NO PARKING WITHIN TEN FEET OF (MY) FIRE HYDRANT

I met a man named Cadillac tonight.

Andrew "Cadillac" Kolstad.

He was with Tommahawk Tassles in full getup. Mopped hair, cigarettes in hand, hard liquor in full flow.

A band of friends, who all happen to be artists, is interesting in regard to the fact that when out in public we must refer to eachother by their stage names. If you say their real name you get a flinched eye from the owner of the name, like a glitch in the Matrix has occurred.

I haven't flaunted Kean in a long time in person (I guess that's my name on the blog, but you get what I mean). When I first met some of the people within my circle they knew me as Kean. They know Mr. Stevenson as Mr. Park. Amanda is Ms. Tassles, Katinka Inga and Gisette is Kristen. These alter egos are kind of amusing.

To play characters off of your own self while out in public. I think it's interesting to think about this coming off of seeing "Bruno" just before going out to the bar where we met Mr. Cadillac and Ms. Tassles. People playing dress up, trying to put their foot in the door of expression and territory.

Dogs piss, we shout from soap boxes. Shouting equals changing your name, what clothes you wear (or what you don't wear, as my group can attest to), what you sing, what you bang on, what you write. Artists are the most visible "hydrant pissers" in society.

Yes, artistes, I've just equated all of what we put our heart and soul into day in day out to urine. It feels good to be released, but once you're done with it you flush it away, ready to be consumed by the sewage treatment pipeline cleaners/critics. Once it's filtered into the masses for so long it's spread thin, turned pure again and new, ready to be consumed by a new artist in the form of a new statement. Cycle recycled.

We are one in the same, dogs and artists. The only difference is we don't sniff each other's assholes. We kiss them instead.

The Velvet Underground -- "Head Held High"