a free ride inside my diseased mind.

The Nocturnal Art Journals # 5

Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals – In through the out door


In through the out door
November, 17 2001 8:00 am
My door has 3 locks.
1 lock is a chain.
The other is a dead bolt.
And finally, the key lock.
This week has been weird to say the least. The old Russian creature has been driving me nuts again. On any given day it will stomp up the stairs from its basement hovel to the front porch of the building, and check all of the mailboxes at least 6 times a day. And not just check them all once, no that would be to easy, it will go through them all, wait a few minutes and check them again, you know just in case when it blinked the mail man showed up. What is that Siberian whore looking for? Its no use trying  to talk to it, it doesn’t listen, and answers in some unintelligible dialect. I’m beginning to wonder what language it actually speaks, actually I’m beginning to wonder if its even a language at all. (Did I write this last week? Who knows anymore.) Maybe it never learned a language. There is also a distinct possibility that it speaks English better than me. I am trying to sympathize with it, who knows what atrocities it may have escaped wherever it came from. However it seems soulless and the more I give the more it takes.
I have been watching Naked Lunch over and over lately. Some days I will watch it up to 4 times. I like to have it on when I write and paint. Its a great film. It inspires me. I listen to lots of music as well. Silence makes me feel vulnerable. I feel as though the whole world can hear what I am up to if I don’t have music on or a movie.
A pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
I have been frequenting a weird secondhand CD store lately. Its  downtown. Tucked away in an office building on the main floor. Everything inside this building is painted shiny red. Shiny red paint on glazed bricks. The “Arcane Building” I think its called. The owner of the store is even painted red. She has a reddish orange frizzle fried afro, red smeary lipstick, and red paint on her cheeks. She smokes like a maniac, even though she’s not allowed to. She simply closes the glass sliding door, and hot boxes whatever poor bastard that happens to be lurking around in her store. Perhaps she’s drugging the customer into purchasing stuff. The entire store is yellowed from years of smoking. Yellow and Red. Reminds of some strange McDonals afterbirth.
The store is pure madness. Piles of teeter heaped CDs. Rows and rows of moth eaten records. Collapsing towers of old faded VHS movies. If you touch any of her piles she freaks out. She claims she knows where everything is, you just have to ask her. I don’t believe that for a second. She makes me feel like I am a criminal, like I’m doing something wrong. I wait for customers to enter the store, and when she is distracted I quickly  dismantle her piles to search for what I want, and carefully put them back together again before she notices.
She’s like a dragon protecting its treasures.
I spend lots of time there. Its weird, she knows almost as many rare punk and metal bands as I do. I’m guessing she’s anywhere between 65 and 120 years old. She doesn’t particularly like the music but she makes sure to remember all the bands, she does her research. I respect her for that. I picked up a Slayer CD, Jesus Lizard,Fugazi, and Motley Crue “Shout at the Devil” on vinyl this week. I spend most of my text book and school supply money at the CD store and on booze.
She makes me very nervous, it seems like its this way with everything I do. I need to be more aggressive, I just don’t know how to without going over the top and acting like a dick head. I have no in between zone. I waste so much time being polite and listening to people talk about nothing. I feel paralyzed. Caught in a web of nothingness. They suck the hours of my life away in slow slurps. Time vampires. Why do I listen to her, I feel compelled to, guilty for even being in her store. That’s not how it should be , I buy stuff, its her job to listen to me. AAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I’m currently working on a sculpture for school. I cant stand this class, I also don’t get along with the teacher, she’s a total femme Nazi. I had to sculpt a human eye. I decided to make a weird alien throbbing dink with an eyeball on the end. She didn’t find it very amusing. I’m currently making a vacuum cleaner sculpture called pervatron 2000. It is a sexual cleaning device. Its comprised of an old broken boiler, a vacuum hose, and other odds and ends. It also has a functioning light bulb on its head. I have a tape recorder inside of it that’s says strange and perverse things. It secretes two kinds of intoxicating fluids when it likes what you’ve written…..
Someone’s at the door. I have to go.
bye.Image,slayer,metal,punk,pink floyd,ALL,descendents,sex,vhs,1990s,iron maiden,poetry,literature,comedy,autobiography,journals,perverts,weirdos,art school,fugazi,snfu,


Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals – The laddie reckons himself a poet!


