This 21 question test (which feels much longer) is geared to make you zoom into your current eye-or-ear input—compare that with previous empirically saved data (your memories) and make a choice based on fuzzy-biased-preconceptions and supposition. Your multiple-choice answer (or you can fill in the blank if you wanna) will most-likely make you glitch.
I scored an 11. Grading on the curve, 52% is better than average. If this article is right, the best score so far is a 13 (62%). Napkin math: 13+ gets an A, 11-12 gets a B, 9-10 are C's, 7-8 are D's and 6 and below are F's.
This addendum is provided because a friend told me he didn't understand the antique mirror under Avril Poisson's Mailbox; he understood the other image-elements were either supporting-the-creepy, or were included to show that April Fool could be a person (or both) but asked, "what's up with that mirror next to the trash bin?"
It was my hope that people would look closely and recognize—in the antique picture frame—a young Rick Astley with the faint words 'never gonna give you up' above his head as an attempt at a two dimensional Rick-roll (which, for those who weren't alive fifteen years ago, was a lame internet prank from the early 2000's). Obviously, my attempt was less than successful.
Most of my mailbox-series artworks are attempting to tell a unique story, in a creepy way, about a single day of the year, and for April Fool's Mailbox I hoped viewers (who did not already know) would research and learn that, in France, they celebrate April Fish day instead of April Fools. An old prank played on Poisson d'Avril was taping a paper fish on people's backs in much-the-same-manner as US children once taped paper signs. I hoped this knowledge would, then, help explain the paper fish in the trash bin, the one paper fish on the back of a large doll behind the nearly empty "prank stand" and the sign warning against no contact pranks.
For those in need of a tiny giggle (and sticking with the theme) I provide this from the musician Mr Anthony Vincent:
This is important. Do Not Let News-Company-Fear-Porn Infect You to the extent that you begin to dream about the escalating numbers, the calamity, the CCP virus, and the briefings (unless you are so-very-curious about how self-induced depression or a mental breakdown might feel going-in).
Knowing we are instinctively wired to slow down and gawk at the horrible traffic accident surrounded by emergency vehicles—while also being aware that every other motorist on this jam-packed roadway is also no longer looking where they are driving—requires you to exert control over your impulse. Force your attention exclusively on the car in front of you. No matter how loud the sirens. No matter how frantic the firemen and paramedics. No matter how bright the lights.
This is a great time to do a version of this (again). I re-post this thirty-day challenge of a video-a-day for you to either be entertained by (or to participate in). Nine years ago, I did this challenge (archives for March and for April) with days 1 thru 8 in March of that year, and days 9 thru 30 in April. Some of the videos have been eaten by google. If you want to make your own list or just read them all-in-one-go, here is the master: MySoLiMo - My Song List Month
There are some high-quality writers I eagerly look forward to reading. Andrew Vachss, Dean Koontz (some things have changed) and Malcolm Gladwell are three one (off the tip of my temporal cortex) who've sufficiently proven themselves that I spring for their hardback.
There are other writers who I feel the same way about. Ginny is one. Because she posts infrequently, I normally check monthly for new articles on her site, Praying to Darwin. Today, I discovered she just lit a self-inflicted fire under her own ass. The intent of Ginny's post a video-a-day for a month self-challenge, in her own words: Who knows what kind of stuff that’ll make me write about?
If I'd not checked on Praying to Darwin until after April Fools Day—and she was already a couple posts into this challenge (I say this because I can't completely avoid commenting on the funny flying pink elephant in the corner)—I wouldn't think about joining hands in solidarity or in emulation or in an icky meme-like fashion. But. This is her day one. That's a sign. A SIGN, I SAY. So. I'm in.
I enjoy spurring myself towards discovery, research, and the crystallization of ideas (both new-to-me and new). This was why I compiled Like a Version: My Alpha-vile Autopsy. Creating the pics and mining for just the right words in order to identify an alphabet of things I dislike was an extremely self-informative challenge.
Back to Ginny's Day 1 topic: My Favorite Song. Her's is Everlong by the Foo Fighters. I hadn't seen the video in a decade and didn't remember it. It contains overlapping dream sequences.
I have an aversion to dream sequences. It's not strong enough to call dislike, but I recognize my avoidance urge. I'm bothered by them (which my little sister once called dream sequins and then got mad when I wouldn't tell her what I was laughing about) because when a story uses a dream to explain what a character is thinking I can't stay in the story. Flashback's are fine; story within a story—also fine; jumps in time, yup, still fine...but when a character says, "I had this dream..." Nope. As I read (or watch) my mind keeps reminding: this is just a dream.
I feel the same avoidance urge when reading fiction and the main character is a writer; or watching a TV show, play, or film about an actor; or listening to a song about music; or when the poem is about poetry; or the artwork is about the medium; or the joke is about being funny.
There are exceptions, but most creative people don't have what it takes to craft a convincingly successful multiple reflection in a mirror. Or a dream.
Following in the shadow of Ginny's footprints—my favorite song...anchoring me in time. The instrumentals of Starship Trooper by Yes are as important (if not more) than the lyrics.
