- The good news is that drilling in ANWR is on hold, at least for the time being. The bad news is that senators who supported Arctic drilling are pissed off about it, and decided to vent their spleens at the folks who can literally least afford it. What kind of mental disconnect are they suffering from, that allows them to cut US$2 billion in home heating relief for low-income families, all onna counta they didn’t get what they wanted? Waaah!
- From the Things That Make You Go Wha…? File: If you have early stage Parkinson’s, are having trouble walking, and you live alone, you probably shouldn’t consider getting a high octane dog, like a Husky x German Shepherd Dog. I’m just sayin’. Also, just because a dog sits quietly in its pen at the animal shelter does not, not, not mean that it’ll be mellow at home. Worse, just because it’s mellow at home for the first few days, or even weeks, does not mean that it’ll continue that way. There’s a honeymoon period, in which dogs settle into their new homes. After that period of acclimation, the dog’s behavior can change pretty significantly. Your perfectly behaved dog may suddenly decide that she really needs to investigate what’s on top of the fridge. (No, I am not making this up.)
- Also, why anyone would find it remarkable that the new King Kong is found battling dinosaurs is beyond me. I mean, does King Kong vs. Godzilla not ring any bells?
- I’ve developed an odd sleep pattern lately, wherein I go to sleep fairly early, have lots of peculiar dreams, wake up for a couple of hours, then fall back asleep. It’s useful, though, because some of the mind-wandering that occurs after waking up from those weird dreams is artistically productive. Last night, for example, I woke up and realized that I had the image of a new painting in my head. I guess that late-night programming can be good?
Month: December 2005
A Cavalcade of Wacky News Stories
Nachos of Turin
Holy nachos, Batman! Workers at a Florida restaurant found the image of the Son of God at the bottom of a nacho pan.
Mother Theresa Cinnamon Bun
Mr. Christ isn’t the only one whose personage was in the news. A cinnamon bun bearing the likeness of Mother Theresa was stolen on Christmas day from a Nashville, Tennessee coffee house.
A man, um, crossed the US-Mexican border via cannon.
It’s official, Canadians can legally have group sex in clubs.
A hilarious music video, starring Flickr Creative Commons images. If you have broadband, download and watch it. It’s really, really funny in a kinda sad, kinda sweet sorta way.
This is not your grandma’s needlepoint. (Is it just me, or does the one of Axl Rose look like Jeffrey Dahmer?)
In other arty news, here are some really cool sculptures made out of old tires.
And, speaking of tires, which brings me to cars, I think I’ve mentioned that I don’t like driving when it’s windy. Well, folks, there might be a reason for that. I live in fear of going ass over tea kettle. It could happen!
Let There Be Lips!
“A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, God said, let there be lips. And there were, and they were good.”[1]
A Warm Welcome
I spent most of the morning going through a stack of magazines, pulling images for gluebooks. Most of the magazines were of the Women’s Day, Ladies’ Home Journal and O[2] variety, so my stack of cut-outs is full of lips and doe eyes and all manner of ridiculous girly stuff. One disturbing trend I noticed was that many ads featured women’s faces, but only from the lips down.
Big, luscious, red lips, I might add. The rest of the face is apparently of so little importance that it can be omitted.
An American
Speaking of magazines, I also scanned a few more entries from my Dada Journal. Connection willing, I’ll upload them. Most of them are just my whinging about pointless things, but there’s one (still textless) example of how to work with large, dark areas. Erasers are your friends, folks! Depending on the quality of the clay coating on the paper, it may take more or less effort to lighten/remove the dark ink. I’ve made the journal out of pages from Real Simple magazine, which has fairly good quality paper, but the clay coat sticks like nobody’s business. It was a bit of a pain in the arse to erase, but well worth the effort. Erasing would also work relatively well to lighten page text, so that it can be overwritten more legibly. Just be careful not to be get overzealous, or the paper will tear. Don’t ask how I found this out.
