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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

Last Weak  |  Index  |  Next Weak

Weak IX

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26 February 2010

gratuitous image

No. 6,638 (cartoon)

You can’t make someone love you.

But you can stalk them until they crumble and submit.

27 February 2010

Recycling Books

Walter asked me not to inscribe the book I gave him for his birthday.

“That’s a request I’ve not heard before,” I replied. “Why is that?”

“Well, if you write in it, I can’t give it to anyone else, can I?” he explained.

I agreed that my writing would devalue any book. I couldn’t argue with him, so I didn’t.

With any luck, Walter will forget who gave him the volume, and I’ll get it back for my birthday next year. In plenty of time to give it to him again.

28 February 2010

Hawai’ian Fish Story

Colleen sent me a note from Hawai’i. Among other things, she reported that the state fish is the humuhumunukunukuapua’a. I vaguely recalled hearing that it had the longest word in the Hawai’ian language, so I checked. Another fish, the lauwiliwilinukunuku’oi’oi, is two characters longer.

I suspect neither species is endangered, since almost no one can pronounce their names.

1 March 2010

Cuss Free or Cuss-free?

Californian legislators have declared the first week of March to be “Cuss Free Week.” Since the shit-for-brains lawmakers didn’t call it Cuss-free Week, I assume the fucktards meant we can spout profanity for free.

And that worries me; I should explain.

Swearing doesn’t bother me; it’s just that English isn’t a very good language in which to curse. That’s why I usually don’t bother, except for special occasions like today.

I suspect the elected representatives are spending their time on such ludicrous frivolity because they’re too damn incompetent to come within twenty billion dollars of a balanced state budget. And that brings me to me real concern about this nonsense.

If this is Cuss Free Week, I fear the other fifty-one weeks will be Tax Cussers Week.

Feh.

2 March 2010

gratuitous image

Four More Books

I just finished making four more books of cartoons.

Sort of.

For eight years, I’ve been making an alleged cartoon weekly, or, more accurately, weakly. I only included sixty-one of them in Three Black Squares, the book I published last year. Out of morbid curiosity, I decided to go through the remainder and separate the wheat from the chaff. (Feats from the gaffs?)

I found lots of lots of the latter, including a few that were nearly identical. I’d be embarrassed if I thought anyone noticed. On the other hand, I did come up two hundred and forty-four of them I thought were up to my low standards for publication, or exactly enough for four more books.

I printed out the survivors on tiny strips of paper, then arranged them into four long columns on the floor. After spending a few hours sequencing and resequencing them, I stacked them into four little piles and bound each with a clip. Very tidy.

Now all that’s left to do is to turn the cartoon text into graphics, lay out the books, and publish them. The boring bits.

I was surprised that the actual content of each book was so physically small, but I should not have been. My so-called cartoons are full of gratuitously wasted space, as today’s exercise clearly demonstrated.

3 March 2010

Happy Birthday, Laser Printer

The laser printer turned twenty-five years old today. The one I used a quarter century ago cost seven thousand dollars, and seven thousand 1984 dollars at that. The one I use now cost less than a hundred dollars, and is clearly technically superior to its relatively ancient predecessor.

Still, I prefer the 1984 laser printer experience. Back then, I had to go to a commercial shop, rent time on a computer, plug in my disk, and then pay thirty cents for each page I printed. Each page seemed precious, because it was.

I just realized I’m more or less repeating what I said a few months ago about the false promise of new tools, so I’ll stop now. And repeat something else tomorrow.

4 March 2010

Things Could Be Worse

I was walking down a quiet residential street on this cold, wet afternoon when I came across some laborers. Four Hispanic workers were standing in a deep hole in a lawn; a fifth man was standing above them trying unsuccessfully to keep the quartet dry with a small umbrella.

The four men in the pit were attempting to fix a serious plumbing problem; they were standing in a repulsive stew of feces, grease, urine, tampons, et cetera. I wonder how much worse the stench would have been on a hot day?

Every time I’m tempted to think about how horrible a situation I’m in might be, I’ll remember those men, and be thankful that the only shit with which I have to deal is of the metaphorical variety.

Stare.

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©2010 David Glenn Rinehart

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