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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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26 March 2015

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No. 2,732 (cartoon)

Are you thinking of killing yourself?

No, I’m letting the cancer handle that.

27 March 2015

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Victim of Gravity

When I walked into the Internet Archive late last night, Ralf made a curt announcement with typical Teutonic efficiency.

“Roger created a piece, I curated it and pronounced it art, and that is that,” he declared.

I discovered that Roger had accidentally knocked my cup off my studio desk. It broke into two pieces; Roger had labeled the largest, “Victim of Gravity.” He used small squares of paper to mark the boundary of the accident—or was it really an accident?—site.

He also included a written description of the piece.

Roger Macdonald
Ceramic on Bamboo

And that was that.

28 March 2015

Brain Shortage

Roscoe declared that cauliflowers must be good for you because they look like brains. With that reasoning, I concluded that brains must be good for you because they look like cauliflowers. I’ll probably never know, since we’ve had a severe global shortage of brains ever since, as Chef put it, Homo sapiens first made sweet love to Neanderthals.

29 March 2015

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Statistics Aren’t Good for You

Diageo PLC, the largest alcohol company in the world, owns many popular brands such as Guinness and Johnnie Walker. In the near future, the drug dealers will be publishing calorie counts and nutritional information on each bottle.

That’s a terrible, terrible idea. I burn off far more calories cycling than I do having a beer or three when I return to the studio, so the clinical information is just an annoying visual distraction not unlike the bar codes and government warnings already on every bottle. And as for fat, stupid alcoholics, they’re just going to be more miserable once they finally figure out why they’re so bloated. The idea of a bottle of beer with even more numbers and other data on it is just simply stupid beyond belief.

Almost a century ago, the Guinness brewers had a simple educational campaign: “Guinness is good for you.” Five words, no numbers, all anyone ever needed to know, done! At this rate, a bottle of whisky will come with a sixty-four-page manual in less than a decade.

30 March 2015

Dinners with Imelda

I love having dinner with Imelda; she’s an excellent cook. She also has highfalutin tastes when it comes to wine, which is a problem for her because she finds much of it undrinkable. That’s not a problem for me, though, since I’ve always found undrinkable wine to be an oxymoron.

At the end of the evening, she always asks if I’d be kind enough to take the unwanted wine back to my studio. I try to never disappoint my friends, and I’ve never let Imelda down. That’s just the kind of thoughtful, generous person I am.

31 March 2015

Communications Breakdown

Brian said that a few weeks ago Annette told him to love her less and treat her better.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Roughly translated,” I explained, “it means that she wants you to love her more and treat her much better.” (I’ve learned a thing or several after almost six decades stumbling across this beautiful planet.)

“How was I supposed to know that?” he complained.

“It’s in The Book of Unwritten Rules,” I continued, “but no one with a Y chromosome can ever see it. It’s simple, though, just listen carefully to everything she says, multiply by pi, and Bob’s your uncle!”

“Who in the hell is Uncle Bob?” he demanded.

Brian and Annette are still romantically involved, so despite the communications breakdown he must have followed at least some of my advice.

1 April 2015

Three Hundred and Seventy-Three Days a Fool

Mark Twain noted, “The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.” Twain had barrels of clever and insightful observations, but, for me, that ain’t one of ’em. I am painfully aware that I am a fool every day of the year, plus a few days that aren’t even on the calendar.

2 April 2015

Embarrass, Minnesota

Nora accepted a six-month assignment in Embarrass, Minnesota. (I thought she was joking, but the place really does exist.) I didn’t ask how much her contract paid; I can only assume it was a lot.

But Embarrass, Minnesota?!

“You’re not going to believe this,” she reported, “but people here don’t get drunk to go to the laundromat.”

“I suppose you knew the job was dangerous when you took it,” I replied.

She sighed.

Poor Nora, how embarrassing. It’s going to be a long six months.


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©2015 David Glenn Rinehart

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