What Does It Mean? - Chapter 3
♫ Hand, hand, everywhere a hand...mockin phys·i·og·no·my...freakin my mind ♪
“OK. This is where you explain the unsettling not-face in Untitled Portrait of Self.
“I suspect you won’t be satisfied.”
“Why not?”
“Because we-humans are innately head, face, and (especially) eye centric—a viewer’s natural inclination is to scan-and-lock on this area of an artwork; affording more time to above-the-neck images and less to the remainder of the work. I chose images which would, hopefully, discourage that impulse as well as answer three questions: What facial expression would my hands make? Which animal lives inside my skull? And (avoiding cliché) how can I depict thoughts?
"Other artists have addressed this in very unique ways: Rauschenberg's self portrait, Booster, included his full-body x-ray; Magritte blocked his face with an apple; Dali depicted his soul's glove in Soft Self Portrait with Fried Bacon; Lichtenstein used a fragmented-cubist style; and the photographer Vivian Maier worked with reflections and shadows."
“That’s your entire explanation?”
“I said you wouldn’t...”
“Why a rat-brain? Why are the eyes closed? Why is the tongue out so far you can see tonsils? Why an oct...OK, I get that part...pretty ingenious, but what’s on the TV?”
“There are so many, too many, correct answers. Each answer obscures another.
“I’m nocturnal; squint in any level of sunlight; love cunnilingus (only obvious when the necktie—reinforcing dynamic motion—is examined closely); and the final scene of Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samauri, are some answers. But. So is...I enjoy cave exploring; don’t enjoy direct eye contact; have no cavities (or tonsils); and the subtitle—again, we are defeated—could be pessimism, realism, or a comment on war.”
“Hmm.”
“You're nonplussed.”
“This underscores my problem with understanding. When something is ‘open to interpretation’ I feel like there are too many options and, inevitably, I pick none.”
“What does the word ‘rat’ bring to mind?”
“Dirty. They eat garbage. Spread diseases.”
“What about an octopus?”
“Camouflaged, intelligent, problem solvers.”
“And what about this drawing of two hands melded into one?”
“Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo Del Torro.”
“My sensibilities are quite pleased with the interpretations you bring to these elements. Moving on to hands...
“The rat is looking at Geovanni Giacometti's Theodora, who is shielding her eyes with her left hand in order to gaze sharply downward, encouraging the viewer to do likewise. Theodora’s vantage point suggests she is staring at Lichenstein’s Nude... (mentioned in an earlier chapter) who is staring back at her—people staring at each other are intended to create visual tension.
“I chose to repeat the visual trope begun with the face by having the SNAPPERHEADLINE NEWS (obvously a reference to my blog) being held by, and depicting, many hands. The three-ring circus element needed to be visually different from that of the right arm (gun : limb : common sense/intuition) as well as from that of the head (rat-brain : octopus-avocations : doublepalm-face).
“The monkey depicts dichotomy by taking/climbing on the paper, wearing a trinity nuclear explosion as a helmet, and allowing money to fall out of its tailhand.
“The lobster depicts both good and bad repetitious behavior by holding the newspaper in its tailhand (no day-off in nine months) while grasping a golf club (practice makes perfect) and an antihistamine sprayer (a life-long addiction).
“The top hand, merely displaying the paper, reflects my job.
“Above the headline: brains never make same connection twice, is a melding of suggestive images which are open to interpretation, culminating in a banana near the monkey (visual/mental connections).”
“Don’t be shy at this point. Let's hear one of your intended interpretations.”
“Masturbation.”
“OK. Maybe. Male hand gripping a banana. Fingers directing the eye along a disembodied female gluteal sulus. Nipple shield. It is so obvious.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t change my interpretation.”
“How about another for good measure?”
“The progression of birth to death.”
“Oh come on!”
“Nipple shield—a symbol of birth, connected to female life-giver, connected to male pointing a metaphoric pistol at the war-monkey?”
“Bet you can’t do a third.”
“A three-panel Exquisite Corpse. One artist begins, folds the paper allowing only a small hint for the next artist who appends to that hint and then folds...”
“Shit. Now I see it. But only after you pointed it out. Who needs a chapter break?”
“As long as the smoke from the campfire doesn’t waft up the nose on the leaf of the lilac bush (a favorite and a visual guide) causing an explosive sneeze (an unfortunate trait) to frighten the bee into a frenzy which causes it to buzz the thong-shaped streetlight pole and seek refuge on the concrete porch of the cliff-front condominium (a pipe dream) forcing one of Georges Seurat's models (staring at the viewer) to flee down the ladder, snapperhead will return with another chapter explaining the portion of the the story in, on, behind, adjacent, and surrounding the left leg of Untitled Portrait of Self.
What Does It Mean? - Chapter 2
← chapter 1
“Where did I leave off?”
“The bronzed, buxom, lass gazing back toward...”