December 15, 2001
I wrote some poems this week. I haven’t been in the journal writing mood. The Russian is driving me mad. I’m trying to squeeze the art out of the madness. Poetry has become my new escape.
I was thinking of this scene in The Wall this week. Figured it would work in this journal entry…..
Pink Floyd The Wall –
Teacher: What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? No! Poems, no less! Poems, everybody!
[class laughs]
Teacher: The laddie reckons himself a poet!
[reads poem]
Teacher: “Money get back / I’m all right, Jack / Keep your hands off my stack / New car / Caviar / Four star daydream / Think I’ll buy me a football team.” Absolute rubbish, laddie.
[whacks him with a ruler, growls at Pink]
Teacher: Get on with your work.
carbonated memory loss
wake up
just to check
your sexual
go back to sleep
and dream about
greek cheese cakes
lost tax receipts.
ive got a lot of issues
and im not talking
sports illustrated
national geographic.
volumes of problems
turned up to 10
do it all over again.
I’m a fan of the fan
and i eat more spinach
than Popeye the  sailor man.
dump some olive oil in your ear.
inject carbonated
memory loss
with an
ink dropper
harpoon spear.
i am fastened
there is no other word.
i miss it
sitting naked
with our clothes on
almost to scared to look.
i was on the cliff again
you know the one
the one that allows you to look over the edge,
across the galaxy
and eventually,
end up watching the back of your
eternal super glue
half of the time is spent looking for the pen,
and the rest is for searching for the paper.
well they just write themselves.
isn’t there a shirt in this world that fits.
they all seem to itch
and have some weird static cling.
searching for my self in movies and history books
i think i ran in to him yesterday,
or was that me?
tuna and cat fish have devoured my apartment
what is this beast,
and when will it truly be released.
its more confused every day
and that’s why
i build my web
a mish mash of perversities, and organic space trash
a note floating down from zardac 2
a planet made up of
granite, and soiled mattresses.
awake in this rape, to face the day
broken fingers,
held together by eternal super glue.
the letter sense of amusement
this is it.
the real thing.
the wild west.
show me your sundays best.
the cactus fights
sex girls in the windy city.
lego pock marked marks
tuck you stomach in sir
the reminder
the pocket comb-over
double -over
we call
the late afternoons
the fall
playing after school football
with a teacher with one arm
he has a beard
his breathe smells like an old ashtray
oranges, and eggs.
he still has both of his legs
the school bell
it is the never ending pillow fight
from hell.
 alone on a stone
lowered lower
than the lowest low
on a lawn mowing mowers
i go.
a fragment of dirt
hitchhiking across time.
garbage bags of memories
surround me
reminding me of my enemy.
a searchlight is nice
when used looking for lice.
an echo plays echo
with a young boy
with freckles…
well lets just say
i spend most of the day
getting dirty
in the evening.
small things arouse the mind
most of the time.
kramming and krunking
its constantly dumping.
strange ditties in the cities.
alone on a stone
counting beans in my jeans.
touch it with a stick
try and make yourself sick.
perhaps you should go to the market
and buy a new carpet.
this one is getting old
and smells like toad mould.
wasted sundays
and even filthier mondays.
tongue depressers
pills and pain
for the brain.
alone on a stone
just me
this soul
that i

Blue City Veins (the nocturnal art Journals) Entry #3

forest copy copy

The Russian

December 10, 2001
My head hurts. I didn’t get very much art done yesterday. I decided to pick up beers, and well, drink them. I went to that bar for a while as well. The one with the cheap drinks, I think I mentioned it yesterday. I decided to leave when the “humants” began to show up. I will attempt to wash off the rot of the night with a long bike ride.

Biking helped. I picked up some groceries as well. I bring my own bags when I go food shopping. Im not big into wasting stuff, especially plastic things. I usually get treated like some kind of terrorist for doing so. People will ask for a bag to wrap a bag in. “Its my right! I work hard for my bag.” “Would you like a baggy for your bag sir?”

