My New Job
by John DAgostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist, a.k.a. John Dog
I defrosted the refrigerator. Found some interesting things in there while cleaning. I discovered month old chicken burgers. They still look edible. A container of curry yogurt dip from the time of Mahatma Gandhi was rock hard and inedible. The last time Gandhi was around wasn’t as long ago as you might think, maybe last April or May. I met him in a club in Gary, Indiana. He was working as a cocktail waitress in a topless joint. Nice hooters. I took him/her home and we got into a huge literary debate over whether the karma sutra or Bible was a better read. We never worked it out, so we screwed about 6 or 7 different ways while she read tales of Sodom and Gomorra out loud.
A half bottle of Smirnoff 50 proof was packed solidly into the ice block also known as my freezer. That enchanting intoxicant would have been finished ages ago, if I could have got at it. The bottle was the major reason for defrosting the damn thing. Defrosting released that glorious prisoner from captivity. Gandhi and I drank it with some kiwi juice and I tossed the yogurt dip. I made some burgers with the grey ground meat that finally thawed. Ms. Gandhi had two with pickles and mayonnaise. People change with time. I’ve changed. No more writing t.v. scripts for me. In this life I am a serious writer. I’m writing a novel. And if you are reading this then I must be getting pretty good at it. Where am I now? -Istanbul, a long way from Gary. How I got here is a long story that involves the CIA, KGB, and Kabul opium smugglers. I’d tell you about it but then I’d have to kill you.
Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in the head last month. He was cremated and then they shot his ashes out of a huge cannon taller than the Statue of Liberty. The size of the cannon, that being taller than that humongous green whore from France who greets the tired and the hungry as they enter the waters off New Jersey, was stipulated in his will. I’m not making this up. That’s exactly what he said. I was there. He asked me how to spell ‘liberty’. We were high on mesc and drinking tequila that night. There were pink and turquoise florescence stars dancing around a silvery Colorado moon as he penned those essential words in his last will and testament. He once said to me, "John Dog, you know, sex, drugs, and insanity have always worked for me, but I wouldn’t recommend them for everyone." I wonder what he’ll come back as in his next life.
Excuse me for getting sentimental. I always get a little misty eyed when I’m on my second bottle of two dollar wine and thinking about old friends. That reminds me, suicide. I have to sober up and finish the painting of the China man hanging himself. And another thing I have to do is to buy a bigger ash tray. We all kill ourselves one way or another. 
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. I’m not taking the easy way out, even though I am thoroughly disillusioned with life. I just found out Robert Frost wrote those lines and not Charles Bronson. I’m so mad about it that I really want to blow something up. I’ll get over it.
A picture of lazy Pedro sleeps on my Mexican hat shaped ash tray which I bought at South of the Border the largest and tackiest tourist trap on I-95 in sunny South Carolina. In my next life I want to work at the t-shirt shop there, the one with the 100 foot fiberglass gorilla standing guard out front. I could get high all day, eat burritos at lunch, and spike my Mountain Dew with vodka and no one would even notice. No one would care. If you are making minimum wage in the US, it is like you don’t exist, a kind of death in a way.
Life as an eccentric dirty old outsider artist and writer ain’t as easy as you might imagine. Of course you can make your own hours, but it don’t pay shit. There’s something to be said about a steady paycheck coming in. The dividends from my Halliburton stocks don’t pay enough to live on. Damn, I should have bought more shares and not blown all that loot at the dog track. I’d be sitting pretty right now drinking dry martinis with Cheney and smoking a big stogy.
Where was I? - Just got back from the crapper. Had to drop a few turds. Gonna drop a few more. Life is hard. It kills you in the end, doesn’t it? My Turkish friend Ali reminds me of that fact every time I see him. He’s the biggest drunken mother fucker that I’ve ever seen. No, he ain’t a massive hunk of Anatolian meat; he’s a skinny little guy it a polyester shirt with some weird ass design on it. What I mean to say is that he sucks down two bottles of 40 proof Raki a day. He’s a big drinker. He pilots a tour boat up and down the Manavgat River. I generally see him late at night trying not to fall off his bar stool and steering a glass towards the safe harbor of his mouth. I wish I had a dime for every time he told me, Life is zor (hard in Turkish). I tell him fuck, you’re only 25, you don’t even know the meaning of the word. We drink together for hours sometimes, we argue, he gets really pissed. But lucky for me he’s usually so plastered that he can barely lift his drink let alone a fist in anger. Gandhi would be proud of his restraint.
