FREEZER-TOONS

What better place to publish my own work with a layer of anonymity than my own blog. FREEZER-TOONS are my random illustrations that need a home. Magnetized chucks of marketing holding up ART that will not be added to the Sistene Chapel recreation room addition, on my freezer. And what better space than grippingthewheel with a potential audience of 7. That includes the artist/author. Brightening up, lashing out or confusing the world six people at a time. Study this carefully, it will be on the exam. Whoa yeah.

Special thanks to my assistant Karrie who, along with keeping me healthy, laid out this storyboard.

MY CAT EATS CHEETOS.

Holy shit. It is true. My cat, the infamous Stanley Kowolsky now enjoys eating Cheetos with me. This might have mattered to me a while back. It seemed important. Suddenly, all of our inane crap was relevant. Farmvilles. Lunch pics. Witty stuff on a poster-like graphic. ha-ha. Flowers. Relationship status[es]. Cat videos. Campaigns for things. Campaigns against stuff. It didn't matter. It did not matter. It did not fucking matter? Wall Street attached value to my public self-analysis. No anxious relays begging for my witty remarks on a cat post? YOU ARE IMPORTANT. That was the cover page of Zuckers' IPO proposal. Neuroses have market value, right? And you can sell bananas to monkeys, yes? Sell shares based on Guokas' dinner and cat pictures. A status update is a urine stream of gold coins humanity, shake-shake- wisdom. One longed for my pithy repartee on Palin or Lohan? I wanted to click on an advertisement to relieve my anxiety and depression. Hell, my facebook replies that I struggled over, grammar and just the oh-so nuanced appropriate tone that could be relevant in the far future, might be quoted on a morning wake-up with traffic TV break. What? MAKE ME AND MY PIECE OF CRAP LIFE RELEVANT. NAY, IMPORTANT. IMPORTANTE! Right. It seems that nothing matters anymore if you are a single FIFTY YEAR OLD man. Without money. If you're packing a fat bankroll...BOOF. A magical sexified glow-ring appears. A gun? Badgers still care, and Recall Voices Will Be Heard, buT Still. A defining moment... Hell, defining moments are non-existent on a planet porking out at approaching 7 billion humans. Facebook stock will monetize BFF-ery. The IPO is proof that feelings can be quantified. And if you don't belong you will be shunned. What if I don't allow everyone to know my every daily event? Here's something I spit up a few days ago at Esquire.com that booted over to facebook because I neglected to to uncheck something: "Bailed on FB [facebook] a whopping two months ago. A year and a half ago my 19-24 yo nephew dropped the hint that facebook is NOT cool. And for godssake, it's the pink-meat factory of data mining. Every word is sucked into a Marketing-swamp. And savvy folks with a bit of capital will short the sh@t out of this bag of magic beans. This company is worth MySpace dollars. It was cute when it started. No, it's simply data mining for the new Weasel Economy. This American innovation requires no human labor, it creates nothing. A Sears parking lot has more true value. Unless, maybe pictures of my cat are valued works of art. A crap chat room worth billions and billions? I call Bullshit." Shunned. Am I now shunned? I apologize facbook.com industrial complex. Apple told me to think different. So I'll be different. Like everybody who is different like me.

  The above action photograph is the author flying by at roughly 35mph with approximately 20ft of air circa Winter 1984-85 at Greek Peak, Virgil, NY. A sample from the calendar, promotional films touting the magic and lifestyle of alpine festivities in scenic Central New York State. Additional autographed action stills in various cool angles and dangers are available in the lobby.

neighborhood afternoon

Saturday. Clearing myd with a nice neighborhood ramble. These are flowers on my roll. And cats. Specifically, black green-eyed cats with their own certain... Ask Kowolsky. They are everywhere. Cats that are disguised as Stanley Kowolsky aka Chocolate Thunder/Black Lightning. Two imposter cats trying to impress a passerby. It's a favorite time of year, it's bright green and deep green and colors on flowers that make paint an insult. Flora meet Fauna.

Nice. It's very quiet.