There’s a crazy Russian lady living downstairs in this building. Every time I do laundry she magically appears. Manically uttering Russian phrases at me. I have no clue what her deal is, or what she is saying. Day and night she blares Russian military marching music. I feel like I am in the Soviet Union. Her mouth is full of gold. She has a grill without knowing it. Or maybe she does know. Maybe she’s a Russian gangster. A putrid fermented rotting cabbage smell permeates from under her door. For some odd and deeply disturbing reason, the scent evokes erotic alienistic thoughts in my head. What kind of weird Siberian love slop is she brewing in there?

It seems as though she has taken an interest in me. Well more so my phone. Last night she was banging on my door. “Phone!, Phone!, Phone!”. No “hello, or how are you?”, just “Phone, Phone, Phone!” Complete insanity. I thought it was some kind of emergency so I let her in. I told her “You are not allowed to phone Russia.” For all I know she could be dialling Boris, in the middle of a forest, listening to him eat a bowl porridge. I don’t need the KGB closing in on me. She dialed what seemed to be 21and a half numbers. I asked her “What the hell kind of local call has that many digits in it?!” She looked at me. Squinted the left eye. And slowly raised a yellow crippled finger up to its puckered leathery lips…. “SHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Gold teeth
sunk in a
pound cake.
A hissing
of a

I admit I was a little intimidated. It reminded me of the free floating full torso vaporous apparition in the library scene of “Ghost Busters”. She then started screaming on the phone in Russian. It’s hard to tell if she was mad or happy. Russian is a fairly abrasive language at the best of times. And apparently works best when YELLED!!!!


Come to think of it I don’t even know if she was speaking Russian, it sounded more like a homemade Hebrewian hybrid.
Perhaps a strange magical incantation of sorts. Who knows….
This verbalized insanity went on for a good (or bad) 8 minutes. By this point she was spitting on my phone “Pah!,Plah!,Pah!” Her face all pinched and evil. Pinky meaty marbled Russian fist mits pounding on my end table. Pencils and pens rolling to the floor. Dogs and Cats living together,…mass hysteria!

She then hung up the phone, made some kind of faint, wheezling farty noise, stood up, walked to the door, and proceeded to exit with a “kerslamping” sound.
Oddly enough all I could think about was that poor phone. Sitting there, cold and alone. Cradling itself .Shivering. Slathered in Siberian mouth slime.
I wonder if that strange message from “ART” the other day is in any way connected to this ordeal? I must do further investigating.

December, 11 2001
I was awoken this morning by a peculiar, yet oddly familiar sound. It began with an irritatingly squeaky rusted hinge of a noise. Followed by wrinkled rustling, and ending with some metallic clinkery.. Skrrreeeeeeek, rustle, crustle, clink, skrrreeeeek, krustle, rustle, klink. This hard boiled boner ballad went on for 7 minutes. Some God only knows how long this racket was going on for before I woke up.
I hesitantly dressed and ventured outside to investigate these goings on as it were. The Russian! I should have known…. There it was, that stygian soul sucker. Rummaging through everyone’s mailboxes. A pathetic pilfering polotus pig***, bathing itself in other peoples private information.
Before I could question the beast, it hissed at me. Hissed! It was a hissler. A hisswheezling hiss whistler! The hisswhistler then looked at me, and gave me the old stink eye. I had to duck down to dodge the stink lines. The demonic stinkers struck a metal pole behind me, and ricocheted into my little flower bed.
When I looked up the Russian was gone.

I currently have 3 assignments to do for school. I’m working on my own projects instead. I have been writing weird poems as of late. I write most poems with an old manual typewriter. I like it, something about having to push really hard on the keys to get your thoughts out. I built a device that enables me to type while I am submerged in a bathtub. It works fairly well. The only down side of bathroom typing is the racket. Its mechanic hammering plays ping pong with the shower tiles. Echo pasted reverberations. I only use it when my neighbours are away. At night I write shorthand.

I despise computers, yet I am required to use one for English class essays. I don’t even know how to operate one. My English professor is cool. He said I can use a typewriter for the time being. I’m curious as to how he marks my last paper. We were supposed to write an essay about some book. I cant remember what it was called. We had to buy it. I didn’t feel like wasting money on a book that I didn’t want to read. Instead, I decided to write a paper about my favourite movie, Brazil. In my mind I think that’s what he was actually asking me to do. The whole book thing was just a cover up. A scheme the school put him up to. I spent a lot of time on the paper. If I am interested in something I will usually do a good job. Usually…..