“Ahh, yes...the eye is guided toward an undulating panel of graffiti—good-ugly public art—floating along the left extremity of Untitled Portrait of Self. The letters don’t coalesce into clear words (standard for street art) and don’t seem to be painted on a wall; instead, the alphabet-curtain is apparently blowing in the wind. Jangling wind chimes in the top-most corner add to this suggestion of motion.
“Two figures inhabit the middle-ground behind the leg and in front of the water’s edge: a study for Edward Degas' sculpture, Little Dancer of Fourteen Years and a donkey-zebra...”
“Before the graffiti gets too far in the rearview, could you tell me how to differentiate between good-ugly public art and bad-ugly vandalism?”
“Context and intent. The difference between the staccato bark of a neighbor’s dog incessantly echoing off dark alley walls and a wolf’s howl rising and falling on the moonlit shadows of the wind. Both wake you up. One disrupts much-needed rest before another day of drudgery and the other opens your eyes reminding you that an entire universe continues unabated while you slumber.”
“A nice analogy, but could you spell it out in more simple and direct terms?”
“A vandal gets a dump of adrenaline when committing a crime of spontaneity and not getting caught, and—later—re-lives that rush when witnessing his results in the light of day (sotospeak). There’s also an element of ‘pay attention to me’ and an enjoyment/expectation that the damage will cause negative reactions. The adrenaline-part is no different for street artists, but they spend mxm effort, time, and money in design, planning, and preparation compared to the amount they spend during the execution phase and negative reactions are rarely, if ever, their goal.”
“Got it. Thanks. Back to...”
“...the zonkey looking back at us. A visual metaphor for my cat, a lynx-point Siamese and striped tabby (mixing causes good traits to dominate). When a two-dimensional image is depicted staring directly at the viewer, the intent of the artist is similar to a writer’s paragraph break; to cause the viewer to pause, look inward for a moment, and contemplate (here, I’m anthropomorphizing...as all pet owners do...the pony is really scanning the shoreline along both its flanks. It is, however, listening ahead to both the crackle of the campfire and the tinkle of the wind chimes).
“I want the viewer to wonder what distant object could draw the diminutive teenaged dancer’s attention away from a nearby, cute, young animal. So they follow her line of sight and see she is focusing on a large .38 caliber revolver pointed in her direction (the second of three sidearms I carried; the first a .45, the last a 9mm).
“The hand holding the revolver doesn’t have its finger on the trigger and—clearly—the gun is inoperative because its barrel contains a large, defoliated branch (suggesting winter or that the branch is dead...this rocky beach’s winter is June through August).
“If I have a real dream with a gun in it, people rarely bleed when shot and never fall down and die. My subconscious is stuck in the realm of backyard cops and robbers; one common denominator (no matter how many thousands of gory video game and film deaths my brain could reference) is me having to say: lie down, I shot you, you’re dead. In my career, I had to point my weapon at a small number of people whom I was arresting and, in every one of those cases, I never needed to put my finger on the trigger. So didn’t.
“I have a theory: Humans grow to identify their true self from a lifetime of partially remembered dream images. Those fragmented slivers of subconscious, pasted together with cobwebs, are the makings of their deeply buried taproots.
“Hanging below the branch is an image showing the interior of a human lung next to a leaf; below the lung is an image showing the interior of a human testicle next to an acorn. No subtlety, I know, but I was trying for some visual humor: the bronzed buxom lass immediately below could be flinching away from the low hanging fruit...as it were.”
“I get the pun.”
“Walking along the branch, a small, extremely strong, hairy-humpbacked dogman caricature (common sense) is swinging a huge butterfly net over its head in order to catch an inordinately svelte woman dressed in lingerie (intuition) who’s gently double-pushing the arm grasping the treelimb-gun. Neither common sense nor intuition are aware how close the net is. She doesn’t know because her eyes are closed and he never knows because the staff of his net pierces through the moon, which (because of proximity) blocks his view.
“Common sense and intuition are constantly vying to guide my decisions, while my conscience—the three-eyed evil mickey sun—is so rarely needed for consultation that its untroubled countenance floats outside the upper pane of Marcel Duchamp’s Fresh Window. I understand that for many other people, their inner-angel constantly wrestles with their inner-daemon (which, I theorize, are the self-same people who routinely have/remember their nightmares and have become enured to their inner-terrible). This is pertinent because it relates to other details (which I'll explain in a later chapter).
“The window placement and size (relative to the chair) is intended to reinforce the layout of the Bedroom In Arles by Van Gogh (discussed in the previous chapter).
“A string from the wind chimes is attached to the point of an umbrella (golf umbrella? beach umbrella?..no matter...I neither golf or beach on windy days). The umbrella’s pole is hidden behind, or stuck into, the back of the moon (either way, the perspective showing the underside of the umbrella indicates height). Next to the umbrella, the extreme up-shot of a nude woman walking toward the viewer reinforces this height-impression and, like the zonkey, she stares directly back at the viewer.”
“Good bookends. I'll bet that brings this chapter to a close.”
“Don’t mind if I do—thanks for playing. For being such a great listener, there will be cake at the end.
