snapshaught sphoto number 6

          This glass marble reminds me of my stepfather.

          My first memory of him:  He was dating my mother.  I was seven.  We were all "going out" as a family to an event (I vaguely remember The Ice Capades but that may have been a different night) I think it was a celebration because I recall all the adults...her, him, Nana, and Papa...were happy and full of loud smiles.  He asked if I'd help him get a tool box from his backseat.

          I accompanied him out to his sky blue 1964 Lincoln Continental in the driveway, he opened the backdoor, and I commented that it was backward.  He laughed and said it was a suicide door...no further explanation.  I'm seven.  Why's it called that?  Because it's backwards.  I didn't think to myself at this point:  Oh boy, living the rest of my childhood with this motherfucker is going to be a real treat if he thinks that's an explanation.  But I did the third-grader's equivalent (shoulder shrug or eye-roll or head shake) and thought "adults sure are stupid".

          Seeing the size of the metal box, painted the same color as the car, I thought he was testing me to either see how strong I was or to see how willing I was to try to pick up something I knew I couldn't lift.  I couldn't tell which test it was by his smile, so I went along with it...grabbed the handle, gave it a tug (it didn't budge) and then watched as he oompfed and grunted it into the house.  It was filled with his coin collection...and probably weighed as much me.

 

          In 1995 he died of heart disease complicated by diabetes and exacerbated by being an obstinate asshole.  I've written about my stepdad before.  Because he was divorced from my mother, after his funeral I took a month off from my military duties, slept in his house, and spent hundreds of hours sorting through and throwing away decades of junk, files, and papers (he wasn't a full-blown hoarder but he kept unnecessary things...like thirty years of credit card receipts).

          This 1¾" (46mm) marble was on a shelf in his bedroom surrounded by other knick-knacks...my last memory of him.

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

STRANGE WORLD

visit STRANGE WORLD blog

snapshaught sphoto number 5

          I lived in Mons, Belgium 1993-95.  Summer weather permitting, I occasionally drove west about ninety miles to one of the beaches near Oostend (which I thought at the time was another everything-is-backward-in-French thing, today I read on everyone's favorite chalkboard that there's a historical reason why the farthest western city is named Eastend).

          After a long beach afternoon in 1994, I and my wife-at-the-time had a very nice dinner and stayed in a bed and breakfast in nearby Bruges.  The next morning I rescued this from a flea market vendor who was intending to cut it in half.

          He was running a geode grab-bag: select from a huge pile of over three hundred various shapes and sizes, pay for it, and then he'd halve and polish the halves.  No guarantees that your geode would contain a druzy cavity.  On display were precut and polished halves with beautiful crystals lining the inside pockets (priced double to 20X more than the uncut, rough geodes).

          Although there is a slight score mark on this 2 inch (53mm) geode, it's as perfectly spherical as a naturally formed rock could be.

          The Flemish vendor (who spoke no English) seemed quizzical (het inclusief!) and became rather flabbergasted when I didn't want to take advantage of his saw and grindstone services and couldn't explain myself other than to smile and repeat, dit is goad, as I nodded and walked away.

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

snapshaught sphoto number 4

          Last April we stayed in a yurt (because we'd never done it before).  Two mid-week nights were available the following week, so we decided the weather was nice enough and made the reservation (we aren't dedicated foolish enough to lock-in anything over a year in the future...so yurt camping in the Summer or on a weekend would never happen).

          As we headed to Fort Stevens State Park, the weather was normal for Oregon in April: partly cloudy and cool.  We stopped in Astoria, Oregon, to eat and I found this sphere in a second-hand shop.  Slightly larger than 2" (52mm), this hand-blown glass float most-probably was attached to a Japanese fisherman's net a half-century or more ago.

          As it got dark it began to snow.  By the next morning many of the high-passes were closed even though only about two or three inches accumulated on the beach.  We drove the ice and snow covered sand, explored local eateries, and kept as warm as anyone could when camping in below freezing weather.

          Although the yurt had a built-in space heater it also had edge flaps which were laced and tied-down.  One cancelled out the other.  Depending on the strength of the wind blowing through the cracks, the interior temperature fluctuated between 45° and 55° (7-13°C).