I found a nice perch on a hill. It over looks a portion of the city. Below, a bleeding main artery of traffic spews past. I like to bike up there at night. It helps me calm down. I came up with a phrase while sitting there. “Blue City Veins”. I was looking at the blue veins on my wrist and thinking it was kind of like the pulsating traffic down below. Maybe I will make a painting called that, or a poem.

Time melts like ice cream.
Vehicles zipping past
Electric ecstasy.
Grapefruit pink streaming traffic currents.
Sexual ectoplasm.
There is no proof of purchase.

I have been typing on onion skin paper as of late. I like how it looks. It’s transparency, it’s fragility. The ink sits differently on the page than normal typing paper. Warbling like a tear drop on a Japanese animations cartoon eye ball. The ribbon is wearing thin for this typing machine, kind of like my patience with that Siberian Cyborg .

My arm hurts when I write, or pretty much when I do anything. I have to wear a magnetic velcro strap around my elbow area. I have acute tendonitis caused by repetitive strain on my arms. Slave labour jobs are to thank for that. It feels like some horrible demon elves are playing tug of war with my tendons. Plucking on my sinew as though it was an out of tune elf harp. It hurts the most playing guitar, but I play anyways. I am always in some sort of pain. I would feel strange without it.

I have decided to change my writing name. I find writing under my legal name is getting in the way. It is now Henry Sausanger, or perhaps Suasager, or maybe both.

I have to go, my hair hurts.
I mean

*The Russian will now be referred to as “IT” or “The Russian” from now on . I don’t believe this creature has a particular sex or is even human for that fact.

**Polotus Pig – A strange and very rare creature indeed. It was discovered by a colleague of mine. Due to legal reasons his name can not be revealed. The pig like creature was discovered in a dark basement of an old warehouse. This sick creature can live for decades without feeding. Its legs are long and spindly and can not support its own weight. The polotus pig excretes a creamy liquid that smells like that of a mint leaf. The scent of the fluid has been known to cause sexual dementia.

The Hole – Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals 2

November, 9 2001

The Hole

I haven’t really unpacked anything yet. There are piles of junk and debris floating miscellaneously all over the place. I seem to attract junk like some kind of junk magnet. I find organizing things a very complicated and frustrating ordeal. For instance, I will start with one pile and then make another pile beside the first pile with things from the first pile. I then have 2 piles of things, so then I make another pile with stuff from both of those piles, etc. I have decided to name them “Lyle Piles.” These polubious* piles have always surrounded me. My life is a constant struggle between art and reality. I don’t particularly want to live in a mess, but when I clean things I feel guilty for not creating any art, its madness. A perpetual ping pong game.

I like to Bike. Biking serves as a barrier from the pink faced pig pumping inbred fascists. Fat bastards rolling around in huge trucks. So pergurantly*obese they need to be greased and shucked from their vehicles with enormous shoe horns. Pinkos. Pinky red fleshed beasts streaming past me. Angry tapping sausage fingers honking horns. Malignant mutant mouths belching profanities. These deviled pigs have a name for me. I am “Hey bike Fag!” It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Ding a ling Ding, eat a potato while you sing.

Ding a ling Dong, beat a pillow with your shlong.

The weekend is quickly approaching. I decided against going to school today. So far the only good thing about college is the exercise I get biking to-and-fro. This town is extremely hilly, as well as full of hillbillies. It’s Bill Hilly.

The visual arts section of the college is conveniently located in a condemned shack on the edge of a hill. This shipping container of a building is freezing. Besides its meat locker charm It is also equipped with harsh industrial Fluorescent lights. The lights make my eyes bleed. The cold concrete hurts my knees, and washrooms smell like a swamp. Beside those things its a great place.
My throat hurts when I complain. Little demon germs poking it with infected rusty thumb tacks. “Keep complaining you ungrateful little bastard, your complaints feed satans’ flames!””

My main objective was to get out of the work world for awhile so I can concentrate on my own ideas, flesh them out, and carve out my own identity. I need people to know a “Lyle” when they see one.
These art assignments are so retarded. I just want to paint something. Put brush to canvas. I have never painted on canvas. We have to paint apples on wood panels. I think I’m going to make my own canvas stretcher to paint on. I have an old picture frame that I could wrap some canvas around. I need something to nail it with. Perhaps I could snag some tools from the school….