That's Stanley and Stella

Merci, Monsieur Pepin

Jacques Pepin is a brilliant teacher. His wry wit, patience, charm and mastery of Food shone through on his series with Julia Child. That's when I first became aware of the sly Frenchman. Who else would dare match wits and Old French technique with Queen Juliua? Their disagreements are all perfect recipes withing recipes of the same recipe. Mind-blowing.

When I watch Pepin I am simultaneously in awe and emboldened to try a dish or three outside the comfort zone. Brussel spouts with bacon, vinegar, butter, salt, pepper, steam-sizzled is so simple and brutally delicious it's like a revelation. And then you start thinking crazy... These brussel sprouts...and then you lay on a sunny side egg on top... the joy flows from creativity and simplicity and a quality ingredients. His solo PBS show is by far the best inspirational, technique-savvy program out there. A grilled cheese sandwich is elevated to casual decadence. Because of Jacques: marbled rye buttered on both sides with real butter, Gruyere and fontina, dijon, a few caramelized onions a shave or three of jambon...grilled under a foil-wrapped old brick. Has he ever made that? No idea. But if you watch him, Monsieur Pepin would approve the small effort it takes to create an experience we deserve. In the time it would take struggling with faux fromage individual cellophane wrappers, you can have THIS. We have tastebuds that deserve a new experience, simple and calm as that. Simple. Perfection really isn't that difficult, watching Jacques will do that to you.

Some have a trip to a Superbowl or a World Series as a Make-A-Death-Row-Wish. Me, I'd like to spend a week shopping for food and cooking with this Master and genius. And eating it all... Amen.



Both photographs are of meals prepared from scratch by the author.

Magic Beans

Someday, some lucky SOB might get the glorious and high holy opportunity to sample my newest Pepin-inspired creation. For now, I am the Sole-Soul Flavor Savor Speculator. And still, naysayer clown princesses leap out of the Dark Night. Pffft. One rookie petulant assistant doubts whether a possibility exists for recreation of this masterpiece. BAH AND HARUMPH I SAY! Crock Pot Scratch-BBQ Green Chile Black-eyed Peas & lovely Shatter Bacon. [Scratch soak peas for six hours; cook without salt until el dente.] Hatch, NM green chile, secret 20 ingredient scratch sweet tangy sophisticated-hot bbq sauce cooked with cool-looking groove-peas. Crock Pot HI setting for a rumbling roll *blorp blorp* four hours. Big. Bowl. Peas.
















Peas, with a fistful of rendered-until-crystallized roasted bacon. Over Arborio rice started with zee drippings... Top with more crunchy pork shards. The BBQ sauce, while ingredient heavy, is simple dump-drop and stir over heat. [Red wine vinegar instead of cider vinegar is surprising and perfect.] Roasting the bacon in one twisted piece in a Dutch oven for 1 1/2 hours @ 375- magic happens. It takes on an architectural crunch structure. Place a big hunk of debris on the center of your Peas. Open weeping is perfectly acceptable. This GUOKAS GEM will win an award.

It's needs a name, this glory to glories. Maybe: Dick Cheney grew a new heart it was so good Soup. Or the "Hadron Particle Super-Collider of Whirled Peas" and maybe perhaps a "superconducting~~ bending zippy, zingy, zangy-tangy protein-y vitamin B's nutrient bonanza..." Or Perfectly Porky Pea Zoop.

An Encounter With Greatness

UNM, the secret hideout of Political Science geniuses/cool dudes:

Fred, or "Senator Harris" as I addressed his proper title, was truly a cool dude. Two courses with him, only classes ever where I had to sit in the front row. Makes me paranoid to sit with my back exposed, anywhere. Shot or stabbed in the back in a previous life is the only potentially plausible explanation. Anyway.

Because I read the books in syllabuses, I spoke freely when idiot mouth-breathers/classmates (a drawback to semi-open enrollment State Universities) so Fred got a kick out of it as I'd have to spin my chair around to thrash the unfortunate one throwing out an ass-kiss response. I love Political Science deeply and I read very quickly and I'm intolerant in room of 'what do I need to do to passers'. I want to hear a former United States Senator and Democratic presidential primary challenger. And as you know, being a student with life experience beyond zits and little tits, you grasp the opportunity to actually learn from smart people. And you're paying a shit-ton of money for this concept. Those people talking at you know more than you, have done more than you in some fashion and you want to pick their brains. Mmm brains.

