Arts Devo

You can quote me

Good night, 2019.

Good night, 2019.

All the best words In case you missed any of Arts DEVO’s words last year, below are 523 of them in a string of quotes from this column that together provide one picture of 2019.

Welcome to the Whiskeydrome …

Real talk: Don’t take a date to this show unless you are cool seeing each other naked …

Sexiest food in Chico? It has to be Zot’s! … When it comes to food porn, I prefer mine all flushed, sweaty and kind of messy, and there are few foods in town that match that description as perfectly as one of Zot’s hot steamed dogs. It’s way more of a turn on for me than most of the fancy and expensive plates in town. Everything you need for a good time is right there in your face.

We’re all made up of the same stuff, just in different combos. Kind of like the menu at Taco Bell.

Music to smoke cloves in a graveyard to …

Of course, within the friendly confines of Chico, the freaks and barflies aren’t relegated to the underground. We live in this naturally beautiful place where creative exploration and having a good time can become a way of life. The Butcher Shop, for me, is the ultimate celebration of that, where Chico’s extended tribe gathers by the thousands in one spot to drink beer and watch a bunch of weird original theater, music and art.

… it’s depressing and infuriating how, in the 50 years I’ve been dragging this meatsack under the sun, many of the ills of society remain unchanged or worse from the days of that crook Nixon to these of that crooked Trump.

Oct. 13 is Treat Yo Self Day. That’s this Sunday, and this year I, “in my great and unmatched wisdom,” consider this to be a reasonable thing for Arts DEVO and every person reading this column to celebrate in an effort to improve our mental health during this most stupid period of American history.

Let no pleasure or indulgence within your grasp go unfulfilled. Buy those shoes. Get that massage. Tuck into a blanket with other warm bodies and binge watch 12 episodes of anything. Open the good wine. Buy the prime cut. Read on the grass, nap, repeat. Host a potluck, turn up the boom box loud enough for the neighbors to join in, and dance until you pass out. Pleasure yourself. Pleasure others. Finish each meal with ice cream. Dogs. Tacos. Whiskey. Sunset. Stars.

For one goddam day let’s let our moans of contentment and howls of abandon drown out the noise of manufactured chaos.

Let’s start a Christmas war …

All that’s left to do is set out a bottle of schnapps and maybe a hollowed-out ram’s horn for Krampus drink it from and then get out of the way. Tonight (Dec. 5) is the eve of the Feast of St. Nicholas—aka Krampusnacht—the night when the real big guy will make his rounds, kick open the doors at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., and with swinging chains, or a bundle of prickly branches, or articles of impeachment in his hands, lay down the proper punishment to the most naughty child of all.

Now that would be a Krampusnacht miracle.

Be kind, fight the jerks, have fun with people, and create stuff—especially your own reality.