So far I have been able to get away with not doing any assignment properly. I make the assigned projects my own creations as sacrifices to art. I think as long as I always hand something in they will have to pass me.

There’s a bar close to my apartment I have been frequenting. It’s kind of a dump, but it’s cheap. A cheap dark drunk dump on top of a hill. They sell bottles of beer for 2 bux! I sometimes go there in the afternoons to write and drink before all the humants*show up. The bars in this town are strange. For the most part all walks of life share the same watering holes. Its a good town to be a drunk in. It seems as though There’s a bar, liquor store, and church on every street corner.

The building I live in is very odd. Not just the building but those that inhabit it as well.This week I found a portal in my bathroom. It was covered by a sheet of plywood painted white.

I drew a picture of a TV on it. I couldn’t stop wondering what was lurking behind the panel. Eventually curiosity got the best of me and I removed the nails, revealing a weird gaping hole measuring about 10 feet deep, 4 feet wide, and 2 feet high. Inside was a staircase, a staircase leading to nowhere. Its very odd. I kept the porthole open for awhile. Perhaps for 5 days, give or take a month. Having that weird hole open made me feel nervous, I had this strange sensation that something was living in it, or some foreign energy was permeating from its innards. It was liken to that of an aliens vagina, (and we all know what those are like.)The hole had a very ancient smell as well. What did the smell remind me of? hmmmmm kind of like an old book from the library, a book that hasn’t been taken out in years.

I always found it particularly disgusting to find crusted snot in library books. Library books are very odious and loathsome creatures if you think about it. Hitchhiking from one gross grotto to another. Kind of like sex slaves. Forced to do unmentionable things. The only revenge they ever can hope of getting is maybe wasting someone’s time with a bad story, or a paper cut or two. Most books tend to hide themselves once brought home. Hidden in hopes they will not be returned to the sick book brothel from once they came. I wonder if there are libraries for the elite. Pristine books with no mucous, fecal matter, or pudding smeared on their pages. How many perverts have touched those pages? What have those hands been doing?

Some books have a distinct smell, characteristic of toilet reading. If you really have to read books while defecating, please have the courtesy to wrap the book in a clear bag while doing so.

Some books smell like the people that read them. There was this guy I coined “The Clown”, his house happened to be on my childhood paper route. Everything he had was orange and brown. The orange and brown clown. Even his wiry hairs on his balding head were red. (You thought I was going to say orange didn’t you! Well Orange doesn’t rhyme with head, now does it!, well actually orange doesn’t rhyme with anything.) The clowns house had a distinct smell. Reminiscent of stew and carrots, the smell of orange coloured food. It was a heavy lumbering scent. The odour kind of hung in the atmosphere like an old thick drape. An old thick drape with a leering pervert hiding behind it.
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah dirty smelly weird holes. The hole in question also had these strange little beetles inside of it. Little piles of dead flies, and other assorted debris.

I decided to seal the hole shut today. I even used clear packing tape around the edges, just incase some kind of filth decided to ooze out. Hopefully everything went back inside before I shut the gates. Nothing worse than having some pissed off and displaced poltergeist haunting your toilet bowl.
boogly goobly boooo!

I photographed the hole, I figured something that peculiar needs to be documented. After all it could be some kind of message from ART!

Speaking of ART and strange messages, this is kind of interesting…. Last week I dialled a wrong number on my phone. After a few seconds of beeping and blooping this odd computer starting talking to me. It said something like “Zzzzzzzop….Golf + hamburger = 1023.76 zero minus electricity beep beep beep Frederick mulnard x57 golf+hamburger = minus.”

I tried misdialing again but to no avail. What could this possibly mean? What kind of cryptic code is this. Was I in fact talking to ART himself?

Chances are that strange message was delivered from a very lonely and somewhat scared answering machine. Just sitting there. Sitting there on a small wooden table in a dimly lit room. Patiently waiting for its one purpose in life. That purpose being for know other reason than to confuse whatever poor bastard that accidentally called it.

All this talk about weird answering machines, dirty holes and stew is making me thirsty, I need some water.

so much for long goodbyes,
keep it weird.

