford nor do they want more kids. Now a steady working contractor makes okay, he ain't rich, but he likes to spend like he is. So he's got a new truck decked out in all the most pointless of truck accessories, plus a car for the wife and kid(s). His house is a fixer-upper that rarely gets fixed up as most of his free time is spent drinking, or recovering from drinking. And if wifey works, they have a couple wave runners or other useless waste of machinery that occupies their time as well.

But mostly what they got is a lot of bills and sometimes that paycheck don't stretch so far. And, they all have a tab at some bar (maybe a couple) so when bills get tight and they want to feed the kids and get out as well, they bring them to the Snug and put it on their tab.

Since this is a contractor bar, same rules apply, you run into a reg or a friend, start talking, the kids finish their chicken strips and fries and become bored with NASCAR and begin wanderingm around the dank and smoke filled bar in search of amusement. Maybe they'll start rolling the pool balls on the tables in the middle of a game, maybe they'll hover over some poor soul trying to play pinball.

And this goes on for a couple hours until the kids start whining, then mom or dad yell at the kids and they all leave pissed off.

The Yahoo Guy

2005-07-13T19:54:00.000-07:00

I used to work in a contractor bar about ten years ago. I call it a contractor bar because when you hire a contractor, and he disappears in the afternoons, this is where he goes. He might have every intention of coming back when he leaves to the hardware store to get that one thing he needs, but on every road to every hardware store, is a contractor bar.
So your contractor will drive by, say The Snug, which was the name of the place I worked, and see, oh, I don't know, Joe's truck in the lot. Maybe Joe owes him money, maybe Joe owes him a beer, Whatever reason, he stops to see Joe. They shoot pool, drink some beers, bitch about their old ladies, next thing you know, it's quitting time. Now they stick around until their old ladies find them by phone, all pissed off because they missed dinner. Then it's time to go home to a cold dinner and a colder wife pissed off because she had to watch the kids all day.
Unless it's the Yahoo guy. He was too young to be married and too unlucky with the ladies to knock one up. He worked 7 to 3 laying carpeting as an independent contractor with a local carpeting store. Everyday, the Yahoo guy would stop by on his way home from work for a beer and stay all night. Well, not all night, just until he was reelin', then he would stumble drive the three or four blocks home.
I think his personal record was nine-thirty. He'd start out the evening, well late afternoon, boisterous, but not imposing. Then beer by beer he would transform into the Yahoo Guy. Garth Brooks on the jukebox (especially singing "I Got Friends In Low Places") Yahoo! "Bad To The Bone"? Yahoo! Home Run? Touchdown? NASCAR? Yahoo! with his vigor returning each time he came out of the bathroom rubbing his nose and sniffing. Usually by nine, they would have to ask him to leave or be barred, and there was nothing worse you could do these guys than bar them.
One night, the local beer salesman, he was also a reg, told the other regs that he was bringing the Bud Girls next Friday. Well, not the Bud Girls, just local talent that fit the dress. These clowns didn't know this and so they all started buzzing about it. The Bud Girls are coming, the Bud Girls are coming, next Friday night. The Bud Girls are coming the Bud Girls are coming this Friday night.

Well, Friday evening, or late afternoon if you prefer, ol' Yahoo shows up. Now usually, every day he wears an old flannel shirt, and a dirty pair of jeans and his big old clodhopping workboots. But this evening, after actually taken the time to clean up before he goes there, it's a different story. He's wearing his cowboy boots, and his good jeans, has a button down shirt on and a sport coat. His face is shaved and his hair is washed and combed. Yahoo is going to get him some Bud Girl tonight. The problem is, the Bud Girls are coming at nine.

And Yahoo, primed for action hits the beer a little too fast, by eight is barely able to stay awake at the bar and is asked to leave and never gets to see one of the Bud Girls.

ANGRY WHITE MALE

2005-07-13T16:57:00.000-07:00

Ron Nasty was a friend of mine, chemically imbalanced and inconsistently self-medicated. The world of the female was a mystery to him, with no entry, and certainly no pity for a man in his condition. Alcohol killed the pain, by making him angry and prone to starting fights. This led to his eventual demise as he was struck so hard in the face that his head spun around fast enough to burst a vein going to his brain, and he died.

Most anti-feminist males are disconnected from that world adrift on a sea of confusion fueled by mass media disinformation and pornography. Unable to make any connections, their frustration turns to anger and the targets of that hate, gays, minorities and others that they feel have "cut them off", become part of their political agenda