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

snapshaught sphoto number 3

          One of my spheres was a gift from my fiancée in 2010.  In 2008 we noticed a 2" (50mm) ivory billiard ball in an antique store near McMinnville, Oregon.  I was ambivalent about ivory.  After some weeks of thought and discussion, I realized buying antique ivory would no more incentivize the present and future slaughter of large mammals than would watching 1984-Traci-Lords-porn jeopardize the innocence* of today and tomorrow's sixteen-year-olds.  So I decided that if I ever ran across another antique snooker ball, I'd buy it.

          Two years later, my fiancée was traveling home after a week of working-on-the-road and I was sitting in our living room gazing at my collection.  I thought about the routes she could travel, realized she might be driving through McMinnville, and called her.

          'Hiya'
          'Hi, I was just wondering if you were driving back through the McMinnville area.'
          'Yup, why?'
          'Do you remember that antique mall we visited a few years ago?'
          'uuuuum yeaah?'
          'Well I thought that if they were still open when you got there, could you do me a favor and see if they still have that ivory sphere?  I know it's a long shot...'
          'THAT is so weird, I've got goose bumps.'
          'Huh?  What is?'
          'Do you know where I am right now?'
          'Oh wow.'
          'There goes my surprise.  I'm standing at the check-out counter with it in my hand.  You know it's got a couple cracks, right?'
          'Yea, that's OK.  What made you think to stop?'
          'I was driving past and just remembered talking about it years ago.'
          'Is the din-din din-din Twilight Zone music as loud on your end as it is on mine?'
          'I can hear it much too loudly and waaay too clearly.'

* A once very common quality (even ubiquitous in some parts of society) which, although not yet extinct, is narwhal-rare.  Or is that attitude just the cranky old duffer in me coming out?

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

snapshaught sphoto number 2

          On my first vacation to Negril, Jamaica, I commissioned this sphere to be made from local ironwood.  I located an artist who understood only a little English but eagerly agreed to interrupt his current carving to make a sphere (which I described).  When I returned two days later, he presented me with a golf ball...the entire surface crammed with hand carved dimples.  I promptly paid for it without argument (my cats enjoy it...and it's probably under one of my chairs or couch at this very moment).  Then I commissioned another (for the same price) only, this time, would he be so kind as to make it smooth?  Yes, of course; respect mon.  And could he make it slightly larger?  Just a little larger?  Irie...two more days.

          It is smooth and it is ever-so-slightly larger (it's close to 1½ inches, 40mm).  It also has a hand-crafted look because it is almost but not quite a perfect sphere.

          Every time I look at it I think about pumpkin soup at a West End restaurant overlooking the cliffs, walking the beach drinking just-squoze orange juice from a recycled whiskey bottle with little shards of ice still floating in it; golfing at the Negril Hills (with a caddy who sprinted off as soon as I hit in order to locate the ball...what a way to earn a tip); sunburn removing beach massage with the goop squished fresh from Aloe Vera leaves; obtaining my SCUBA certification (with stingrays!); Orange Bay; catching crabs and lobsters from a pier using a net-shrift and some twine, and a private concert by Brushy One String.

           All these memories are completely intertwined from my 1997 and 1999 trips; only with concentration can I pick the them apart.

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

snapshaught sphoto number 1

          I've been asked why there aren't more snapperhead pics of cats, myself, loved ones, Portland locales, or locals even (whenever I end a sentence like that, my inner ear hears the voice of Snagglepuss).   My tweet-able response (by which I mean, Mom, 140 characters or less) has always been:  When I rely on my eyes and brain my memories are strengthened.  Camera = crutch.  Carrying a camera weakens my experience.
       
          Along the same vain:  Van Gogh is attributed with saying that it isn't the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to.  The feeling for the things themselves—for reality—is more important than the feeling for pictures.  And I do soverymuchespecially love finding a quote by someone I admire which parallels my own thoughts on a subject.

          However, I do have a collection of items, like snapshots, which act as memory-stimuli, even though they aren't snapshots for anyone else but me.

          Here is the first one I collected:

          You see a polished sphere, about two inches (47mm) in diameter, made from veined red jasper sitting in a curved malachite dish.  I see Moab, Utah, 1990.

          Obtained at the end of a vacation from the Moab Rock Shop, it reflects all the elements of those two weeks:  Sitting up at night on the rim of a canyon watching a brilliant, close-falling, meteorite; tent camping in Canyonlands; hiking in Arches; trekking the length of Shafer Canyon Road from Dead Horse Point State Park to Devils Garden Campground (before it became easily accessible for two-wheel drive vehicles) in a front wheel drive Oldsmobile.