* signifies words I have invented.

bcvdrawing2 copy

Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals I

*Disclaimer- All misspellings, bad use of grammar, wrong tenses, and other such acts of English atrocities from here on in have been manufactured on purpose. All so called “errors” are protected under the thin foreskin veil of “ART”. (and laziness)

November 8, 2001, 10:16 am

Well here I am. I Finally made it out of the province of my birth. Not only did it give me birth, it wanted my death as well. Greedy bastard. I can’t believe I fell asleep and crashed my car into a ditch. Well I can believe it, but I almost don’t want to. That was a close call. It happened near the border of both provinces. What side of the border was it on? Remind me to check that out later. I wonder what this near death experience means/meant? which one, witch which is which. Maybe it means/meant I should start drinking coffee. Perhaps it was a test. My gauntlet of sorts.

It’s odd writing to and about oneself. I feel like a pervert. Well I usually feel like one, but even more so now. Lots of things make feel like a pervert. For example, making popcorn makes me feel like a pervert.

Back in the old province I lived with a roommate. At night I would get stoned and have strange popcorn cravings. However it was always to late at night to make some. Being noisy and all. As a solution to this problem I would take the popper, bowl, fixings, and such to my Maroon coloured tempo situated 3 stories below my apartment, peacefully parked in a frozen and snow covered waste land. I would then proceed to plug a long orange extension cord into a grey coloured exterior car plug outlet and sit in my freezing maroon car stoned out of my mind at 3 am. Anxiously waiting for the little golden corn seeds(I despise the word kernel) to make that little magical “popping” sound.
I had an idea during one of my many peculiar popcorn popping adventures.
Wanna hear it? Sure you do.

The Idea:
A car that perpetually exudes copious amounts of popcorn while running. Or a C.P.E.C.A.P.W.R for short.

Here’s how it works:
The driver would sit in the car naked (mandatory) and eat popcorn while being able to pay full attention to driving. The pop corn would fill the car to mouth level so the vehicle operator wouldn’t need to use it’s hands when feasting. The popcorn also serves as a protective barrier incase of an accident. Much like packing peanuts, however those are not a food source and should not be consumed. A new batch would be popped each time the driver exited the vehicle. The old popcorn would then proceed to spill onto the streets thus feeding birds, raccoons, and other assorted city wildlife. Win Win as they say.

I still feel weird making popcorn inside my apartment. It’s mostly the sound of it that causes problems. Everyone knows your making the damn stuff. Likely thinking what kind of looser makes popcorn at noon. I’m sure in their minds they picture a guy in his shorts, hung over, blood shot eyes, long messy hair, wait, that kind of describes me. Nevermind…..

4:12 p.m.

This art school sucks! It’s my 2nd month and It hasn’t progressed much farther than a kindergarten crafts class. I’m one of the few people that didn’t come here directly from high school. Most of these people aren’t artists, they are pre-pubescent infants playing with scissors and listening to horrible top 40 music.

The amount of material waste is outstanding. This whole program is a total scam. The teachers give us lists of crap we need to buy for each class. The only place to buy this overpriced junk is at the college art store. A large percentage of it is not even used. I hardly have to buy anything, after class I scavenge what’s left behind. I spend the money I save at the true educator,The bar.

We should be using cheap materials, the simplest crap, so we are not afraid to go nuts and experiment. I am full of rage. I might have been happier being a slave cleaning toilets. At least I could pick the music I listened to. This is a generation of spoiled brats.I will do enough just to pass and work on my own stuff. blah. ART u bastard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


I made a deal with one of my art teachers. I can use my journal entries as part of a class project, however it has to relate back to my experience with art somehow. Now that I have to think about art its going to wreck it. Such puckery!!!


An Introduction To Nothing Part 2 by Lyle Schultz

tv copy


Two days after barely graduating from High School I was diagnosed with the severest case of  Mononucleosis my physician had ever encountered in his 25 year  career.  I spent an entire year laying in bed, watching movies, and eating sleeping pills.  During the first month of this sickness I had to sterilize all my dishes with bleach. I felt as though I was a Leper. My greedy little spleen had grown to such an enormous size that if someone bumped into me it could rupture. To some extent I was proud of my disease.


Internet wasn’t common back then, so movies served as my escape pod. This is when I discovered Terry Gilliams work. I would say he is one of my major influences, especially Brazil, and 12 monkeys.

