Stare.
 
2005 Notebook: Weak XLVIII
 
   
gratuitous image
26 November 2005
No. 4,064 (cartoon)
I have a death wish.

Don’t hurt yourself.

Don’t worry; it’s not for me.

gratuitous image
27 November 2005
Not Making Art at the Foundry
I visited Monika and her clay boyfriend (don’t ask) at the Shidoni Foundry in Tesuque. Most of my work involves altering the magnetic pattern on a metal hard disk, so I quite enjoyed seeing people pouring molten metal. Nothing conceptual about that!

As could be predicted at a large foundry, I saw some thoroughly trite pieces, like a wretched sculpture of a boy chasing a puppy through flowers, and other crap designed to appeal to rich idiots.

I also found some very good work, and made a nice snapshot of four large sculptures in progress. It’s a nice image, but the photograph is not my art; it’s just documentation of someone else’s work.

I cannot predict the future, but I doubt I’ll ever make any art at any foundry.

28 November 2005
Dr. Brandt’s Cosmopolitan Formula
I’m having a fabulous time at Dr. Brandt’s compound, perhaps due in some small measure to the fabulous cosmopolitan cocktails she concocts. In my never-ending quest for quest for greater knowledge, I decided to document her methodology at lunch today. Here’s what I wrote.

    Start with 1 ltr vodka (Belvedere?)
    Add cranberry juice

And that’s as far as I got before I became pleasantly distracted.

I know there’s more to her secret formula than that, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure any pitcher of drinks with a liter of vodka in it should prove to be both efficacious if not tasty.

29 November 2005
A Gross Omission
I recently listened to Terry Gross interview Bruce Springsteen, in which he said, “The subtext of all rock songs is, ‘Will you pull your pants down?’ ” It wasn’t one of her better interviews, she was atypically fawning. In addition, Gross never once mentioned whether her pants were up or down.

gratuitous image
30 November 2005
Portable Trees
After returning from a pleasant walk down Oat Mill Lane, I asked Rose about all the curious trees I saw. The trees weren’t rooted; each one was standing above ground with its roots neatly packaged in a canvas bag, something like a tree diaper.

Rose explained that the trees belonged to a retired professor who didn’t like looking at the same landscape every day. He moves the trees around his property at least once a week. Surprisingly, the trees thrive on the concentrated fertilizer packed around their cropped roots.

I asked Rose where the professor hung his hammock, since the portable trees couldn’t support the weight. Rose explained that he was so busy rearranging his trees and other possessions that he never napped.

1 December 2005
Riding with Sam
Sam was kind enough to drive me to the airport today in one of his limousines. I asked him to tell me stories from his thirty years as a chauffeur, so he did. He told me all sorts of astounding tales on the condition I not repeat them, so I won’t.

That’s too bad, the story about Www and Xxx yyying for an hour, then leaving zzz behind all over the back seat was particularly salacious, especially since they present such a wholesome image in public.

I was so engrossed by his tales of debauchery and excess that I forgot to ask him the one question I’ve always wanted to ask a chauffeur: since he’s expected to be behind the wheels for hours on end, when and where does he urinate?

Dang dang dang, l’esprit de l’escalier strikes again!

gratuitous image
2 December 2005
Save or Eat the Whales?
Private jets are overrated. Yes, I can look out the window while urinating, but that barely compensates for the loss of anonymity I enjoy on commercial flights. And since I flew back to San Francisco in the dark yesterday, I decided to take a ScamAir flight.

I particularly liked ScamAir’s slogan, “Never a passenger complaint about an unsafe flight.” That was, of course, a reference to the 1998 tragedy when a Czech immigrant misread instructions and put forty-thousand liters instead of forty-thousand gallons of fuel into a ScamAir 747 that crashed into the Rockies when it ran out of fuel. All of the passengers died before they could complain.

Oops.

A ScamAir flight attendant served me a snack of cheddar-flavored, whale-shaped crackers. Here’s the copy on the foil package.

    Save the whales.
    Or eat them now.
    You decide.

I like eating whales, so I did. The salty nibbles were acceptable with beer, but I prefer minke sashimi.

last weak  |   index  |   next weak


©2005 David Glenn Rinehart