          Here's the most unique thing about this type of memory trinket:  overlaid and conjoined with that trip is my first visit, thirteen years prior, (with Brian Ottinger, a college friend) where we drove the same road, dirt and boulders at that time, but in the opposite direction in my shit-colored VW beetle (we each took turns riding on the rear bumper holding on to the curved flange of the roof-edge); bathing in the frigid Colorado River; and camping at Slick Rock Campground, as well as all my more recent visits to Moab and the Canyonlands National Park area (2002, 2005, 2006 and 2007).

          I wouldn't want to live there, but my favorite place to visit in the US is Moab, Utah.

similar essays:

Sphere Series (ongoing)

Annual Cecil Picture

Cecil O. Zonkey - four years old

also

Cecil - 3 yrs

Cecil - 2 yrs

Cecil - 1 yr

Best Bad Guy of the Bunch - Republican Democrat or Independent (a conversation)

     

          How do you know if you’re a Republican or a Democrat?

          That’s an interesting question for a fifteen year-old.  I assume you’re asking because you will be eighteen and eligible to vote in three years?

          No.  I have to write a paper on what it means to be a...fill-in-the-blank...political party.

          And your choices are only Republican or Democrat?

          Um, no.  I...just only know about those.  What are you?

          Independent.

          So you vote for Independent candidates?

          I have on occasion, but what it usually means is sometimes I vote for a Democrat and sometimes I vote for a Republican.  I never vote for a party, always for a person.

          So you know you’re an Independent because you don’t always vote for one party, instead you vote for whichever candidate is the best to you?  Sounds good to me. 

          I see from your expression you think that might be enough information to fill your report?

          Hah—yea, that was what I was thinking.

          If I were to explain what it means to be an Independent, I’d have to explain why I’m neither a Democrat nor a Republican, nor Libertarian, Green, blah, blah—the list is long—much more complicated than explaining why someone belongs to one party.  I have an idea.  Why don’t you pick something the government has done that you like or dislike and maybe I can help you determine which political party you prefer.

          I really can’t think of anything the government did or didn’t do.  I don’t pay attention to that stuff.

          Oh come on.  There must be some rule or law that you...

          I know:  I wish I didn’t have to wait until I’m sixteen to get a job.

          OK, that’s what I mean.  But, it isn’t exactly true—you are allowed to work at fifteen, it’s just that you are limited to certain types of jobs and certain hours.  But, since Child Labor Laws aren’t favored by one political party, none of this will help you write your report.  How about another one?

          Ummmm...

          Finish this thought:  ‘If I were elected King, the first thing I’d do...’

          I would remove all the no skateboarding on the sidewalk thingy’s. 

          Ahh.  Now we’re getting somewhere.  Good.  This is a private property and insurance liability issue.  It may appear you’re skating on public property, but the entire grocery store parking lot is private property.  So they post signs which—at face value—prohibit you from skating there; the real purpose is to protect them from lawsuits when you get hurt or when you crash into someone else....

          ...No no, not those.  I’m talking about the sidewalk ones.

          I don’t understand.  What sidewalk ones?

          They’re yellow and bumpy?  You know.  They make them out of rubber.

          Oh.  Ohhh.

          You think those are installed to impede skateboarders?

          That’s what I was told.

          Actually, they’re to assist people with disabilities.  People who are almost blind can see the bright yellow; those who are completely blind can feel the bumpy-rubber texture; snow and ice melts fast on them, and they provide traction for wheelchairs.  The fact that it also dissuades skateboarders is an unintended side-bonus.

          What?

          Oh, I’m sorry, did I say that last bit out loud? 

          Not.  Funny.

          But it applies very nicely to the politics issue.  Very nicely.  Now that you know the purpose of the safety mats, would you still remove them if you were elected King?

          Yes.  Ahhmm, no.  Probably not.  Wait a minute—how does this have anything to do with political parties? 

          I’ll explain.  Let’s pretend you are King.  OK?

          Great!  As King I demand you give me an allowance.  This minute.  In fact.  Give me every dollar in your wallet.  It is a tax.  A new tax.  On...ability to talk to the King.  Everyone who talks to the King must pay this tax.

          Wonderful!  NOW we’re getting somewhere.  Even though you’re laughing, it indicates which political party you might be affiliated with.

          Really?

          Yup.  But before you take all my money your highness, I’d like to address the issue of installing safety mats at every curb cut in your kingdom.  Once I’m finished explaining, I think you’ll agree.  May I begin?