“So once the shy skinnydipper skips out of the surf, to warm her exceptionally pert breasts by the fire, her visage will pass under the dogman's limb; he will glance down, snag his net on the window latch, open the pane, and permit the underwater ocean waves (with the appearance of thunderclouds) to wash away all the acidophilus bacteria (which looks like cactus-trees) culminating in an upset stomach, farts loud enough for the moon to hear, and the heart-shape hands typing the next chapter of the story in, on, behind, adjacent, and surrounding the head and left arm of Untitled Portrait of Self.
chapter 3 →
“Where did I leave off?”
“The bronzed, buxom, lass gazing back toward...”
“Ahh, yes...the eye is guided toward an undulating panel of graffiti—good-ugly public art—floating along the left extremity of Untitled Portrait of Self. The letters don’t coalesce into clear words (standard for street art) and don’t seem to be painted on a wall; instead, the alphabet-curtain is apparently blowing in the wind. Jangling wind chimes in the top-most corner add to this suggestion of motion.
“Two figures inhabit the middle-ground behind the leg and in front of the water’s edge: a study for Edward Degas' sculpture, Little Dancer of Fourteen Years and a donkey-zebra...”
“Before the graffiti gets too far in the rearview, could you tell me how to differentiate between good-ugly public art and bad-ugly vandalism?”
“Context and intent. The difference between the staccato bark of a neighbor’s dog incessantly echoing off dark alley walls and a wolf’s howl rising and falling on the moonlit shadows of the wind. Both wake you up. One disrupts much-needed rest before another day of drudgery and the other opens your eyes reminding you that an entire universe continues unabated while you slumber.”
“A nice analogy, but could you spell it out in more simple and direct terms?”
“A vandal gets a dump of adrenaline when committing a crime of spontaneity and not getting caught, and—later—re-lives that rush when witnessing his results in the light of day (sotospeak). There’s also an element of ‘pay attention to me’ and an enjoyment/expectation that the damage will cause negative reactions. The adrenaline-part is no different for street artists, but they spend mxm effort, time, and money in design, planning, and preparation compared to the amount they spend during the execution phase and negative reactions are rarely, if ever, their goal.”
“Got it. Thanks. Back to...”
“...the zonkey looking back at us. A visual metaphor for my cat, a lynx-point Siamese and striped tabby (mixing causes good traits to dominate). When a two-dimensional image is depicted staring directly at the viewer, the intent of the artist is similar to a writer’s paragraph break; to cause the viewer to pause, look inward for a moment, and contemplate (here, I’m anthropomorphizing...as all pet owners do...the pony is really scanning the shoreline along both its flanks. It is, however, listening ahead to both the crackle of the campfire and the tinkle of the wind chimes).
“I want the viewer to wonder what distant object could draw the diminutive teenaged dancer’s attention away from a nearby, cute, young animal. So they follow her line of sight and see she is focusing on a large .38 caliber revolver pointed in her direction (the second of three sidearms I carried; the first a .45, the last a 9mm).
“The hand holding the revolver doesn’t have its finger on the trigger and—clearly—the gun is inoperative because its barrel contains a large, defoliated branch (suggesting winter or that the branch is dead...this rocky beach’s winter is June through August).
“If I have a real dream with a gun in it, people rarely bleed when shot and never fall down and die. My subconscious is stuck in the realm of backyard cops and robbers; one common denominator (no matter how many thousands of gory video game and film deaths my brain could reference) is me having to say: lie down, I shot you, you’re dead. In my career, I had to point my weapon at a small number of people whom I was arresting and, in every one of those cases, I never needed to put my finger on the trigger. So didn’t.
“I have a theory: Humans grow to identify their true self from a lifetime of partially remembered dream images. Those fragmented slivers of subconscious, pasted together with cobwebs, are the makings of their deeply buried taproots.
“Hanging below the branch is an image showing the interior of a human lung next to a leaf; below the lung is an image showing the interior of a human testicle next to an acorn. No subtlety, I know, but I was trying for some visual humor: the bronzed buxom lass immediately below could be flinching away from the low hanging fruit...as it were.”
“I get the pun.”
“Walking along the branch, a small, extremely strong, hairy-humpbacked dogman caricature (common sense) is swinging a huge butterfly net over its head in order to catch an inordinately svelte woman dressed in lingerie (intuition) who’s gently double-pushing the arm grasping the treelimb-gun. Neither common sense nor intuition are aware how close the net is. She doesn’t know because her eyes are closed and he never knows because the staff of his net pierces through the moon, which (because of proximity) blocks his view.
“Common sense and intuition are constantly vying to guide my decisions, while my conscience—the three-eyed evil mickey sun—is so rarely needed for consultation that its untroubled countenance floats outside the upper pane of Marcel Duchamp’s Fresh Window. I understand that for many other people, their inner-angel constantly wrestles with their inner-daemon (which, I theorize, are the self-same people who routinely have/remember their nightmares and have become enured to their inner-terrible). This is pertinent because it relates to other details (which I'll explain in a later chapter).
“The window placement and size (relative to the chair) is intended to reinforce the layout of the Bedroom In Arles by Van Gogh (discussed in the previous chapter).