Fred was a righteous motherfucker. In his life and in the classroom. Easiest class in the world. For the most, his lectures were long and Senatorial. Yield the Senator/Professor Harris as much time as he sees fit. Without objection. Nothing he regaled his captive audience with was ever on an exam and TA's corrected all his students tests and papers. He ran for President for fucksake. Do you think he gives a hoot about what some belt-buckle pink-neck from Catron County has regurgitated from the Let's Explore The Constitution and The Role Of The Court In America? Hey, Gun-rack. Read his goddamn syllabus, you shit-kicker and Miss Bangin' Latinas 112 sitting next to me if you want to follow his train of thought. Or read one of the books HE WROTE. The two smart, hot chicks in my major that I shared many classes with were in the back row. Where I'm supposed to be. Challenging to be older and married and in college, no one mentioned that in orientation. I'm loyal and honorable, never strayed. Universities are jam packed with smart chicks. Uh... Where was I?

Yes. Right then. Ahem.  Harris told stories. About the United States of America Senate. He told this story about saving one of my favorite places on planet Earth: Taos and Blue Lake. wikipedia got this right: "was sharply divided on numerous other issues, notably the Vietnam War. In doing so, he had to overcome the powerful fellow Democratic Senators Clinton Anderson and Scoop Jackson, who were firmly opposed to return of the Taos lands. As recounted by Harris' wife LaDonna, who was actively involved in the struggle, when the bill was finally passed and came up to be signed by the President, Nixon looked up and said: "I can't believe I'm signing a bill that was sponsored by Fred Harris.".[4]" I...About Vietnam. Running for freaking President, The Campaign Trail '72 and '76. Sound familiar? Right there, three fucking feet in front of me was live HST-History. Awestruck I was, similar to Bill Murray in Where The Buffalo Roam's bathroom scene where he drugs 'Harris from the Post' and Nixon says 'Fuck the Doomed'. Except twice a week I was privileged to hear realpolitic from an insider's insider.

I believe Senator Harris genuinely enjoyed his UNM gig. And even after graduation I'd bump into him at lunch or dinner out and about at the few Albuquerque better restaurants (expense account days during the roaring Clinton Years), and he had the true politico knack for remembering my name and even knowing I got a gig at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter. Albuquerque is a small town in interesting ways. Offered a glass of wine to Jan and me, or a beer if it was me. Even eating a bowl of green chile stew at the Frontier Restaurant across from campus on Route 66, he had that aura. As you can tell, movers and shakers or his wife or friends really need peace and respect. A great booming Senatorial laugh. I remember him for his presence, I'm certain he was a short guy but had that unique character trait of filling a room. However, I came up with an excuse or two to justify the times I went to his elusive office hours, that's what teaching assistants are for. Yet, he always had a brief anecdote that had nothing to do with my questions if you tracked the Senator down. Weird, he'd tolerate my occasional smack-down of the hayseeds, I suspect that's how a guy who was closer than most men in becoming the Chief Executive delegates to a Rahm Emanuel-type. A mustached hummingbird with a huge melon and a window rattling voice that was 19th Century loud. Hard to explain Harris. He was also decent enough to write me, or rather had someone write me, a generic letter of recommendation years later when I thought about going to law school. Shaking his hand at department graduation ceremony, he hung my Phi Kappa Phi award around my neck and laughed. Jesus he was in fact short, looked me eye to eye almost and laughed. One of those rare moments in life. Fred lived in Corrales, NM, down the road that feels like perfect New Mexico.

In the most selfish of ways, I enjoyed my time at the University of New Mexico as a high-water mark that's very difficult to explain; cliches are sometimes genuine AND gloriously personal.

