I grew up near Seattle, Washington. My parents divorced when I was two; and I met my father for the first time when I was twenty. My mother was a single, working mom and my brother, sister and I were latch-key kids before either phrase was even coined. We were almost always poor; although my mother was buying the house we lived in, and we always had food and clothes. I don’t really remember ever thinking that we were poor, just that we didn’t have some of the things that other families and other kids had around the neighborhood—or especially at school.
It’s supposed to be the type of story that is inspiring: boy grows up poor, struggles to get an education; tries to make a career for himself; lives in poverty but some how, some day it all is worth while—in the end he makes it all right—cures cancer, writes a best seller, paints a masterpiece, makes his fortune and dies a happy man. Bullshit!! With a few exceptions (that I prefer to keep to myself) if there is a St. Peter or a Heavenly or Hellish Judge or someone to answer to when this life is over, I am one of those who will have to say, “Well, I did the best I could!” And of course that’s a lie!
Since this blog may be the only shot I have at immortality, I’m going to try to make it good. If I can’t make it good, I’ll make it long. If I make it long, I’ll try to make it interesting–but frankly no one can do both, because nobody is that good. My advise to you is to skip around a bit, take it in small chunks, because frankly, I get boring when I’m grouchy and I’m grouchy all the time. In fact go write your own damn blog! But first go read the intro to The Twisted Gourmet: A scream of consciousness cookbook. It’s a dada cookbook and it’s pretty fucking amazing for an art teacher; grouchy, boring and sullen as I am, it makes me laugh. Ha. Like that. Originally the cookbook was supposed to have a Centerfold –no not of me… of a naked woman. But the woman I chose for the project ran off to New something-or-other–back East– to get married, and I lost interest. Not in the book, not in the model, not in the idea of having a cookbook with a nude centerfold; just in life itself. No big deal.
As for the rest of the blog, and the attendant pages, links and all that shit, well it’s a big mix. My main goal is to get laid, but beyond that I also want to teach and entertain. And like any good purveyor of smut and literature, I realize that it costs money to get laid at my age, but that’s another story. No. I want to record some of my research, some of my thoughts about art and history, before both are gone. [My research and my thoughts! are you paying attention!?--not art and history--God!] I believe that Art died sometime in the late 70′s or early 80′s and was buried next to Andy Warhol in a soup can with Marilyn’s picture on the back…. Warhol was dead at the time, but everyone was too polite to tell him so and far to cool to actually bury him. History keeps repeating itself, but is still worth mentioning–over and over again. Although one should never take Art Historians too seriously because there is a very good chance that they failed first as either artists or historians. A fact of which I am reminded every day. This probably explains why I seldom shave, and why I brush what’s left of my teeth without looking in the mirror; and why I am so grumpy….
Kelly W. Knox, MA
Somewhere (no longer) in Los Angeles,
© 2010 Copyright Kelly W. Knox All rights reserved.
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