“A string from the wind chimes is attached to the point of an umbrella (golf umbrella? beach umbrella?..no matter...I neither golf or beach on windy days). The umbrella’s pole is hidden behind, or stuck into, the back of the moon (either way, the perspective showing the underside of the umbrella indicates height). Next to the umbrella, the extreme up-shot of a nude woman walking toward the viewer reinforces this height-impression and, like the zonkey, she stares directly back at the viewer.”
“Good bookends. I'll bet that brings this chapter to a close.”
“Don’t mind if I do—thanks for playing. For being such a great listener, there will be cake at the end.
“So once the shy skinnydipper skips out of the surf, to warm her exceptionally pert breasts by the fire, her visage will pass under the dogman's limb; he will glance down, snag his net on the window latch, open the pane, and permit the underwater ocean waves (with the appearance of thunderclouds) to wash away all the acidophilus bacteria (which looks like cactus-trees) culminating in an upset stomach, farts loud enough for the moon to hear, and the heart-shape hands typing the next chapter of the story in, on, behind, adjacent, and surrounding the head and left arm of Untitled Portrait of Self.
chapter 3 →
What Does It Mean? - Chapter 1
“That’s hard to answer. Explaining it (untitled portrait of self) or—worse—attempting to outline what I hope others see or feel when looking at it, will—I fear—ossify its meaning.”
“You think its meaning changes over time?”
“Each view a new set of eyes, each viewer a new set of preconceived ideas. Let me provide an example.
“Stanley Kubrick’s film, 2001: A Space Odyssey, begins with an ape touching a black monolith and then using a bone as a weapon which he tosses in the air; the camera closes on the bone which morphs into a spaceship tumbling through space. Two hours of film later, the protagonist learns about a monolith in space, approaches it, and is sucked into a tunnel of light, then there are a series of images of him in a white room, another monolith, and the film ends with an embryo floating in space near earth. What does this film—specifically the beginning and ending—mean?”
“I always thought Kubrick was being intentionally abstruse.”
“After reading Arthur C. Clark’s original story and a subsequent article written by Harlan Ellison about them, I can provide this information: The monoliths are of alien origin. The first one imbued proto-humans with reason; when we uncovered the second monolith on the moon, it sent a beacon to a third orbiting Jupiter; once we became sufficiently advanced to follow the beacon, the aliens instil/infect/teach/decode-encode the protagonist (over time...the length of which is relative) and return him to earth in the form of a hybrid alien-human embryo.
Although this doesn’t alter Kubrick’s intentional abstruseness, the plot is less confusing. Right?”
“Yes...if that’s the real explanation then...”
“Your reluctance to completely accept this explanation as The One And Only says—to me—that you might prefer some uncertainty. Abstract is attractive. When a magician slows down and lets you behind the curtain it’s less exciting than watching a building under construction. One board at a time. One nail at a time.”
“Except—and this is a big except—sometimes I don’t get art. At all. This is one of those times. When I’m confused by something I ask for an explanation. Although I empathize with your reluctance...I'd—still—like you to expound. You spent hundreds of hours on it. It means something to you. I want to know what that is. Please?”
“...Ok. I'm not adverse to an art deconstruction-explanation. First, can you tell me what you feel when looking at it?”
“Dark. There’s so much going on I can’t focus on... Bizarre. Clearly you’re heterosexual. I don’t know. It’s disturbing. I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Thank you. Those are the initial reactions I was striving for.
“When people view things they consider “beautiful” (in quotes because one person’s adorable is the next’s deplorable) their brain chemically encourages them to continue this behavior. The more beautiful the view, the less active the brain becomes. You are calm. Comfortable. Serene even. Conversely, looking at things considered ‘ugly’ is chemically discouraged. In these instances, the brain initiates a ‘run away’ impulse (as if it were seeing a previously un-experienced and unidentified unknown). During these times the brain is extremely active. The ‘what does it mean’ message, however, becomes secondary to the ‘will never understand so stop trying’ message.”*
“And, you want viewers of your artwork—their brains—to want to stop looking at your art?”
“Umm, yes. In a nutshell, initially, that would be an accurate statement.”
“Seems counter-intuitive.”
“Your average everybody—the facebook masses—don’t intentionally view art. Not unless it has a cat in it, a bird on it, or a corporate stamp of approval around it. Those who do are, mostly, other artists or those with the eye of an artist and they all understand the initial ‘run away’ impulse indicates ‘deserves further consideration.’ This is not to imply everything intentionally gonging the ugly bell is good.
“I think there are many times the power of much (abbrev: mxm) bad-boring-beautiful artworks in the world; slightly less falls into the bad-ugly category; then comes all the good-beautiful and least numerous (because it’s beginning the creative process in expert mode) is good-ugly.
“I know this work is ugly. And I think it’s good. And before you say ‘of course, it’s your own.’ Know this: I only think about 20% of my own is good.”
“I understand what you’ve said so far.”
“So. Here goes something snapperheaded.