...take what I say in a different way and it's easy to see that this is all confusion...
* I'm always surprised when other people are "late to the pun" (because I am the KING of Never-get-it Land). The title, in case you are also a resident of this land, is a pun on Madonna's song Like a Virgin with a wink and nudge because this is my version of someone else's list. get it? get it? Huh?
Funny is in the ear of the beholder. Timing, pacing, delivery, grasp of storytelling—all very important. These girls have made the funniest video I've seen in months. Honestly, this wouldn't tickle as hard if Haylee and Amanda were one single google search less naive, or if their rendition of Sir Mixalot's Big Butts was bad, or if they sang the middle stanza. But their cluelessness adds to their hella good performance and is multiplied by the fact that some of the lyrics offend them enough to make me laugh so hard I lost my breath.
I hurt my hands. All the time. A stubbed thumb. A ripped nail. A nicked fingertip here, a scratch in the crease of a joint there. Frequently, I'll discover a bleeding finger and can't remember how I did it. Haul some firewood and I get a splinter. Fix a lamp and a wire will find its way under my fingernail. Use a tool and scrape some knuckles. Grab something heavy and pull a cuticle away from its fingernail-bed. I average two injuries a month, more than twenty a year, hundreds every decade.
Somehow my brain's awareness of—or connection to—everything beyond my wrists isn't very good.
It took years of "little accidents" to recognize I had this personal quirk. Gloves help. Not using machinery helps more. Concentrating on focusing my attention and not letting my mind drift whenever I need to do something dangerous (e.g. wash dishes, hammer a nail) helps the most.
Although knowing my limitations hasn't eliminated every hangnail, every year I use measurably fewer Band-aids.
Along a similar "self-awareness vein," I came to realize that I would most-probably die of a heart attack sometime in my mid-60s (which means—today—I have about ten years of life left to live). In my mid-30's I made this estimate based on actuarial tables (average death-age and cause of demise of recent male ancestors; adding some years for healthy habits, subtracting for unhealthy ones) and subsequently chose to retire in my 40s. Today—over a decade later—I'm still semi-retired. [Addendum: I wrote this in 2014. This article, written in 2019, explains why I may not die in two years or less.]
Recently I told a close family member about my early-retirement rationale. Instead of recognizing my logic and being supportive, this relative refused to part with long-held preconditioned statistics preached by government and followed without question by the masses ("retirement age" is the mid-60s; everyone dies 15-20 "golden years" later). [This essay, also written in 2019, explains why covert/vindictive narcissists opt to always be negative.]
My mother's father and grandfather both worked until they died (at 61 and 57). My father died at 60. None retired. All continued to amass: possessions, vacation days, and pensions; woke every morning to an alarm clock; worked in order to live and lived in order to work until their hearts stopped beating; and left a bitter wife who'd stopped sharing a bedroom with them years earlier (for at least one of them).
I can think of nothing sadder.
On the other hand, I've spent most of the last ten years (and hope to have at least ten more) doing what I consider the ultimate bliss: ridding myself of stuff, vacationing and spending my pension wisely; waking only when my body doesn't want any more sleep; all the while giving and receiving as many orgasms as she-who-is-my-best-friend and I desire. [This poem, written at the very end of 2019, explains why I am still deeply in love with my wife.]
Without expanding the video, listen to my signature song while reading the oh-so appropriate lyrics.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard intro -
Can you believe me when I say...there's nothing I like better - than just to sit here and ta-aalk with you?
Although I'll rant and I'll rave about one thing and another - the beauty of it is—hope you'll agree—
tho' I'm a po-oor boy I can still be ha-aappy s'long as I can fe-eel free
So many people, I know, gettin' old a-way too early (well aren't you feelin' kind of weary?) just to impress you with the money they make. (you betta...ya betta...ya betta change yer theory.) One drop of rain, they complain, and it's the same about the wage they're earnin. Well that is not the way I'm gonna be. Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin'...if I know: You will be...ri-ight here with me.
(We like to say, 'don't mind yer point of view.' But how can we all afford to live like you?) (The simple life is simply not enough. We have appearances we must keep up.)
- clarinet solo - (Po-oor Boy) If that's the way it's gotta be. (Po-oor Boy) It's you for you, and me for me. (Po-oor Boy) I've tried all I can...understanding...all the fools,
and all their money;when half of what they've got—you know—they never will use.
Enough to get by...suits me fine...I don't care if they think I'm funny.
I'm never gonna change my point of view.
Don't mind the rain. Don't mind snow. Don't mind nothin, if I
know...you will be...right here with me. All the way. (na-na-na)
Don't mind the rain. Don' mind snow. Don' mind no-oothing, if I know. You will be. Right here with me.
- solo "trumpet" / keyboard outro -
Poor Boy lyrics by Rodger Hodgson and Rick Davies (Supertramp, 1975)
Just a reminder: Pogo is still creating fantastic music. Head over to his channel to catch up on the latest (or—if unfamiliar—to experience something enjoyably-new). If this "mature content" video is not your cuppa...he has a wonderful collection of Disney (I highly recommend Wishery).