          Begin lowly citizen.

          Your Highness...

          You may address me as Your Majesty or just Majesty for short.

          Very good, Your Majesty.  A million of your loyal and devoted minions are sight or mobility disabled.  Every one of them will benefit from the installation of safety mats.  The total cost to install a safety mat at every cut curb in your land will be less than .000001% of Your Majesty’s treasury or—to put it in clearer terms—it will cost you less than what you pay for one minute of electricity in all your government buildings.  They will protect these citizens from injury and even death.  If they save even one of your minions lives, isn’t the cost worth the expense?  Thank you for listening to me Majesty.

          You are most welcome my lowly citizen and I...

          Your Majesty if I may?  I’d like to address the other point of view if you will permit?

          Why yes, you...  with... the worst most-terrible almost-British accent.  Or is that French?  French Canadian maybe?

          I’m so dreadfully sorry about my accent Majesty.

          Go ahead then.  Continue if you must.

          I would like to appeal to Your Majesty’s common sense and suggest you do not install any so-called ‘safety mats’ anywhere in your land.  The person who spoke to you first claimed that they would cost less than a hundred-thousandth of one percent.  Which may sound like a small percentage; but you have a very large treasury Your Majesty.  The total dollar cost would be ten million dollars.  Want to know how to save that much money?...don’t install skateboard prevention mats.  I represent two million skateboarding minions—double the number of disabled in your land.  They could definitely be injured if they were to skate over these dangerous mats and get thrown off their boards into traffic.  You of all people, a Majestic skateboarder of the highest magnitude yourself, should understand that it’s better to have less government intervention, less government spending, and protect more of your minions.

          Ummm...

          I would appreciate a chance at rebuttal, Your Majesty.

          Jeez.  I didn’t think it would take this long.

          Please Majesty?  I will be brief.

          OK.

          My French Canadian opponent spoke as if it skateboarders should never be inconvenienced by dismounting their boards and walking around the safety mats.  Your wheelchair-bound citizens do not have that luxury.  He wants a few young and healthy skateboarders to enjoy a faster-smoother ride.   I’m requesting you assist and protect the weakest of your people, who may not be able to use a winter sidewalk to get to the grocery store.

          Does the French Canadian have a rebuttal for the rebuttal?

          No.  You have enough information to decide. 

          And depending on which way I decide will tell you...?

          Which political party you favor.

          I decide:  Not to install. 

          As any fifteen year-old King would be expected to do.  Which is why we don’t have any youthful monarchies and why you have to be at least 35 years-old to run for President.

          So which party would I favor?

          Republican.  Most juveniles are members of the GOP.

          You seem kinda upset.

          Not upset.  Not really.  It’s just that I’d have voted the other way.  Even when I was fifteen.  I’ve always thought it was very important to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.

          You want to know why I voted not to install?

          Sure.

          Because handicapped people can get up those low curbs without them already.  It seems like an unnecessary added expense.  Like braille instructions on drive-up ATMs and handicapped parking spots in front of a military recruiter’s office.

          Good one. 

          Thanks.

          But all ATMs are the same...some are installed next to driveways...some are installed next to sidewalks.  You aren’t suggesting that blind people shouldn’t be able to use an ATM?

          No.  I bet now you’re gonna tell me the same thing applies to recruiter’s offices?

          Exactly.  The law states public buildings have to reserve a certain percentage of their parking spaces for disabled patrons.  Huge parking lots have a large number of handicapped spaces, tiny parking lots have one space.  It doesn’t matter what the building is used for.  And, just to play devil’s advocate—what about the parent-on-crutches who wants to drive their high schooler to talk about joining the Air Force?  Should they be forced to walk two blocks just because the military doesn’t recruit disabled members?

          Got it.  What about deciding against the safety mats makes me Republican?

          Republicans want less government—which means less laws and less taxes.  Also, Republicans are less interested in protecting minorities and more interested in protecting their own interests...which, in this case, would include a skateboarder assisting other skateboarders.

          Which makes me sound really selfish.  You aren’t addressing the fact that blind people in wheelchairs are already able to get up the curbs. 

          Because it’s specious.  It’s the equivalent of claiming:  same-sex partners can enter into civil unions so they have no reason to obtain marriage licences, or illegal aliens who were brought into the country as infants—who’ve grown up never knowing anything but the United States—should be deported.

          Both are claims made by...?

          Republicans.