“I began with a title: Untitled Portrait of Self, which is—obviously—paradoxymoronic.
“Artists leave their work untitled because they:
- Desire not to pre-influence their viewers in any way (Jasper John’s Untitled I).
- Prefer their audience to use their own labels (many Keith Haring’s are blank. He began as a street-artist...to title graffiti is like naming the embryo you intend to abort).
- Think their work requires no title (Andy Warhol’s [no title] Marilyn prints).
“Self portraits are my least favorite type of art. ...can’t think of anything to draw, think I’ll get out a mirror... All shit—just like films about film-makers and stories about writers.
“Then I upped my difficulty level three-fold:
- Black, white, and grey because mxm of my previous work is color.
- Representational image because ditto abstract expressionism.
- Only tell my true story. Any other portrayal of self would be a sham.”
“That’s very true.
“I began with the tube of paint. My artist-symbol. The human brain on the tube could be a label (as in: contains my imagination) or it could be resting on top (if so, then either the tube is immense or the brain is minuscule).
“The raptor claw beginning to twist off the cap is both visual metaphor and visual motion. I admire every small flying dinosaur. The four talons draw the viewer’s eye toward the cap; a tiny dog tag inscribed Veach Glines, O pos, Athiest, hangs from the only talon with a hidden tip (one item of many worn during my career).
“Atheist is misspelled...I'm a bad speller. When filling out the application for my ID tags in 1982, the choices were catholic, jewish, islamic, hindu, and no pref; atheist wasn't an option. At the time I figured it was a typical example of government homogenization. Later, I learned my No Pref label was for the corpse-handlers (guess I should have changed it to hindu; cremation...less fuss, less mess, less space, less cost). The silenced ID tag (the rubber around it prevented them from clinking) reflects the encumber-impairment a job—any job—had/has on the creative juices. (Feel free to draw additional analogous references from words in that sentence and my disdain of spawn. [Hmm...I quite enjoy the verbiage of this parenthetical interpolation.])
“Immediately adjacent-below the tube is a drawing, Puddle, by M.C. Escher (whom I greatly admire; all referenced artists are among my top-favorites). The drawing is on a roll of paper, the intent of which is to shift the two-dimensional image of the tube to the background perspective by suggesting that Puddle rests on a real Australian beach (two favs: beaches and the continent-country). Below the paper is a glass of favored beer: Schneider Weiss, and dessert: vanilla ice cream (svelte, slender, or skinny have never been S-words used after ‘Veach is...’ usually stocky, sometimes stout). Contiguous placement and changing perspective (tube - paper - glass - bowl) were deliberate choices. Throughout the work, I intentionally designed visual-mental-contextual connections by the use of proximity and shape.
“Above the claw is a long sleeved button-down shirt (the style of which I wore for 14 years as a criminal investigator) the proportions suggest the claw-metaphor are ‘legs.’ Most of a scorpion comprises the ‘right hand’ and the ‘left hand’ is the scorpion’s stinger (holding the stem of a blooming daisy—she loves me, she loves me not—I’m a serial monogamist). The bottom of the stem is a scythe (a well-known symbol) the arc of which guides the viewer’s eye back to the paint tube’s cap. The blade of the scythe is either below the tube or is piercing the side of it.
“From the neck of the shirt is the head of a wild boar, tusked snout raised, sniffing the flower. The proportions and position of the boar, relative to the pelvis behind it, is a pictorial metaphor for my average-sized penis (and the reason I used a boar's head...well...homonyms and analogous interpretations abound). From the right hip socket of the pelvis, the left leg of David, sculpted by Michelangelo, extends down toward the bottom left where it appears to be precariously balanced on the edge of the chair from Vincent Van Gogh’s, Bedroom in Arles.
“Resting in a clenched fetal position on the seat of the chair, a miniature nude woman is clamped to the ankle by a coil of hose around her head (intentionally disparaging, overt, ball and chain symbol...I’ve divorced mxm). Against the side of the leg is a second miniature with large breasts basking in the sun. Not traits I prefer, but I needed visual motion (it’s natural to look where someone else is looking) and could find no untanned A-cups with a sharp backstage gaze. Mirroring the position of her arms, the scorpion’s pincers grasp the upper leg (herpes flare ups begin with nerve pain. Less stress = less pain = more intimacy; the strongest reason I chose not to return to law enforcement).”
“Wow, you really stuck to the truth, nothing-but-the-truth, part.”
“This ends the chapter. If the campfire (another favorite) behind the scythe doesn’t cause Roy Liechtenstein’s Nude with Abstract Painting (a wonderfully ironic title) to turn on the fan (which I use every night...white noise) causing the butterfly (love 'em) on the back of Van Gogh’s chair to fly away, then snapperhead will return to tell you the part of the story in, on, behind, adjacent and surrounding the right arm of Untitled Portrait of Self.”