Erasing is also a good way to scuff up the surface of a slick page so that it will better accept ink. If you’re having trouble with ink beading up, give erasing a try. Or, try sanding lightly with super fine steel wool. Beware, though, that the sanded paper will suck up more ink, so you may end up with heavy, dark lines.
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[1] If you never went to see a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show when you were in high school or college, you missed out on a boat-load of fun.
[2] Oprah makes me bitter. She has a huge cult following, with women the world over hanging on her every proclamation. That’s an enormous amount of power. Sometimes she uses it for good, but often, she abuses it. For example, her magazine, O. While it pays lip service to empowering women, it undermines that message by proffering advice to manipulate men (who, apparently, do not have the brains the deity promised geese), in various and sundry ways. In particular, this advice encompassed shutting your mouth around your man, not talking to him during a ball game, not disagreeing with him, etc.
Perhaps the most mind-boggling of the advice in that particular column involved advising that, if if a woman compliments a man, the man will think she wants to sleep with him. And, that the same is true no matter what the woman says to a man. A simple “Good morning” is an invitation to hop in the sack. WTF?!
The irony is that, by following the Oprah Plan, women are actually being manipulated by men into taking all the responsibility for the success of the relationship. It’s a world in which men have to do none of the work. How on earth anyone could possibly think that’s appropriate or healthy is beyond me.
Hemp Bound Journal
I uploaded a couple more pages from the hemp bound journal. One is kind of meh, but I like the poem that accompanies it. The other is visually more interesting, but the poem isn’t as good. That’s about par for the course. The poems are part of the Creation Myth series I’ve been playing with.
This journal was a great idea, but it ended up being a royal pain in the arse to work in. The pages are nice and heavy, which I like, but the brown color gives me a mental block. I keep pulling out the gesso and waxed paper to try to cope with the unending brown. I wonder why that bothers me, but white paper doesn’t?
A Question of Ghosts
December 22, 2005
If we were soaked in the practice
Mechanisms of truth
Lost in the work
Sanded and rectified
Stuck tight to what seemed fitting
What was lately manipulated
Encouraged
Then killed,If, all around us
The ghosts were deserting,
Would we become gods
Woe takers and lightning makers
The careful sculptors of bones and
Guardians of the lesser portion?
Three Things
December 6, 2005
Three things
Are not four things.
Three things
Are sharper than knives,
Silent famines of thought that
Shine silver like moons in the dark.
Three things are perfectly cold
By intent
By design
By the deadliest scheme.
Three things are ancient wheels
That turn in the night,
Near misses and reflections.
Three things
Are stitching thought to flesh to deed,
Bone drawing blood slickened sinew.
Three things are problematic monsters
Ministering, waiting, and watching.
Guilt By Association
Concerning last night’s rant, I think I’ve figured out the vague feeling of discomfort. It’s the same feeling I got as a child, when the kid next to me behaved badly. The possibility that I would be assumed to be complicit in the behavior was upsetting. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be associated with what had happened, but on the other, I felt powerless to stop it, because of some stupid unspoken kids’ code. It’s a matter of peer pressure. “Don’t rock the boat, or your life will get even more difficult.” As I learned yesterday, that sort of bullying is not just child’s play; adults do it, too.
And, to be clear, I don’t have a problem with Christmas itself. I was raised nominally Catholic, and my family still celebrates the holiday. However, I don’t take that as a license to smack other people upside the head with my personal holiday fetish. It bothers me when others do it, because it seems manipulative and unsportsmanlike. Or maybe it’s just ignorance. I dunno, but it seems to be born of the same urge as the chipper “Happy Yom Kippur!” blessings that obviously non-Jews wish to Jewish folks. Nice try, but it’s so close, and yet so far. I assume the effort is appreciated, but the end result only underscores the lack of any serious interest in understanding another point of view.
