Stare.
 
2003 Notebook: Weak XXXII
 
   
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7 August 2003
No. 6,523 (cartoon)
I’m overwhelmed with boredom.

I wish I was overwhelmed by something.

Anything.

8 August 2003
Sally’s Wish
“I wish we weren’t out of beer,” Sally said, staring into an atypically beerless refrigerator.

A few seconds later, Jeff walked in with a case of Rainier Ale.

“Beautiful!” Sally exclaimed. “I just wished we had some beer, and here you are!”

“I think you may have made a terrible mistake,” I said.

“Shut up and have a pint,” Sally replied.

“Do you realize what just happened?” I asked. “You wished for beer and got beer. What if you’d asked for world peace or a cure for cancer? You may just have used the only wish you’ll ever have.”

“Shut up and have a pint,” Sally replied.

And that was that.

9 August 2003
Sweet, But With a Dry, Grippy Undertow
One of the great things about using public transportation is finding copies of publications that one might never otherwise see. Today, for example, I found a copy of Whisky Magazine on the train.

Although I’m very fond of whisky (and vice-versa, I might add), I couldn’t imagine dedicating a periodical to the subject. And, after going through the entire magazine, I’m convinced that the editorial concept is untenable.

The problem with writing about whisky is writing about whisky. I believe it was Kingsley Amis who remarked that the only sensible beer ad would read, “Our beer gets you drunk,” or perhaps, “Our beer gets you drunk quicker.”

The only insightful comment I’ve heard on whisky is Umberto’s unforgettable review of Bunnahabhain: “It’s like an angel pissed on my tongue.”

Dave Broom, writing in Whisky Magazine, didn’t do as well as Umberto, possibly because he had a lot of space to fill. Here are a few of his memorable, surreal, descriptions of whisky.

    Ripe and perfumed: black fruit, wild flowers, apple, candle wax, cereal/hay loft, dry oak.

    Sweet and malty: hay, fruit salad, ripe pear, pineapple, quince, lemon, barley sugar, candy floss.

    Wet stones, thrift flowers, herbs, smoke.

    Damp straw, nut, malt, acacia.

    Sweet, but with a dry, grippy undertow.

    Immediate: smoked haddock, creosote/tar, hessian, peat smoke with a lovely sweet fruitiness behind in time.

    Meaty: roasting tin, Bovril, roasted chestnut, black butter, treacle toffee, struck match.

    Big and grumbly, hitting a balance between roasted notes, meat, walnut and butter, heather and lilac.

    Fragrant to start, then becomes increasingly oily and rich: cloutie dumpling, cooked fruits, spices, syrup; then saddle soap, coffee, nut, and light camphor.

    A bit unyielding on the nose but there’s some apple, baked banana and chocolate milk.

    Immediate: smoked haddock, creosote/tar, hessian, peat smoke with a lovely sweet fruitiness behind in time.

Fruitiness behind in time indeed. There are a kajillion things about which to write, but empirical evidence suggests that whisky ain’t one of them.

10 August 2003
The Disgusting Plate Diet
Anita is on the disgusting plate diet; here’s how it works. Anita has a special, white dinner plate with a repulsive photograph of human feces printed on it. She still puts as much food on her plate as she did before the diet, but now she leaves a lot of it on her plate in order to avoid seeing the repugnant image.

I doubt the diet works, but that might be because I’m generally skeptical about everything.

11 August 2003
Adult Art Camp
Judith called to invite me over for dinner after her return from adult art camp. Although I’m not interested in “adult” art, I do like to keep abreast of my friends’ endeavors. And, if those endeavors include images of nude, naked, or nekkid people, who am I to pass judgment?

After dinner, Judith showed me her work, which turned out to be watercolor paintings of the mountains with a few still lives here and there. I didn’t see a single image of a human being, nude, naked, nekkid, or otherwise.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why do you call this adult art?”

“What are you talking about?” Judith asked.

“You could have made these paintings in any art course,” I replied. “Why did you go to a camp for adult art? To model?”

“Oh, I see,” Judith answered with may or may not have been a weak blush. “It was an art camp for adults, not a camp for adult art.”

I should have known. I should have known, but I never do.

12 August 2003
A Poetry-free Event
I was hesitant to accept Dr. Wiems invitation to a performance, “Truth Is Fiction: Writers At The Rite Spot.” After all, most writers are like me: we don’t write very well, and we read even worse than we write. After a great deal of indecision, I finally decided to go when I noticed the fine print at the bottom of the announcement, “This is a poetry-free event.”

Any literary event that bans poets is off to a good start, so I accepted the invitation.

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©2003 David Glenn Rinehart