I come from a big Italian family. We were pretty poor when I was growing up. Not like poor in India or Africa. There were few flies, no skin and bones, no stink of death in the air. But it wasn’t until 14 that I learned how poor my family really was. Dad got a bonus at Christmas and we had a feast. This was the first time mom ever made Hamburger Helper and actually put hamburger in it. I was so in the dark about things in those days. Grey meat brings back fond memories of youthful ignorance. It’s all relative. In American if you don’t have a McMansion with a two car garage and a triple digit income, you are poor. Or at least made to feel that way by a constant bombardment of advertisements and portrayals of fantasy life styles of yuppies, buppies, fruppies, and sluppies on television. Don’t ask me what the last two mean. I just made them up because I like to rhyme in fours.
I’m really beginning to doubt my sanity. I think that I am going off the deep end. I haven’t worked for over two years. I live in a beautiful beach town on the Med in southern Turkey and I’m thinking about going back to America and getting a real job. I got money in the bank. I’m sitting here in the process of getting stoned with a grin on my face that makes the Cheshire Cat’s look damn tame. I must be going looney tunes.
People have offered me jobs here. I almost took one selling sexy undies, thongs, and the like to the tourist crowd that passes through my town. It didn’t pay much, but the fringe benefits, oooh la la. Nobody I know likes their job, well almost nobody. Luckily there are support groups to help. There are meetings every evening down at the local pub. They are called Happy Hour. I too have been using alcohol, but only to try to temper my mad desire for real honest labor. It’s been working rather well, but I must be building up an immunity. Why do these insane urges for employment keep taunting me? Maybe I need a prescription for thorazine.
I applied for a job promoting "cutting edge" artists in Florida. Art is my field. I can’t sell my own crappy art but I can talk a good line and thought I could be good at promoting others. About half way through the interview I decided that I really didn’t want the job. So I told them that I thought "cutting edge" was a lot of bull shit hype. Striving to be avant garde as an artist is a Proctor and Gamble approach to aesthetics. Everything is better if it’s NEW and IMPROVED. The problem with that is you are only good until the next new kid in town arrives. Fame is fleeting like the polish on a shiny new Ford Explorer. It’s all marketing the American way. Another product designed to last just before the three year warrantee lapses.
Who the hell is Franklin P. Jones? Nobody knows for sure. (I’m just full of questions, aren’t I?) Rumors are that he was a furniture salesman from Oklahoma who lived in the last half of the 19th century and died in the first half of the 20th. Where he comes from matters little or maybe it matters a lot. I don’t know, but he passed on some excellent advice and two half dozen or a dozen quotes on life, love, and work which make him immortal. In my dilemma concerning employment I believe I will take his wise words to heart. He said something very simple, but oh so meaningful and true. He said, "Scratch a dog, and you’ll find a permanent job." Where do I sign up?
The Church of the Only True God was created by the self-ordained minister, The Rev. John Dog one night on the way to a concert in Istanbul. Like many of those chosen to serve the Lord the calling came unexpectedly. Walking along the sidewalk to the Blues Festival John dodged many mounds of dog feces lying everywhere. A momentary lack of attention brought his foot down in a pile. Later that night while home sleeping in bed an angel appeared and revealed the secret of this sign. God is omni-present as the dog droppings are omni-present, the bright light of this truth shone forth and awakened me. The next morning the Rev. John Dog quit his job and began spreading the word about the greatness of The Super Holy IT or S.H.IT for short. Join the group and and get the password to the site. Visit the Rev. John Dog’s other sites and see Eccentric outsider art and writing inspired by the power of The Super Holy IT.