I have a similar problem with films like Memoirs of a Geisha. It’s a thoroughly western movie about a non-western subject. In it’s way, it’s repackaged Orientalism: it’s objectifying, exploitative, and fetishistic. And, I can’t get past the fact that the actors are Chinese. Because, apparently, all Asians do look alike.
Cats! In! Sinks!
Foolish human! A raised finger cannot stem the tide of eeevil.
Plotting
Sweet, Sweet Lovin’ Soothes the Eeevil Beast
It must be time for Saturday cat-blogging.
I’ve never understood the attraction cats have for sinks, but over the years, several of the cats I’ve lived with have been sink sleepers. Rory, too. His favorite place to hang out–aside from his kitty condo–is the bathroom sink. It means that I often have to brush my teeth and wash my face and hands in the tub, but I’ve gotten used to it.
I couldn’t get a photo of him curled up, asleep, in the sink, which is unfortunate, because he seems so snug and comfortable. But, I did get a few of him being sweet and/or eeevil.
Rory’s tail isn’t in a weird position. He’s a bobtail, so that’s all there is of it. It isn’t usually as poofed out as it is in the first picture. He’d been rolling around in the sink, which gave him a little bit of static cling. I’m blaming the new cat food, which is seriously drying out his skin and coat. Petting him is a bit like petting a sparkler. Also note the Eeevil Glowy Eyes of DQQM in the middle picture. He is All Bad, All the Time, Bay-BEE!1!! Except when he’s groovin’ on the sweet, sweet lovin’, and even then, Teh Eeevil is lurking, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Mostly, though, he’s just a damnfine cat and a total riot to live with.
In other news, I stopped by the Backstreet Mission[1] on my way home from work the other day. I picked up quite a few books to use for arting, including some ’70s vintage world and US history text books for high school and middle school, a 1939 algebra text book, a high school world cultures text book (again, from the 1970s), the Better Homes and Gardens Baby Book (1943 ed., which is chock-a-block with great illustrations and photos), the Better Homes and Gardens Family Medical Guide (1964 ed., again, with the groovy illustrations and photos), and a 1931 US history text. Most of these will be used for my new altered book project, which I intend to get started on this weekend.
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[1] I’m a big fan of shopping at thrift stores. Not only can you find lots of cool junk at cheap prices (something that anyone who makes art with recycled junk should appreciate), but the money generally goes to the folks who need it the most. The Backstreet Mission does a lot of really good things for folks in the community, and I like being able to support them whenever I can.
Resistance Is Futile
I find the underlying assumption that the default state is Christian troubling. I feel the same way when I’m wished a cheerful, peppy “Merry Christmas” by the cashier at the grocery store. It’s not a huge deal. I don’t expect that there’s anything to be done to solve the problem, or even if there is a problem. I just know that it makes me squirmy.
Apparently, it’s Not Allowed to say so out loud, though. If you do, you may be told that your discomfort indicates that you’re bitter, insensitive, uncivilized, unhappy, and intolerant, or that it means you want to kill the baby Jesus. You may even be told that most Americans are Christian, so if you don’t want to celebrate Christmas, you don’t belong here, so you should move to another country. No matter that you are an American citizen and you have every right to stay right where you are, and to voice your discomfort in ALL CAPS. Because, my understanding is that it’s not okay to dictate how other people feel, and that’s what the entire exchange came down to. I felt uncomfortable about something, and was told that I have no right to feel that way. Talk about a ridiculous response!
Another thing I find troubling is the insistence, by some folks, that non-Christians should just go ahead and celebrate Christmas because it’s the season and everybody else is doing it. Why the pressure to take part in what then amounts to a secular holiday?
And all because I had the nerve to say that I felt uncomfortable when people assume that everyone else is automagically Christian. The mind wobbles.
Happy Festivus
Since the Christmas season makes me cranky as hell, and because today is Festivus, I shall commence with the traditional Airing of the Grievances.