* SEED Magazine, Beauty and the Brain, 16 SEP 08
chapter 2 →
Aeronautical hi-jinks future is fragile in peculiar taste Ignatius gives advice
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| kodgetts | hex | veach | thatjeffcarter |
It seems my old slices (I submitted the third for this in March) are all being finalized at once.
and she was Jade Turns any until the end
veach - quackling - doctormatt - dagfooyo
This was a privately exhumed lightning-round corpse, with me acting as mortician. The rules were the same as those at new exquisite corpse with the sole exception: a pre-agreed 48-hour turn around. We began on 1 May. I sent my bottom 15 pixels before 3 May (which I apologize to quackling for making more than a little difficult):
Quackling sent the next hint slice to doctormatt by 5 May:
And doctormatt provided his to dagfooyo on or before 7 May:
This finished product is an exquisite example of corpsing (our title—also stitched together in the dark—works nicely). I intend to do more lightning rounds; the one complaint I have with newexquisitecorpse.net is creating, submitting, and never seeing the finished corpse (three currently in limbo).
BEAT / or bar-el
Points of relevance: Currently (and for the last 222 consecutive nights) delivering 400-500 newspapers; sporadically creating an elaborate b&w digital rendering for the last 10+ months; very much love a good drum solo; always have been a bit of an
The Great Divide
“There are two kinds of people in the world: those with loaded guns and those who dig...” —Blondie (Clint Eastwood, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly) For as long as humans have been obstinate assholes they have been divisive. To declare 'there are two types...' and then attempt to define the issue one has with all the people who presently occupy the other camp has always seemed—to me—an extremely sophomoric way of making a point.
For the better part of my life, I have avoided aphorisms in both word and thought. I tend to see an infinitude of variations; always shades of grey, rarely black and white. Until now.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who flick the fingers of their dominant hand towards their wrist and then allow gravity to take over, bringing the toilet seat from vertical to horizontal, loudly, and with the same structural vibration as a bowling ball being dropped from waist height (intentionally communicating: Hey there family members, friends, roommates and neighbors, I've just finished!) and, then, there are those who close the lid of their toilet.
A codicil is required at this point since only about 1/3 of the world has toilet seats. The majority of the world squats. So, when I say there are two kinds of people in the world what I mean is that there are two kinds of people in the sitting world; the portion with hinged seats and covers.
Before moving to my current apartment I thought that only ADHD addled juveniles with four-to-eight-second concentration spans were slammers (which I solved by installing soft-close seats in the other bathrooms). Not so.
I live below a couple. Both are slammers. One slam means the seat was up and one of them is beginning to void; a second slam in about 30 seconds = her pissing; a second slam after several minutes = her shitting; no second slam = him shitting. And...(no kidding)...the single woman who's bathroom abuts our bedroom routinely drops both lid and seat after her male friend leaves them up (it doesn't happen every day, but that is probably because he isn't there every day).
A 'closer' can accidentally drop the lid (or communicate their anger with a slam) just like a 'slammer' can choose not to aggravate their own headache with loud noise...but...99% of the time there's no grey area; one is either a slammer or a closer.
Self-centered, inconsiderate, rude, fumbling, obnoxious, thoughtless, less intelligent members of the population are slammers. Closers are considerate, kind, conscientious, thoughtful, and empathetic. I have met no reformed slammers or ex-closers so I have no information on the possibility of their existence. I also do not know if there are correlations to other character traits, for example are slammers also litterbugs? Are closers more willing to park at the back of the lot and walk? Do slammers text during the film? Is it only closers who hold the elevator? Which picks up after their dog and which doesn't even carry a bag?
I'm interested. Slightly. Though I've already made up my mind.
Shopping Paradigm Shift Complete
I like to think of myself as someone who isn't a consumer, but—of course—that's me lying to myself.
What I am, is someone who doesn't shop. Which is (relatively) true in that I don't enjoy entering a commercial business establishment to just look at products on shelves; I despise being approached by commission/quota salespeople; and I believe customers should be actively encouraged to physically assault clerks who refuse to walk away after they learn that assistance is unwanted.
After five years of being twistangled and unbended the power cord on my laptop's adapter began to short out. I could only get it to work if I propped the transformer-brick against the spine of Harlan Ellison's Watching at exactly 23.5° off vertical with the three inches after the lump in the wire bent back on itself. An imperfect fix, but it was the kind of cheap I like. Free-cheap.
Recently, I found myself driving past what is now commonly referred to as a big box store and decided to just pop in to research a replacement (I even have anathema to using shop as a verb when referencing my own actions). Since I had my laptop with me (and the adapter with the short) I carried them in...
Twelve year old Greeter Clerk stationed two feet inside Best Buy: How can we help you today?
Me (channeling R. Lee Ermy reasonably well—if I do say so myself—considering he ain't dead): Computer -brief pause for the child to focus and comprehend the big word- Adapters.
GC: Oh. Let me get a sticker on that so we'll know you brought it in. Isle 8.
After less than one minute inside isle 7 (Isle 8 had computers), where I discovered no less than five different brands of multiple-plug adapters but none specifically for my computer, I am set upon by a nineteen year old Jedi.
Jedi: Afternoon, what's it you're looking for today?