          Anything bad about the Democrats?

          I disagree with the Democrats stand on Affirmative Action; I don’t think it is fair to promote or select or accept or award one person above another for any reason besides merit.  I also don’t concur with their party’s policies on:  the PATRIOT act, Israel, NAFTA and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

          Sounds like you don’t like any party.

          Independent all the way buddy...every election I vote for the best bad guy of the bunch.

☀ Summer

          The trope of an unlikely athlete in a marathon...although she began the race with the crowd, as the sun's rays got longer she slowed down until all the other competitors moved ahead.  Then it was just her, still moving forward, exhausted.  It's late, now she is limping.  The finish line timer indicates it has been way too many days more than normal but, eventually, the unlikely athlete clears the 45th parallel...where she is met by her loyal friends:  Autumn, Winter, and Spring.

          In much of the US this year, Summer actually usurped Spring, arriving in March and—now—she's become über-summer (reminding more than 275 million US residents what it's like to live below the 33rd parallel).  Well she finally arrived in the Northwest:  three consecutive days above 80°F (27°C).

Golf GPS

          Another first.  Played with a ParView GPS on the cart.  Not only does it maintain score(s); indicate yardage to: pin, front/back of green, hazards and other golf carts; act like a golf OnStar to notify the course marshall if assistance is needed; and track playing pace...it also permits pre-ordering as you near the clubhouse, so your food will be ready when you hit the 19th hole.  What's not to love?
          I can estimate as well as anyone, but always knowing exact distances (combined with my numbers) means lower scores and less lost balls, which means more money in my pocket, which means I can afford to play at a course which charges more because they have ParView GPS on all their carts.

Married to the Sea - global warming

Although it's still quite cool and Spring-like here in the Northwest, I hear Summer is spanking
 98% of the rest of the US of A just like they voted against it in the last election...but it still won.

Deconstruction of Zeitgeist using the Bloody Socks Rule

          This is not a review of the film Zeitgeist—there are more than enough reviews (debunkings, addendums, etc)—instead, this is a brief examination of the film’s ideas and theories utilizing the Bloody Socks Rule as a litmus.  Although no new or original information is proffered by the director, Peter Joseph, because this film is slickly produced and smoothly edited it's much easier to watch than its progenitors.   

          It’s not unfair to compare the opening act with a barker filling the theater.  The director sets the stage describing the building blocks early religious leaders utilized to construct the christian faith.  Anyone who wants to itemize Mr. Joseph's erroneous statements should understand that none of his details matter.  It's completely irrelevant if it is all supposition or 100% true.  It doesn’t matter if various traits and plot arcs of the Egyptian god Horus (or his predecessors) were used to create the christ-myth.  The only important thing is the foundational themes which interweave the whole film. 

Theme #1 - The most powerful puppet-masters have amazing prescient abilities.
Theme #2 - To maintain their power, these super-apex men encourage their puppets to war.
Theme #3 - They successfully pass their secret batons from generation-to-generation and have done so for centuries.

          The film in three sentences:  Fifteen hundred years ago, the most powerful super-apex men were the priests who constructed christianity.  They sent their puppets off to kill in the crusades and burned witches for centuries just so they could drink from golden chalices.  Today, the most powerful super-apex men are politicians and bankers who work hand-in-hand to manipulate the US into its large wars and then keep them in those wars for as long as possible because the war-machine is profitable.

          I don’t think anyone will contest that Zeitgeist was scripted as propaganda in order to appeal to non-religious, non-wealthy, skeptical, disaffected, Americans.

          This is where the Bloody Socks Rule comes in (recap: focus on one valid piece of evidence).

          I call Zeitgeist’s bloody socks ‘The Unseen Unproof’.

          The film suggests hundreds of American political and military people either passively conspired to sacrifice or actively finger-on-the-trigger murdered thousands of our own citizens on 11 September 2001.  Even though it could only be possible if we were all Borg, the film implies that unknown and unseen explosive experts were allowed to rig three WTC buildings for demolition all through the night of 10 Sep 2011—because just hitting them with plane-loads of people wouldn’t bring them down and wouldn’t be sufficient to sway public opinion to go to war.  And, the missing passenger plane debris at the Pentagon as well as the unseen debris at the crash site in Pennsylvania means the missing planes (AA77 and UA93) didn’t crash.  There must have been missiles.

          The film doesn’t say anything about Area 51, but where else would you hide two planes and 100+ passengers?