My seeming misfortune of snapping a few vertebrae allowed me to become an actual student, and I'm going to take a wild swing. About as much fun as a man can have with his clothes on. Small University departments at State schools are goldmines for exceptionally interesting people. Found a box of photos a few weeks ago that I'm intending to scan. There's a snap of me and my fellow backbencher Charles at our tiny graduation party, I'm smiling so hard, Charles' blackness is nearly peeling off. I've a few more Political Science professor tales, the fine gentleman who wowed me with his post WWII diplomacy something-or-other elective, the young man-he was a military liaison of sorts. Played poker with Truman. A drop of tension with some type of big bomb and generals bitching about commies. Political Science stats analysis professor and then friend, quit after my semester. She opened up http://www.kellysbrewpub.com/. Killer pub, as in what's a pint of Guinness on doing Central Ave? Beer is brown?

Wait...there's more! Enough Guokas. Except the Mineshaft Tavern, in Madrid, http://www.themineshafttavern.com, an actual roadhouse and a deathbed dream in Galisteo county. Right there on the backroad to Santa Fe,  -Hi-Lo Country (went to the premier in Santa Fe) // No Country For Old Men // Wyatt Earp // Silverado // all filmed on this stretch. Giving free-thinking men of thought a reason to live:/index.html

And Easy Rider, Taos and Georgia O'Keefe, the Roundhouse, and Alamagordo and T or C and the Hila Forest and Silver City and North the Enchanted Circle, Four Corners, Very Large Array with Pie Town, the Owl Cafe with Elvis, the Fair Grounds on Saturday, Sadie's green chile enchiladas, the Winner's Circle Bar down in Ruidoso, Madrid Madrid Madrid and the bat caverns of Carlsbad (Viewmaster in real life)... I enjoyed my time there, good spot for an anglo's 2nd home. Taos Hum. Lord, mercy.

A magnificent diatribe to relive. Brought to you by Bourbon, America's spirit of glory and preferred beverage of free-thinkers everywhere.



  Along with an incredible record, see the abbreviated bits at the Senator's bio: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_R._Harris

ATCR is here to stay. Embrace It with God's Nod

From now on it's only my experiences and beliefs, and truly only my experiences and beliefs, that will guide my view on how humanity should approach government and appeasement of the Unwashed caste. History, facts, women's yelping, "education", and dissenting views are irrelevant and wasteful of thought. Please relax, resistance is futile. Welcome to the 21st Century American Theocratic Confederate Republics.

Gasoline discount cards for non-union members and IKEA gift certificates for women who can prove they do not vote, standard in the Welcome Bag. Monthly drawings for those in the Gun Club include rare ammo and throwing knives for the ladies. 700 Club viewership will be mandatory and monitored by the newly created [scraping the Leech Departments freed up funding] Department of Religious Encouragement and Caucasian Procreation. In order to re-balance the damage caused by that hippie LBJ, it will take decades to fix America back to its heyday in the glorious 1950's.

No minimum wage. No education grants and loans, go get a job. No healthcare? Go get a job. No taxes unless they go to Defense Contractors...errr Department. Love our troops who are going our Congress-endorsed Holy Crusade on Iran. Sex is only for RECP-sanctioned procreation on scheduled blocks of fifteen minutes per month. Sessions will be recorded for the random drawing on Friday Night Neighbor Sex on FOX Late Night Fridays.

Weirder? You want weirder? It's getting weirder. Everyday. Food Stamps will only be able to purchase one pound of Reece's peanut butter cups in all its surplus forms. The long suffering greater than $250,000 in gold doubloons demographic will receive a subsidized Reece's allotment in the form of the Egg [it's a Jesus thing, ok?]. Whoa, Amen. And Cadbury Eggs are for filthy Euro scum.

PINK SLIME IS PEOPLE.

Sweet Mercy Ooo That's Nice

The Sharper Image Quad Action Percussion Massager.

My life changed yesterday afternoon. I unboxed my package with trepidation. What kind of a dipstick buys a Concussion Machine for this much money? This genius dipstick, that's who. It has heat. Four heads. Brrrppp to Pummel... Actually dozed off for a second on the trapezoid. Chronic Pain beware, there's a new weapon in town. Dam thing will rattle your fillings on the vibro-death setting. One hell of a hummer this beast. Ladies, you'd have to brave if you were considering this monstrosity for alternative uses. Ahem.