Me (with an $40 adapter in one hand, a $100 adapter in the other, and probably-definitely a howstupidareyou look on my face): A replacement adapter.
At which point I nudged my old computer adapter with my right toe.
Jedi: Well looks like you found what you're looking for. Both of those'll work. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: How do I know these will work? Nowhere on the packaging are there any applicable part numbers.
Jedi (beginning to allow a bit of exasperation to enter into his voice): See here? Where it says, works with the following brands? And then it says...yup...Gateway. Yours is a Gateway. It'll work.
Me (wishing my initial reply had been, 'I don't need any help'): Great. Thanks.
As Jedi walked away with the standard parting salvo, I concentrated on the different products and tried to determine why there was such a vast range of prices and if maybe there was a list of model numbers somewhere...up walks another Jedi-clone. This one was drunk on corporate Best Buy dingleberry flavored Kool Aid.
Dingleberry: What can I help you with today?
Me: Nothing.
Dingleberry: This* brand (indicating the $60 one) is our best seller.
Me: Yea. The last guy said something equally as useless.
Dingleberry (refusing to back down and putting on his best 65W smile): Oh? Well this one has the most adapter plugs so if you wanted to use it to charge your ...bla de blah, wank a wank, gobbledy gook... I stopped listening as he rambled on about how I would be able to dispense with my iPod charger and my cell phone charger and the power adapter on my inflatable butt plug with the scintillating-vibrating core. When he finally wound down enough for me to wedge in a word, I said...
Me: Where is the list of applicable model numbers? And, why is this one more expensive?
Dingleberry: The prices fluctuate. Both will work. Let's find an outlet and plug it in. I'll show you that it'll work.
At this, he took the cheaper one around to the computer area and proceeded to cut it out of it's packaging while I watched. After trying all of the plug-ends to no avail (one fit, but it wouldn't power my computer) his 65W smile dimmed and flattened into a definite frumpy-frown.
Me: Good thing I didn't take you at your word that all of em would work.
Dingleberry: Well, you've got one of those odd ones that won't fit. Weird.
Me: So when it says on the side of the package fits Gateway's they don't mean all Gateway's, right?Dingleberry: No they're all supposed to. Maybe your motherboard is at fault and it's not the power cord. Let's look at...
Me (cutting him off with an increase in volume and tone before he gained velocity): NO. It's the power cord. It has a short in it. It works sometimes and not others. You have been a great help. You have reaffirmed any doubts I had about shopping at Amazon for the rest of my life (...now lean forward and choke yourself...).
I came home. Tapped in my model number and paid Amazon $2.89 (plus $6.99 in shipping/handling) for an exact replacement.
Obviously I'm reluctant to completely make the plaza-amazon paradigm shift. Seven months ago I bumped the corner of my automobile into a post and cracked the exterior of the driver-side headlight. A chunk of plastic fell out. The light still worked fine, so I did what I do in cases like this: nothing. Four months later the light bulb burned out. I called around to a few auto repair shops in the area; the cheapest estimate was $425.00. I called some auto parts stores; the cheapest price was $230.00. I searched SQUIRE for junkyards and used parts stores; the cheapest used-quote was $135.00. I tapped in my vehicle model number and paid Amazon $105.00 (with free shipping) and a new one arrived in three days. It took me about 90 minutes to replace it.
* After I'm elected King-o-the-Whole-Wide, this is the point where it would be acceptable to pile-drive Jedi's diaphragm into his spine and then punt whichever kidney presents itself with sufficient force to remind him (every time he took a red piss over the next week) that 'no' means 'no'.
The Cabin in the Woods - Review (☆☆☆☆)
Recommending a new film is incresadingly rare—not quite as rare as having an enjoyable conversation with a stranger; but definitely rarer than having an enjoyable conversation with a stranger younger than the minimum legal age to become president.
The Cabin in the Woods is a wonderful blend of scares and humor, orchestrated for people who have already seen at least fifty frightful films in their life. This is not to say it's a comedy; it definitely will be found in the horror section wedged between Identity and Devil. And, I'm not saying (yes I am) that if you have only seen a small dozen scary movies in your life that you're mentally unprepared to see this film (woefully so) and, if that were the case, that you wouldn't be affected by the make-you-jump-parts (of course you'll still be a-scared) or wouldn't enjoy the lighter moments (you'll giggle) but unless you have already attended Camp Crystal Lake near Haddonfield, Illinois, watched videos with Masami and Tomoko, and perused the Naturan Demonta...you will be unable to savor the miasma of ingredients that were expertly combined in order to fabricate the broth and bones of the soup.
The last funny horror film I recommended, Rubber, was a foreign film in every way except dialogue (which may be confusing, but no more than the film—in its entirety—is intentionally confusing). Before that, I recommended the Korean monster film, Gwoemul, as containing just the right amount of humor and fear. If I were asked to say only one thing about exceptional American horror films, it would be: they have very few peers. The Cabin in the Woods has now joined those ranks.