          One of the things that amazes me about conspiracy nuts...they imbue ‘authority figures’ with more intelligence, capabilities, and cleverness than your average idiot.  In my experience everyone is an average idiot.  They don’t seem to understand that everyone:  Presidents, fighter pilots, WTC architects, ground-zero clean-up crews, policemen, firemen, receptionists, bankers, Osama, suicide-terrorists - all - are all just a bunch of overgrown kindergartners playing at adult games.

          Greedy?  You bet.  Prone to making mistakes?  Every day.  Capable of keeping a secret?   Never.

also:

another non-review of a different bad film

Gently produce when random laughing monster a belated revenge until the tsunami

veach  |  GTC  |  bluesboyjr  |  beatsoul

          I began the first slice of this in March (and thought it was lost forever).  In this extremely bizarre composite of hilarious incongruity, the only theme I can identify is "country trademarking" (None-USA-England-Germany).

          It seems this is another corpse which ended up 15px short (only this time it looks like GTC overlapped rather than abutted  *insert brief laugh-track at innuendo here*)...which I've (now) learned is OK/within the rules.  I stand corrected.  Live and learn.

 also:

May's Corpse

April's Corpse

Corpse-ing Explained

♫ Hap·py Birth·day Ner·gal ♪

          Today is the Mesopotamian God Nergal's birthday.

          A deity of certain sun-phases, as well as the desert (a negative aspect of the sun), war, pestilence, and the underworld, Nergal is represented by the summer solstice (high summer being the dead season in the cradle of civilization—portions of present day Iran, Iraq, Turkey and Syria).

          Rival religions (christianity and judaism) sometimes referred to Nergal as a demon or as a minion of beelzebub.

          Look how far we superstitious monkeys have crawled in...less than six thousand years.

Simple Math by Manchester Orchestra

         Remember, back in 96, when you heard Matchbox 20 for the first time?  How about the first time you watched Modest Mouse perform 'Float On' (which, for me, must have been 04 or 05)?  Well, this is just like that...this video hits me in the tender bits...this song is fantastic. 

a softer world

Return to Oz - (☆☆☆☆) film review

          I never saw this 1985 film until now.  People mentioned it, but never recommended it.  In the mid-90s, after watching The Craft, someone told me Fairuza Balk played Dorothy in Return to Oz, and when I said I hadn't seen it they replied, 'you didn't miss anything.'   So I let it slip through the cracks.

          Shame on me for trusting them.  Shame on them for being a shitty film umpire.

          It has 80s-quality special effects (greenscreen bleeding, poor claymation, and clumsy puppeteering) which needs to be overlooked with today's CGI-pampered eyes, but its script, acting, editing, and story are tight.  If you continue to not see this humorous, non-musical, dark fantasy and - instead - pay to see anything currently running at your local movieplex...you are throwing away your money.   

         

New Phone

          No longer do I have:  a contract, minutes, overages, or any surcharges.  I regained control by replacing all of the above with a throw-away phone.

          I now pay $2-a-day (on the occasional day I use it to communicate) and $0 every other day (when it's a pocket watch / camera / 911-service).  My monthly costs should fall between $6 and $12...about $100 a year.

          It's topped-up with a few bucks when the tank gets low, turned on only when needed, I group my just-want-to-chat calls into a pile, and still have it when I might need to shout 'marco' and listen for 'polo' because we got separated in the crowd.

          FILE UNDER:  pleased as a truffle-swine swimming in shiitake.

I'm the death open the pod bay down route 666 started somewhere near

GTC  |  veach  |  angeleyes  |  quackling

          This corpse was a double lightning round.  Each slice was double sized from the "regular" at New Exquisite Corpse (600dpi, 900px by 400px - hint slices were 30px high) and lightning because there was a 48-hour turnaround for each slice.  All artists (listed above in top-to-bottom slice-order) completed their portion on, or before, the two-day deadline (however, a series of unexpected glitches forced the overall product to take twice as long to complete).

          I am extremely pleased with this outcome.  The added detail of 600dpi is fantastic.

