Newsletter of the LA Underground Art Scene                               

Critical Commentary from Our Readers
retrograde bovine excrescence.  Further, the compulsive torrent of inchoate pseudo-thoughts which Ike is determined to
impose on others is the symbosophic equivalent of his need to wipe his ass and proudly display the bung-fodder--an infantile
tactic for soliciting attention.  This link between verbiage diarrhea and anal fixation is diagnostic of both the style and content
of his writing.  He is determined to show us all of his turds, no matter how much they stink or offend.  Indifferent to both
approbation and repulsion, any audience will do, all reactions are equally rewarding.  The reader, as insignificant other,
functions solely as disposable pawn for his degenerate monomaniacal objective (i.e., Look at me!  Look at me!).  (Note:  I am
not unaware of the irony-- that this response on my part serves to reinforce Ike’s heteroclite propensities.  My remarks are
addressed to those readers of
Artsy Fartsy who may be unwittingly attracted to his perverted prolixity.)  In “Eschatological
Religiosity in Willows”
 Ike purports to be puzzled by the title of Odd Jim Dotty’s painting and then to guide the reader
through a multidisciplinary research exercise subsuming botany, photomicrography, pharmacology, mythology and folklore.  
To call this ‘a jaunt in shallowness’ is to impute a depth it does not deserve.  He then assumes his spurious diacritic personae
and proceeds to dispense presumed cockamamie associations amongst dead souls, pussy willow trees, the process of birth,
soul storage problems, and the shortage of pussies.  Scattered throughout are ersatz disclaimers patently designed to feign
modesty and ingratiate himself with the unsuspecting novice.  Clearly, what we have here are the projective displacements of
a senescent pussyphiliac driven non compos by deprivation.  This sophistic gibberish should be recognized for exactly what it
is, the pathetic rantings of a delusionary old fart whose capacity for insight is commensurate with his capability of getting a
hard-on.  If Ike wants to continue paddling his limp pickle in vain so be it.  The rest of us should not have to bear witness to
the unsavory crotch pong which he seeks to pass off as clitical thought. When will
Artsy Fartsy stop publishing this
bughouse bilge?  While I am sympathetic to providing activities for the handicapped, enough is enough.
Odd Jim Dotty: A Revised, Accurate, but Unsympathetic Assessment
by Sangfroid Uppity,  Art Professor,  Fort Huachuca Community College
Let’s be clear.  I do not consider mere febrile flocculations,
no matter how brown or boney, as anything even remotely
resembling art.  One cannot simply run around the block a
few times to work up one’s body temperature because one
has the nervous system of an amphibian reptile, and then
dribble some white, orange and brown paint on canvas with
your right claw while using your left as a pattern and expect
everyone to raise a fuss over the tufted fettuccine you end up
with as a result.  If I want to look at long lines of flat
Although, even there in that ho hum for the hoi polloi, I do
not expect to find cruddy brown noodles either. The problem
with Dotty is Dotty himself, who apparently thinks that
everything between his hands and his feet is simply too
difficult for him to paint. Talk about a Freudian admission of
ineptitude!  What is it about artists these days? The touchy
feely elementary education exhibited by the typical garage
school adept  (to use the word as loosely as an old whore’s
anus) has now reached epidemic proportions, with every two
bit tinker hawking his hobby horse on the Internet. The gross
amount of pretentious twaddle twittering about the digitized
coo coo’s nest is simply horrendous. The American airwaves
are literally clogged with a totality of trivia so massive as to
beggar the capacity of sewercide words to convey.  Perhaps
that is what Dotty’s long brown lines are really meant to
suggest, giant turds like humungous worm trails crowding in
upon him wherever he stands in his studio, surrounded by the
untold tons of paint he has wasted on the white canvas he so
flagrantly despoils.  We now see the harvest of hog swill I
predicted as the result of years of educational fads and
fantasies perpetrated upon the American public by the
educational bureaucracies and their “union allies” on campus.  
Johnny can’t read but he can crayon because he has been
exposed to years of exercise in “self-esteem,” with little red
“stars” on the wall beside his name for not fouling his desk
diaper, and the attendant hand holding that went with the
absence of any genuine, intellectually challenging curriculum.  
So now Johnny is all grown up and he’s still playing with his
crayons, if you will, while the rest of his classmates crowd
around chanting his name as if he deserves another “gold
star.”  And God Forbid that Dotty would stop after one
bizarre flop. No, we are hounded now by a great long blue
fettuccine noodle winding around inside the social fabric of
our society like weird waste from a blue taco factory
polluting the entire San Fernando Valley. Even the epithelial
tissue in the background shows the foul yellow signs of a
gaping degeneration, like ozone holes over the poles.  And
what have we done to deserve any of this? Have we erred,
sinned, broken trust, failed to pay our union dues to the
proper officials?  Are we so jaded, crippled, blind, inept,
incompetent, stove up, bored, cynical, pessimistic, useless,
and hopeless as to be satisfied even with this mess?  What
ever happened to talent, skill, ability, vision, perfection, and
genius?  Fergedaboudit…take what you deserve, the universal
mulch for an age gone mad:  scraped up crud served in
simple little gold boxes, broken down star charts, loopy
exercises in white and black, lame noodles and limp lines
going nowhere. No wonder Dotty's ego needs-- a
Self Portrait With All The Hard Parts Left Out
Cosmic Search Grid, Van Nuys Sector, #1.61803 or
Failure to Find A Place to Shit Where There Is No Buddha
Once again the erstwhile whittler, Eucalyptus Ik, has seen fit to spew his vagarious vacuous
verbal vomit in the guise of studious elucidation.  While I have no desire to give further attention
to that unschooled cretin, his Odd Dottiness, and the bogus daubing which he has the effrontery
to call ‘painting’, I simply cannot allow sordid pathology and shameless ineptitude to posture as
clitical cogitation and to degrade and impugn the honorable community of splendiferous
professional clitics of which I am a most proud member. First, let me iterate the well-established
fact that Eucalpytus Ike is a veritable omnium-gatherum of derangements.Since a full accounting
of these would require a lifetime of unflagging industriousness, I will focus on only those of
immediate relevance to his recent piteous effort to explicate the title
“Willow Tree Comforts
Deceased Souls.”
His ceaseless logorrhea is, of course, the manifest symptomatology of
Sangfroid Uppity