weasel season – the artist’s way – an opinion.

dragging myself from bed, an overwhelming need to shower overcame me. rather than “loll-around” on a day that nothing was going to be a big-part of my future hours, something connected to my half-century of cultural information culled from my step-father, neighborhood and assorted girlfriends of said persuasion, one i loved deeply with rockaway summer memories, lolling on aluminum lounge chairs…”ecch, everyone around me is dyink…,” she said, her loose wrist waving toward her face, we sit, grave-faced before busting out laughing…my jewish-american princess knew how to play it to the hilt – she’s on my mind this day – sleep and comfort should be the plan.
we were big on that.
this reverie drifted off and floated around the house lazily, lolling away like couched memories tucked in my head…
since reading something about ellipses requiring only three dots, i’ve been trying to follow the plan.

but i digress…

i doused myself with dr. bronner’s peppermint soap before going out, camera in hand, to floyd bennett field – a plan that lies in the near future – me, maxx and whoever else wants to fit into the stationwagon.
i needed only to move. i had to move and shake off the…shit.
it had something to do with the overwhelming sense of “too many weasels,” in and around my life and the need to rid myself of the scent (real or otherwise) and contact with them (also, real or otherwise).

this phenomenon hasn’t been solely my experience.
one of my closest friends asked my advice regarding what can only be described as “vermin-like,” behavior by an associate of hers, something she never expected.
“a mink is still a weasel. it just has a nicer coat,”
or something like that, i told her.
my weasel antennae has been up for a while now.
“weasel,” is on my moral compass. it’s right past 9 clockwise. it’s a little past, “sneaky-bastard” and just before, “self-obsessed-douchebag.”
this stuff is, for the most part, subjective…depending on the moment.
or objective any other moment.
it’s from here, a bunch of snarky business people perfected the notion of an approach to money-making, especially if they train themselves to think of “moral-hazard” as the rough part of a golf course and nothing more.
that’s what happened the past twenty years on wall street and it’s this behavior that’s the principal architect of ken lay’s advance to the realm of science-fiction and my initial meeting with that lizard guy who sounds like eduardo ciannelli (and looks like omar sharif).
since beginning this note (a week ago), the name enron has crept back into the news in describing the sub-prime crisis that tanked the economy – you know, the one we’re still mired in?
they said that what was done by the banks was just a bigger version of what was done eight years earlier down “thar” in texas by ken lay, jeffery skilling and the gang.
exactly, just bigger and bolder.
“ha” i said to myself while an “expert” ran down the story that, not only did i know, but i learned about an entirely new menu-planning race of beings in our midst. this was when the intergalactic con-artist professionals met me at the beach and made me understand humanity on a whole new…dining plan.
the last two years made me realize they really “ramped-up” dinner production.

my relationship with the grifting lizards, those kings of the con; the epic-epicurean hustlers and gourmands of the grift are not part of this almost-a-hurricanery saturday evening.
my relationship with them is spoken for.
we understand each other (and if you don’t know what i’m talking about, start at the beginning
here – this is no time for primer) – besides, at this point in our relationship (me and the con-artist lizards), you’ll miss the emotional character development – at least on my end.
extraterrestrial con-artist lizards think differently from us.
it’s all about a meal and a suit with them – nothing more and never less.
but we already know that.
this was about weasels and a genus of humanity that is entirely different from the greedhounds who make it onto their menu.

there are magnets pulling some people’s moral compass to strange and bizarre places.
to wit;
almost two years ago, an artist came in asking me to allow him the opportunity to put up an art installation in the backyard theater.
“sure,” i said.
over the next day or so, the entire wall of the backyard stage was filled with his “canvasses.”
“you’re sure they’ll be ok there? you concerned about the weather?”
“nah, they’ll be fine.”
“ok” i said and let it go.
a week later, a neighborhood local remarked to me in front of the store, “so you’re the one who ended up with his paintings? my friend told him that his shit had to go and i wondered who was going to end up with it next. congratulations!,” he laughed and walked off.
i let it go.
weeks went by, then some months.
someone, somewhere heard that this artist was mugged or run over by a truck or a piano fell out a window and landed on him (ok, i threw that last one in) – something real bad happened and he was in the hospital and all busted up.
so now i’m wondering what do i do with this guy’s stuff if i never saw him again.
oh, wait – that’s how i got all this stuff in the store to begin with.
i get dead guy stuff. this was a “natural.”
he spent a long time in the hospital.
months and months.
one day, i got a phone call.
“hi. i’m still in the hospital. they’re not letting me out for a while. is my stuff still back there?”
“yes. it’s still there and everything’s ok. don’t worry about your stuff. just get better.”
he thanked me or something like that.
i told him he was lucky and he should be very grateful.
he totally agreed.
weeks became more months and lo, there he was, walking into the store. i told him he was a miracle.
he told me he was grateful to be alive.
he was so happy that his stuff was still here and was never thrown out or dumped in the garbage.
grateful, grateful, grateful!
and weeks, once again, became months.
and then;
last week i walked into the store and was told that this artist was retrieving his paintings.
good for him.
i found it “disturbingly amusing” that when he came in, he insisted that i wasn’t alerted to his arrival, but unfortunately i did walk in.
shame on me.
even more unfortunately, i made the error in thinking that we deserved a thank you; nothing more, nothing less.
this is what i got in lieu of a thank you –
i might be paraphrasing here because as my mind registered the words, denial of what i was hearing was causing static in my hard-drive. i couldn’t believe what i was hearing;

“well, the paintings gave off good vibes and feelings, so i figure that’s good enough.”

i wanted to take the remaining paintings down, stack them together and whack him to death with them.

“so, you never heard of the words please and thank you?” – i was looking at a fully-formed adult and using a phrase last used with my three-your-old niece about seven years ago.

he answered me with a blank stare.

furious, i said, “there’s no excuse for bad manners, you fucking douchebag. what a fucking…(three, remember) weasel.”
and he didn’t get it. not for a second.
i hurried him along and he got all his crap out.
i noticed a broken piece of plexiglass that he chose to leave near my trash can.
“what about that?” i pointed to it.
“oh, you can keep that,” he said.
“take that piece of garbage and put it with the your other garbage and get the fuck out of here, you weasel motherfucker,” i strongly advised.
he exited out the dodworth street side-door, further attesting to his ferret-like behavior.

the defining moment occurred when he came in for a last-second run-through and to bolt the backyard side-door.
as he swept through the room, he quoted jesus to me.
this is what he said;
“peace be unto you.”
i howled, following him out the front of the store telling him,”it makes perfect sense that you’d quote a man whose principal lesson is respect.
weasels quote the bible or they get highly patriotic.
they always do.
“you ARE a weasel in the most compelling sense of the word. you’re a christianity-quoting liar.”
once i get going…
except on ellipses. lesson learned and maybe i’ll do with weasels as i do with rules of punctuation.
there’s still an editorial proofreader inside here, somewhere.
three dots.

this is just an opinion;
an “artist” who loses the ability to perform the simplest act of civility (pretty quickly, might i add), e.g. – saying please and thank you – particularly understanding these were the phrases used to save this same art, is nothing more than a con-artist with a paintbrush in his hand.
if it’s part of your “schtick,” fine – use it with your public who don’t know who you really are.
don’t try it with people who do.
it makes you a soulless mechanic.
a “hack” would be too kind a word.
cheers to the talented-soulless.
two years and no thank you?
no thank you.

in the photo above, the artists are the people in front of those pictures.

About stephen trimboli

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