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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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Weak XXXVIII

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18 September 2015

gratuitous image

No. 3,361 (cartoon)

Love will find a way ...

... to destroy you.

19 September 2015

Maggots for Brains Research

Some people say that the artist’s life is a slothful life; others agree. But when it comes to indolent pursuits, being a researcher is the way to go. I was reminded of this when I saw a headline about football players: “Study shows brain disease in deceased NFL players.”

I’m pretty sure every organism’s brain suffers increased decrapitude after the owner dies, what with maggots and all that. I’m also sure that the wasteful study’s authors made a lot of money from their boondoggle, but I’d still rather be an alleged artist. Fun is more fun than money, and who needs money when s/he’s having fun?

20 September 2015

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Frutiger, Zapf, et al

Well Dang! First Hermann Zapf popped his clogs a few months ago, and now Adrian Frutiger has joined him in The World Beyond Atrocious Design. Until I digested their deaths—oh how I need an editor—I never appreciated what typographers like Frutiger and Zapf ultimately accomplished.

The alleged art I made decades ago looks like it was made decades ago, and the alleged art I’m making today will probably be dated as well in the very near future. Conversely, people will probably still be using the typefaces Frutiger and Zapf created in a century or two. (That’s the safest of predictions; I’ll be dead before I can be proven wrong.)

Still, I’m not at all bothered that my work is ephemeral and theirs is not. I’ll give Woody Allen the last word(s) on the subject ...

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don’t want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.

21 September 2015

All About Gerrit

Rosaline noted that I mentioned Gerrit three times in last weak’s batch of notebook entries, then asked the obvious question: who’s Gerrit?

My practice is to never mention anyone more than once a year here. Thus, I am the only character in these characterless ramblings. I populate my little notebook with a host of imaginary friends and acquaintances such as Rosaline. She’s the one hundred and twenty-second fictitious person I’ve mentioned this year; Gerrit was the sixty-eighth before he showed up three times in last weak’s recycling from years ago.

The cat’s out of the bag; I’m rolling in the catnip; all’s well. Unless it’s illegal to use two semicolons in one sentence, that is.

22 September 2015

Now It’s Over

It ain’t over till it’s over.

Yogi Berra said that, but he didn’t say that today because he just died. And so, it’s over. I’m tempted to repeat some of his other memorable observations, but I won’t since it’s almost impossible to do so with any accuracy. As Berra said, “I never said most of the things I said.” And I’m not sure that he even said that.

Yogi Berra, what an hombre!

23 September 2015

Happy Birthday for Free

“Happy Birthday” is perhaps one of the most famous songs in the English language, and certainly one of the most inane as well.

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Some Name,
Happy birthday to you.

Until now, the corporate licensing conglomerate Warner/Chappell Music has demanded anyone singing the stupid little ditty pay a royalty fee. Today, though, a judge declared that the title is in the public domain since it was published in a 1922 music book, and thus predated the 1935 copyright.

As a result, Warner/Chappell Music loses out on a couple million dollars a year in royalties, and now anyone can sing the infantile song all day and all night for free. Is this a great country, or what?

Stare.

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©2015 David Glenn Rinehart

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