- In 1979, my younger brother left a peanut butter sandwich on the table in the front hallway. I was punished for it, even though it was not my fault. To be fair, I accidentally set him on fire in 1978, so I guess we’re even.
- I had to eat liver and onions when I was a child, and I’ll bear the emotional scars for the rest of my life.
- In 1976, Vicky Poff stole my library book about Hawaiian gods, and I had to spend an entire month’s allowance to replace it. That grieved me terribly.
- In 5th grade, Beverly borrowed my Unauthorized Biography of Andy Gibb and did not return it. I was over it by 6th grade, but I haven’t forgotten.
- Speaking of book stealers, one of my former coworkers borrowed my big-assed Oxford Classical Dictionary, and never returned it. I am seriously grieved about that. Bastard! (You’ll note that my taste in reading material has improved dramatically over the years.)
- I hate blog memes/tagging. I find them a total waste of my time.
- I moved 18 times and attended nine schools, before finishing high school. And, no, I’m not from a military family.
- I got the horse of my dreams when I was nine years old, but he was green-broke and ornery as hell, so he was actually more of a nightmare. I was not only grieved by this, but was damn-near killed on a couple of occasions.
- I spent the majority of 9th grade at a school chock-a-block with preppy, rich doctors’ kids. Sophomore-senior years were spent at a teaching laboratory school, which was, again, chock-a-block with preppy, rich doctors’ kids. I didn’t care so much, though, because it was on a college campus, and it was easy to skip class and get drunk.
- My 2nd grade math teacher told me that I was slower than molasses in January. I had no idea what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t nice.
- My algebra and computer programming teacher was more interested in picking on kids and looking down girls’ shirts than he was in teaching.
- My 9th grade Algebra teacher, who wouldn’t let “stupid girls” ask questions in class, is at the top of my teacher-related grievance list. That jackass should have stuck to coaching basketball, because he had no business anywhere near a classroom.
- Math, in general, grieves me. Not so much because I had some really bad math teachers, but because I’m numerically dyslexic. I try to be careful, but there’s a disconnect between the numbers I see/think and the numbers my hands write/type, so I’m forever transposing numbers, not seeing them, or just making them up. I’m constantly screwing up my check book because of it.
- In one of my family’s many moves, I lost nearly all my childhood books. That was Teh Suck. I’ve managed to replace most of them, but there are still a few that I’m missing.
Next, The Feats of Strength!
Teh Cute
Three Wise Monkeys
Credit: Graham C99
Last night, the coyotes were having a raucous good time, with lots of yiping and howling. They spend the warm weather in the larger section of forest, a few miles away, then move to the smaller section of forest behind where I live during the cold months. I’ve been hearing them in the distance for the past week or so, as they moved closer, but last night they were right outside my house. Coyotes are shy animals, and even when they’re close-by, I rarely actually see them. I know they aren’t a threat to me, but knowing that on a logical level doesn’t stop the hair on the back of my neck from raising up. Last night, they were close enough that I could hear their feet crunching on the frosty gravel of the lane, as they passed by.
It’s interesting that they returned on the night of solstice.
Harriet’s reaction to coyotes has always amused me. She pretends they don’t exist. I know she can hear them, but she doesn’t acknowledge them. If dogs came that close to the house, making that sort of racket, she’d be in a tizzy, but not so with coyotes. It’s like she’s trying to impersonate all of the Three Wise Monkeys at once: “I cannot hear them, I cannot see them, and I will not speak of them.” If you point them out to her, she looks at you like you’re smoking crack.
Happy Solstice
I finished uploading the rest of my existing art images to my Flickr account. Or, at least, everything that currently exists in digital format. I’ve got a few new things that need to be scanned and a couple of paintings at my mom’s house that haven’t been photographed, but they’ll have to wait until the motivation strikes me. I’m hoping that I’ll have lots of arting and scanning time over the up-coming three-day weekend.
Solstice Celebration
Image credit: SOHO – EIT Consortium, ESA, NASA
red paper boat 