Phoxx Hat.

Near the end of my disease I began making a very twisted and perverse zine with a good friend of mine. It was called Phoxx Hat. Phoxx Hat was total escapism. Phoxx Hat was a filthy heathenistic entity. Its dirge would even make the Marquis De Sade weep like a child. We believed that ART was a bastard god that gave us orders to make this sick thing. We got high from it. Everything was art. The filth became so powerful my friend had to build a steel lined wooden box with a lock on it just  to store the damned thing.

Heavy Metal Janitor.

At this point I was healthy enough to start working again. Physically healthy that is. I worked the graveyard shift at a major supermarket. I also worked with a company that cleaned banks after hours. I was miserable. Eventually I moved to a larger city, and became a janitor. I spent my spare time writing and playing guitar. I usually went to work high and/or drunk. Phoxx Hat was one of the only things that kept me alive. Life was horrible. Living in a frozen redneck city. Being paid minimum wage to clean up filth. I became a germ freak, and very obsessive compulsive.

The Question.

One day my boss informed me that I wasn’t showing enough enthusiasm with my job.  After a few minutes of verbally fighting with him in the parking lot, he asked me a question.  “What do you want to do with your life if you don’t like being a janitor!?
The Beginning.

A few months later I moved to a new frozen inbred province and enrolled in Art School. That’s where we will start off next week.


an introduction to nothing part 1

Before we dive head first into the weird abyss of my sorted art journals, I figured it would be best if I revealed a bit about my art background as it were….

Part 1 The Early Years.

As far back as I can recall I was always drawing something. Even in the womb I was drawing nutrients.

Sand Eaters Inc.

In kindergarten there was 3 types of people. Glue drinkers, eraser munchers, and sand eaters. If I recall correctly I was a sand eater. Probably the healthiest choice. I was also prone to eating play- doh, until my teachers starting cutting it with salt.


It is interesting to see ones drawings from early childhood. I was fortunate enough that my parents kept most of my illustrations. I reviewed them a couple months back. Curious as to what it is that makes me tick, some sort of clue in the scribblings that would show a connection to what I am now. What I discovered is that most of my work was very heavily detailed. Overtly detailed even. Verging on the point of insanity. That affliction still prevails in my work today. I have an uncontrollable need to keep adding more and more extraneous details. Some strange fear of wasting space perhaps.

The Horror.

As a child I drew lots of images with blood, well not my blood. What I mean to say is that I liked to draw gory things. Vampyres mostly. Fanged creatures, I was obsessed with ghosts and the macabre. After school I would spend countless hours with a friend making comic books. The comics were usually based on horror movies that we watched repetitively. I recall the sexual scenes in the films we watched being fuzzy and warbled, presumably caused by constant rewinding and pausing.


My first claim to fame happened In grade 3. I was awarded an honorable mention by Stephen King in a short story competition. My story was about an insane ice-cream truck driver who chopped up children and sold their body parts as frozen treats. It was called “Eye Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Eyescream.” Perhaps that was  the first time I figured I might have some sort of redeemable talent.

Grade School.

Art class was always my favorite subject. It was the one class that not even the school took seriously. Having good grades in art class didn’t really count as anything. Art class was utterly useless in the eyes of most parents, teachers, and students. Art and music instructors were the only teachers that liked me, or moderately tolerated me. Art class in the prairies was mostly comprised of gluing Chiclets on a rabbits mouth for Easter or tracing yer hand to make a Thanks Giving turkey.

I had a strange habit of breaking all my pencil crayons in half and tossing them out the 2nd story window. To my surprise I was discovered. Perhaps it had something to do with each crayon saying “Property of Lyle” printed on them. It was a very odd thing to be caught doing. Standing there at the teachers desk, looking down at a pile of broken pencil crayons and dirt. Was it really a punishable crime? Can’t a man break his pencils and throw them out a 2nd story window if he damn well pleases?!

Speaking of pencil crayons and art, I have a very vivid memory of an instance that perhaps shaped my life as a creative individualist thinker forever. One day in English class a student spilled her pencil crayons all over the floor. When this sort of thing happened, the whole class for some sick reason would stare at the person and sing Happy Birthday. I did not. My Pink little brain instructed me to look the other way. To this day I still do the same thing. I feel disgust doing anything other people are doing. I also make sure not to look down when I cross the cross walk. Almost everyone else does. Its hard not to do. Try it next time. I double dare you!


comming soon!