Highly recommended. Two quad thumbs up.
















Neither Get A Grip nor GTW [grippingthewheel] Enterprises NOR NEITHER NIGH NYET anybody associated with me is/was paid to endorse or trash any product or service. Fin.

All-Aboard the Train to Idiot Village!

So the brooding, Euro-paranoid GOP hated the rescue of the US auto industry from the brink of extinction. And now this total lack of vision by the US House of "Representatives" with the attempted dissolution of the Transportation budget. Car bad- check. Choo-choo bad- check. Teabaggage Republicans seem to afraid of travel of any kind. Is moving good and services efficiently the work of the Debbil? Does sitting impotent in traffic, raging on your steering Chinese-made wheel, burning A-rab gasoline, bring on a John Wayne-y catharsis? Better yet. Never ever leaving your house must be the most patriotic responsibility of sad, easily frightened, let-it-all-decay isolationist Teabag America. What's left? A Norquistian wasteland with doofus America clamoring for their promised jobs, jobs, jobs from their extra-strengthened red white blue lawnchairs. Sorry, building bridges, tunnels, and laying track alongside public right-of-way is a Commie AFL-CIO-ACLU-ACORN plot to reward high-paying jobs to hard-workin' blue-collar Toby Keith Americans... *woopsie-doo* Those might be union jobs that would decrease our dependence on looney oil wackos. Sorry, that would be un-American. Shut up and go hide in the gun cellar, a Hispanic-y dude would steal your job anyway. Gay marriage. Flag burning food stamper grabbing your guns. Ooh, shiny.

One would imagine Republicans would support America living out a nationwide truck commercial. Not the case it seems. Eisenhower's highways are socialist garden paths that steal your precious bodily fluids. The rest of the world is building high-speed rail,it's called infrastructure. And they're also building and upgrading infrastructure that supports bullet trains, light commuter rail, buses, trolleys, bikes, whatever it takes to kick America's ass. Network management, trust in themselves and Transportation efficiencies cost/benefit stuff is helping China and India embarrass the Hell out of us. It's also just too hard for this teabagger GED flat Earth crowd to grasp unquantifiable quality of life productivity gains. *sigh* A Norquistian Nightmare. Why does Eric Cantor's America feel like a Stephan King novel? Idiot Village, USA.

You know what? Fuck it. Come on, Blue-Staters. Let's come out in favor of the Keystone XL Pipeline. The Mid-West must be sacrificed. They are begging to rape their own backyard in the ass. Rational people hate, no despise the Heartland almost as much as they puke on the Deep South. If the Fucktard Creation-Village Idiots want to be gutted to keep the Coastal Educated Blue and Purple Liberal Elite in cheap energy, VELVETEEN PICTURE GAWD WITH THE EYES THAT FOLLOW YOU ACROSS THE ROOM is our witness. Hell yes and... Frack it, frack it all. Let's drill, frack, mountain top, bore, excavate, implode, explode-- the whole fucking previously worthless FLYOVER evapo-shit-pond known as the Heartland. FLIP the whole fucking thing upside-the-fuck-down. Scoop off the good stuff. Thanks, good luck, polyester-gravy douche-tards.



Just Another Problem solved by your Solutions Solutioner.

Lightning Strikes Whenever It Likes

While I'm not an early adapter, G+ sure is a fascinating global community. A mind-boggler. It feels as if I just fell off the Internet, down the worm-hole. Guokas In Wonderland.

Oh my. Such a fine day.

What an incredible day. It's a small world. My father reminded me recently. Dad knows most everything.