          Thank you GTC for beginning such a great theme (which I built upon, relying on what I assumed—correctly—were rifle cartridges on the right and the word NECRO).  Angeleyes, your ability to wonderfully enhance the theme based on two vague hints (CRO letters and an old wrist) is superb.  Which brings us to quackling...who's hint slice—thanks to angeleyes—was amazingly complex (license plates, gears, signs, letters...oh my!) yet quack created a stupendous closing composition which contains humor, frivolity, and continues the subtext.  I love it.

 also:

May's Lightning Round

April's Regular Corpse

Corpse-ing Explained

U-Mix: SCHWARM [timelapse] / The Flower Kings [Attack of the Monster Briefcase]

1.  Turn your volume up.
2.  Start the music above without expanding the screen.
3.  Immediately start the video below and then fullscreen it.

Dearest Anon Wealthy Conservative Commenter (bless your heart),

          In order to not get confused by all the chaff, I always recommend picking one thing (the bloody socks analogy) but, for those who need several, here is my response to your comment:

• The Affordable Care Act, provides coverage to the uninsured and tames runaway medical-cost inflation.
• The Recovery Act contained both short-term stimulative measures and increased public investment in infrastructure, green energy, and the like.
• Dodd-Frank financial reform, while failing to end the financial industry as we know it, is certainly far from toothless (as measured by the almost fanatical determination of Wall Street and Republicans to roll it back).
• A bailout and deep restructuring of the auto industry that is rapidly being repaid, leaving behind a reinvigorated sector in the place of a devastated Midwest.
• Race to the Top, which leveraged a small amount of federal seed money into a sweeping national wave of education experiments, arguably the most significant reform of public schooling in the history of the US.
• A reform of college loans, saving hundreds of billions of dollars by cutting out private middlemen and redirecting some of the savings toward expanded Pell Grants.
• Historically large new investments in green energy and the beginning of regulation of greenhouse gases.
• The Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act for women.
• Consumer-friendly regulation of food safety, tobacco, and credit cards.
• Elimination of several wasteful defense programs.
• Equality for gays in the military.
• Expanding targeted strikes against Al Qaeda (including one that killed Osama bin Laden).
• Ending the war in Iraq.
• Helping to orchestrate an apparently successful international campaign to rescue Libyan dissidents and then topple a brutal kleptocratic regime.

          QED.

          *Extracted from When Did Liberals Become So Unreasonable? - Jonathan Chait, 20 Nov 2011, NY Magazine

Toys

          My infatuation with gadgets began from watching The Man From UNCLE.  As a wee lad, I played with toy guns.  Everyone my age did.  That was the one-word noun we used—guns.  Playing guns.  I recall my favorites in the mid-60s would transform from everyday items (camera, radio, movie camera) into a plastic pistol, rifle, or machine gun.  From then on, the best gadgets were multi-functional tools.

           Although 'watch' is the label the Dakota company has placed on this timepiece, I call it one of my favorite gadgets.

          To describe it with more precision, it is an outdoor gear travel-clock (it's too large for a belt loop, body heat raises the thermometer, clothing blocks the UV sensor).

          I clip it to the shoulder strap of my hiking case or golf bag.  I keep it in the campsite.  I use it on my nightstand.  I take it to the beach.

          It has all the standard features of most waterproof watches as well as:  ultra-violet radiation level, moon phase, tide level, and temperature (centigrade/Fahrenheit).  

          The hinged clip is designed to act as a base which supports the clock-face at an easy-to-view, 60° from horizontal, angle.

          My favorite features are:  the nightlight automatically shuts off after five seconds and the alarm automatically shuts off after 30.  The only negative:  no quiet mode; when setting or scrolling through functions every push causes a beep.

          Price range:  $45-$60.

          For those Gidgets who are unfamiliar with gadgetophilia I provide the following:  Although my ability to gaze outside and skyward is undiminished—and, therefore, this pocket-sized back-up isn't a necessity—I revel in über-preparedness and enjoy my increased potential to mitigate the effects of our overhead orbs (the blistering one and the waxing-waning one) with more/less clothing, sunscreen, flashlight, or an altered beach destination.

hawkdove point-counterpoint

On Days...

What Does It Mean? - Chapter 3

← chapter 1

← chapter 2

          ♫ 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.

STUFF (pie chart)

Re: Particles - makoto yabuki

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 →

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).

          “I dislike untitled art.  It’s lazy.  You end up with conversations like, ‘What did you think of the Jasper Johns...the...ah...crosshatch one with the white background?’  ‘I bought a Haring print...the one with the numbers and the barking dog.’  ‘I like some of Warhol’s but I can’t explain the difference between the good-ugly and the bad-ugly ones, sorry.’

          “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.”

          “I guess that explains why it took you almost a year to create it.”

          “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 →