Do you ever wonder what it might like to be a young struggling artist? Well now you can stop wondering! Discover one young artist’s challenges. He will be giving us the chance to follow his struggle as an emerging artist through his weekly journal entries. Follow him down his dark and twisted rabbit hole of artistic existence. Learn how to live on a 1$ dollar a day, how to paint your dress shoes to make them look new, and other mystifying adventures in an artist’s life!

Coming Soon !!

Aculade (part 1)

Somewhere, Sometime, Out there…….

Deep down in a pepper mine…

In the not so distant future one of the more coveted spices is pepper. The pepper industry has become one of the fastest growing markets on the entire planet. A large percentage of uneducated men are employed by the various mining companies. Despite the huge profits the companies make, they still treat their workers like slaves and pay them unfair wages. Most of the men working in this trade have had past records with the law. Mostly drug addictions, violence, and theft. For the most part, the men that work here do so becuase no one else will employ them. The mines would hire almost any degenerate that could pick up a shovel…


2000 feet below earth.

The Pepper mine workers are divided into teams, each team works on a certain level of the earths core. Since pepper is such a minute material the workers are required to wear special goggles with magnifying capabilities. Face masks are also worn. The masks are used to prevent any worker to get a free sniff of pepper. A free lunch as it were.

Each team of pepper miners has a leader. Earl happens to be the leader of this such crew.

Klink, krank, klunk, the pepper tools sang. Songs of pain, sorrow, and anger rang from the clangs.The tools songs reflected the tortured souls of the workers wielding them. Slowly grinding down particle at a time after each swing of the axe. Each fragment of rock separated from its core, wore a salt sized hole in their tired souls…..

the heavy metal janitor journals (part 4)

illustration by Daniel Lombardi

time-10:38 am

job-graffiti removal @ public washroom by the river


temperature -15 c

We didn’t  have any proper graffiti remover with us. Our boss was to cheap to equip his serfs with such luxuries…

Bad Cat scratched his chin methodically as he milled through a pile of toxic  industrial cleaning product inventory. All filed under “C”  for carcinogenic.  He picked up an old leaking container of  floor stripper. Splashing an unhealthy amount of the evil fluid upon two filthy rags. Spilling the radioactive slime on the ground. Burning a satanic neon green hole in the once virgin white snow.

A steaming wet rag was handed to me. I met the rag with both disgust, and curiosity. We ventured towards the washroom. I could feel as though something very sinister was happening, or about to happen. Bad Cats’ grin was at high tide. I couldn’t help but think the word “sinner” when ever I was around him, or rather it. Compared to that creature I was a Saint.

Six minutes of frantic wall scrubbing had passed, revealing little evidence of success. Bad Cat thinkfully thought for a moment. When Bad Cat was deep in his “thinkery” it was as though all other parts of his body would slow down, to give his feline brain an extra jolt of abject schemery juice. Even his eyes would switch from a bright green to a light grey. It reminded me of sleep mode on a computer. If you listened closely, one could hear, a faint purr….

“We need something stronger!” he declared. Eyes returning to their natural green glowing stare. Back to the van we went. Bad Cat picked up a jerry can of  lawn mower gas. Bad Cats’ evil little cat eyes  gleamed with excitement. If you had a computer print out of his thoughts it would read in bold letters “Why didn’t I think of this first!?”  I opened my mouth as if  to say “Do you think this is a good idea?” . Stopping myself, realizing there was no point in asking. He was after all my mentor.  Bad Cat quickly handed me the cap to the gas can, “here!” and scampered back to the washroom. Bad Cat stopped at the washroom entrance, paused briefly, looking down at his watch, and announced “We need to make up for lost time!”*

*Please don’t get the wrong idea here. He wasn’t worried about saving money for the company or being efficient. “Lost time” meant that he would have less dog fucking time. Plain and simple. He had each day timed down to the minute. How many short cuts we could take so he could have his little cat naps and coffee breaks. If Bad Cat was proud of anything in his life, anything at all,  it was his ability to lie, cheat, and steal his way though the work week.

I happened to be his appointed apprentice….

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