The Cabin in the Woods is a wonderful blend of scares and humor, orchestrated for people who have already seen at least fifty frightful films in their life. This is not to say it's a comedy; it definitely will be found in the horror section wedged between Identity and Devil. And, I'm not saying (yes I am) that if you have only seen a small dozen scary movies in your life that you're mentally unprepared to see this film (woefully so) and, if that were the case, that you wouldn't be affected by the make-you-jump-parts (of course you'll still be a-scared) or wouldn't enjoy the lighter moments (you'll giggle) but unless you have already attended Camp Crystal Lake near Haddonfield, Illinois, watched videos with Masami and Tomoko, and perused the Naturan Demonta...you will be unable to savor the miasma of ingredients that were expertly combined in order to fabricate the broth and bones of the soup. The last funny horror film I recommended, Rubber, was a foreign film in every way except dialogue (which may be confusing, but no more than the film—in its entirety—is intentionally confusing). Before that, I recommended the Korean monster film, Gwoemul, as containing just the right amount of humor and fear. If I were asked to say only one thing about exceptional American horror films, it would be: they have very few peers. The Cabin in the Woods has now joined those ranks.
Another Corpse
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| Fabric of Space - To Point Out - pending - the curb appeal muggy | SkyWookiee | odefinierad | veach |
For my wife who was once my fiancée (who was bona fide)
I learned, just recently, of my love's pterodactyl preference.
Due to profanity this is NSFW or when children are within earshot.
you still only get what you pay for
On the box it listed: warming plate, removable filter basket, and automatic shut off valve. At home, it bore an uncanny resemblance to a coffee maker. It had a real looking plug which fit snugly into an electric wall outlet; a small switch which lit up when it was turned from 'off' to 'on'; a receptacle for the cold water as well as one for a filter containing ground coffee.
Although it boiled water, not very much entered the filter basket. The amount of water which did mix with the grounds was, for the most part, not able to drain into the warm pot and—instead—seeped over the edge.
I now own an authentic looking replica of a coffee machine which is both objet trouvé and inexpensive reminder.
In this picture it is 3/4 full of coffee, which was made in our french press.
Note: click on the images for their derivations.
KARA
This short film (from the Heavy Rain game studio) is intended to unveil their current motion capture ability. Although it isn't—unfortunately—a teaser for their next PS3 game, it is a very effective measure of how fantastically high they're setting the bar regarding: story, character, direction, script, and cinematography. I admire anyone (I still use singular blame) who can cause me to empathize with their character in five minutes.
For the future is gated, and there are tolls to be paid.
Oh, what a wondrous sentence. I tripped over it at the terminus of the short fiction, We Show What We Have Learned. Although the metaphorical story (written by Clare Beams) was deftly crafted, it was her insightfully essomenic bumper-post sentence which brought me pause.
I paid my first toll exactly thirty years ago. Up to that point I'd been clumsily sketching together a future which included a degree in art followed by a job which would utilize my creativity. I'd been tracing my future on the skein of selfish privilege in the ridiculous naïveté of youth (qualities, both invisible in the mirror but soon to become extremely clear in my backlight). Inside the echo of a single conversation in February of '82, I permitted my future to be shanghaied and—subsequently—dropped out of college, joined the army, and became an infantryman.
Navigating through life's toll gates must be something of a forte; adapt or become trapped.
lex parsimoniae
Vachss Can No Longer Carry The Weight
Having read every Vachss book, beginning in the late 1980's, I believe he lost his drive and anger and clarity of voice about the time he killed Pansy (Dead and Gone, 2000). He's tried for the last dozen years to get it back the way many authors do...with new characters, new settings and even new genres...none of those books are in the same league or contain the grit, clarity, or surprising hooks as well as the dark, gut-wrenching emotions he was able to imbibe into those early Burke revenge-thrillers of his. The reason is, probably, what it was/is for many artists. He changed.
Success de-fangs many creative people (which I like to think of as the Morissette Principle) and so Andy the artist becomes Andrew the author becomes Mister Vachss the businessman. He is now only writing to pay for the toys he bought with the proceeds of his previous sweat and hard-won creativity. He is no longer devoting months of his time to the keyboard on re-writes because he no longer has a message he needs to get out. Or a story to tell. Or an impatient ghost uncomfortably residing in his spine. Add to that...he has a very lazy, publisher-owned editor who never, never, never will send his story back for re-tooling because that would slow down the money train.
It's a sad thing to see, when an author becomes ensconced in his tower of success where he slowly loses readers because he has stopped struggling to create a quality product and has resorted to writing from a template, writing for a paycheck, and writing poor-quality pap.
This will be my last Vachss. I may pick up a future book of his at a lending library just to see if he was able to Koontz his way out of this downward spiral (Dean Koontz pulled out of a quality-dive-and-impending-crash in the late 1990's with his Moonlight Bay and Odd Thomas Series and now writes so very much better than he ever did in the preceding two decades). The odds are that Mister Vachss is satisfied with his past successes, is not listening to critics, and is very happy to be Mister Vachss the businessman...isn't it ironic?
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