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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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23 July 2015

gratuitous image

No. 1,259 (cartoon)

You’re shaky.

My molecules are all catawampus.

Your mother had wonky atoms.

24 July 2015

Pretty Vacant

I love living here, which, of course, is why I’m here and not going farther from home than I can cycle. Having said that, I hate this time of the year because so many friends are “on vacation.” Why would anyone live a life or in a place they pay a lot of money to vacate? I shall have to ask them when they return.

The streets in the worst parts of San Francisco are viscous with tourists who’ve spent thousands of dollars to be vacant from their suburban prisons. I suppose that makes a bit of sense, although it begs the question of why they settled there in the first place.

25 July 2015

Thinking of Madame Bovary

Mei-Jean dropped by my studio tonight with a copy of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary.

“How is it?” I asked.

“It’s pretty boring,” she admitted, “but it’s one of those books you have to read.”

I found her brief review both encouraging and comforting. I read one of those books I allegedly have to read perhaps once a decade, so I’ll never finish them since authors keep writing them. When I think of what I’m missing, I shall think of Madame Bovary and thank her.

26 July 2015

Thia’s Closest Friend

“I have a confession to make,” Thia began. “As my closest friend ...”

“I’m honored,” I interrupted.

“David,” she continued, “As my closest friend in physical proximity ...”

I was so crestfallen that I don’t remember a thing about her confession; it must not have been very lurid or scandalous.

27 July 2015

Earrings in Bed

I told Devorah that I’d prefer to have my fingernails ripped out with rusty pliers when she asked me if I’d go shopping for earrings with her. She told me to relax and have a drink or several with her. I knew she just wanted to get me a tad tipsy so she could have her way with me; she’s considerate that way.

After the second (or was it the fifth?) refill, I asked her why she wanted to buy another pair of earrings when the ones she was wearing seemed quite nice. She looked at me as if no one could be so stupid, and explained that she needed earrings that she didn’t have to remove in bed. She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe that I could really be so very stupid. She then looked at me as if she couldn’t believe that I could much more stupid than so very stupid when I asked her why she would want earrings that she didn’t have to remove at night.

My somewhat feigned naïveté was a bit embarrassing, but it least it bought be a reprieve from a dreaded shopping trip.

28 July 2015

The Birth of Cubism

Luka told me that today is cubism’s birthday; the visual art label is one hundred and ten years old today. I asked him who determined the exact date, which was exactly the question for which he was fishing. He pulled out a copy of a magazine article and pointed to the relevant sentence.

On 28 July 1905, Pablo Picasso looked at an olive and simultaneously saw three olives. That was the birth of cubism.

Luka wrote the article. Luka is an idiot, whose stupidity is exacerbated by years and years of academic inbreeding. On a charitable note, at least he’s not quite as imbecilic as the editors of Fine Arts Musings who published his claptrap.

29 July 2015


Heidi sent me a lovely thank-you note after I took her on a private tour of the Internet Archive; she said she was “grateful for the introduction to a most famazing place.”

One of the dangers inherent in sending such an effusive thank-you note is that the recipient—that would be me—is obliged to send a letter of thanks in return. I told Heidi that I too had a most enjoyable time, and that I loved the new word, “famazing.”

She wrote to thank me for my thoughtfulness, and added that she was surprised to see a word she hadn’t intentionally typed; she said that “famazing” was a typo.

I decided to break the infinite cycle of thank-you letters, and called her to ask if she wanted to be credited as the person who coined the word, “famazing.” She said that she most certainly did not want me to publicize her mistake.

And so, ’twas I who invented famazing.

You’re welcome, but please: no more thank-you letters.


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©2015 David Glenn Rinehart

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