Sitting in the window seat at 33, waiting on a friend I haven't seen for 30 years. THIRTY YEARS.. My beautiful friend spots me, good times. WHAT? She waved and walked on by. Mercifully, she turned back. Yea, Burt Bacharach [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScyIcOWbiDs.] We're ordering brunch. Only in Portland can this amount of irony exist. On the inside is Guokas and his beautiful friend. DIRECTLY OUTSIDE the glass, a Portland-style junkie is emptying his bag and man-purse on the table outside our window. His shaky-shaky hands spills a smartphone. My fellow frugalitarian and me sport lame-o Tracphones. And he had a needle stuck through his brow in some kind of Weirdness. Here I am [always] expounding on the benefits of living close-in. Brunch at Circa 33 is very tasty. That veggie-stuffed Bloody Mary sports a full bacon strip and a split boiled egg. Our server comped us a drink. Butt.. uh.. oh..In a neighborhood of reasonably-priced West Coast housing Portland in twenty years? Buy land now. My friend, she's...she's very smart and modest and very pretty and sports big brain.

There's much too do this Spring. Need to see the ocean soon.

They've Breeched the Moat.

In Circus-Circus 'Corporations is people too' America where we live now, the weakness of civics knowledge is grossly obvious. An easy example? "Voters" who pick presidents on their likeability quotient over-estimate the POTUS' non-existent legislative power-thingys and under-estimate the power of Commander-in-Chiefee stuff. It's embarrassing.

Still it's a good thing that Superpower America election turnouts are so low given collective red, white and blue joy in being ignorant. There has to be a way to fool the FOX News viewer into IQ testing for voter registration to begin to cull the guns-gawd-gays herd as they keep breeding unchecked. I myself no longer search for rational solutions to America's whiny victim-hood, I simply repeat repeat accusatory patriotic blather until it becomes fact. How is that possible you say? Throw our even more outrageous 'facts' rendering your previous bullshit seemingly plausible and moderate-y.

"What's The Matter With Kansas" merely scratched the surface. ACK! Yes Newton "Hugo Drax" Gingrich your Pasty Porkiness, I agree. [Just call him Drax, he's hip like that.] Cut food-stamps so we can build a funky Moonbase on that ball of Jesus Cheese. Warning: The core of the Earth's Moon is molten Velveeta so it could be dangerous according to Texas textbook publishers.

We must return this country to the Greatness we exuded before that meddlesome Brown vs Board and the jetpacks will follow. Leaving Earth behind for the little janitor negro childrens, Conservative specimens of perfection will be free to smoke crack and bang male hookers in Peace and comfort on Moon Walmart. [Naming right were sold January 21st as the first order of Newt-y business.] Just as Ronald Reagan wrote in his secret manifesto, Grover Norquist's Haliburton Army National Police Truth Brigades will begin construction of coastal states re-education camps with all the Pizza Hut buffet your fat little video-gamers would ever want. Amen.



This week in Florida Moon Regent Newton Leroy 'Hugo Drax' Gingrich promised to build the Food Stamp Moon Colony for the Imperial Tea Party.

Personality Cult Implodes

Paula Deen, Southern snake-oil saleswoman, hid her Diabetes diagnosis for three years. Her Food celebrity community have kept their mouths shut, no love for the Queen of Fat from Bobby Flay or Bourdain. Anthony Bourdain actually cast a big stone. There's nothing wrong with butter. Hiding a gimmick-end disease and profiting over its cure is sleazy, slimy and downright creepy. The Southern fat-based sweatpants life-style brand is panicked her ham's with her Diabetes face on the label and cookware line might not sell to her cult anymore. She's just another example of celebrity-turned-brand manipulation machine. Does she have her own butter-scent toilet water yet for those with type II who'll miss eating it? It seems the Belle of Budder will do anything for fame. Deen stole Emeril's shtick and cracked it up a notch and got caught. The temples of Trump and Puff Daddy and JLo and Rachel Ray their ilk count on blind worship and obedience, a soulless public gets a comfortably packaged, programmed lifestyle that pleasures and soothes like religion. Deen's sinfully gluttonous disciples must be terribly dismayed, no redneckery without consequence? boo hoo It's an amazing comparison to Graham Kerr's story when he discovered what food can do. Actually, this Buttery Tale is a fine fable to tell the kids at reading time. Oh, be warned Rachel Ray, they can turn on you if EVOO is found to promote...say...anal warts.

"The Wicked Queen of Butterfat melted at the stake by fondue-stick jabbing anal-warted followers..."