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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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11 December 2015

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No. 1,953 (cartoon)

I have never lied to you.

You just did it again!

12 December 2015

Suicide Doggy-Style

Two pit bulls killed Rebecca Hardy after she climbed over a fence into their yard. The Oakland County Medical Examiner’s Office declared the Michigan woman’s death a suicide, but I’m not so sure. Her fiancée didn’t believe she would take her own life by having dogs chew her face off, and he may be right.

This is entirely conjecture, but my theory is that she may have sacrificed her life to kill the dogs. Everyone knows that the authorities put to death any dog that’s tasted yummy human flesh, so Hardy knew that any canine that tore her throat open would be executed soon thereafter.

Then again, she may have just been one of billions of other deeply troubled and tragically lost people.

13 December 2015

How to Walk Like a Murderer

I haven’t been reading The British Medical Journal recently, but Leo Benedictus has. And so, I am reporting that he has reported that others have reported that Vladimir Putin’s curious gait may be attributed to his Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti training on how to carry a concealed gun. For those of us wondering how to restore the Russian empire, here’s how it’s done.

If you are right-handed, keep your right arm as still as possible and close to your side whilst swinging your left hand with some vigour. That body language sends a subliminal message that you’re ready to reach for your pistol at any moment. If that’s too subtle, you can carry the gun in hour hand with your finger on the trigger and leave nothing to the imagination. And that’s really all you need to annex Latvia.

Simple, no?

I think Putin has learned a lot from other thugs, including Al Capone, who wisely noted, “You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone.”

14 December 2015

Not Going Back

Chris and Margaret met decades ago when they lived in Chicago, then sensibly moved to Sans Frisco soon thereafter. When I told them I was taking a brief trip to Chicago, they told me about a restaurant there I simply must visit. They described the food in such superlative terms that I began to salivate.

I certainly won’t go there. It can’t possibly still be that good after all that time, and even if it was, they’d be disappointed if I described my meal there with insufficient rapture. As a result of no new reviews, the experience there will only continue to get better for them as their flashbacks keep enhancing the experience.

My memory has embellished the myriad wonderful experiences I’ve had; that’s one of the reasons I’m generally so happy and satisfied. It’s also erased most traces of my egregious mistakes I’ve made, leaving just enough recall not to repeat them.

15 December 2015

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Dead Angel

I read America’s finest news source, The Onion; that’s how I know what’s really going on in the world. And that’s how I learned how dangerous Chicago’s atmosphere is. This except from last year’s story says it all.

Highlighting increasingly dangerous conditions within the city, a new study published Monday by Northwestern University’s Department of Environmental Studies revealed that approximately seventy-five percent of the air in Chicago is now composed of bullets. “Far exceeding the levels of carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and even oxygen, bullets now constitute three-fourths of Chicago’s air supply,” said atmospheric scientist and study co-author John Molina, stressing that the dense and widespread deposits of jacketed lead and copper in the air pose severe and potentially fatal health risks to all Chicago residents.

The reportage was disturbingly accurate. I spotted a dead angel splattered on a concrete lawn south of the Loop; I suppose that it was just a matter of time before a stray bullet nailed of the damn seraphim.

There was only one person I knew in Chicago from when I lived there in the seventies. (People who know litterature would call my use of the past tense foreshadowing.) Herb Goode died from lead poisoning last year after being robbed. Everyone else I knew who used to live in Chicago got out while they were still alive.

16 December 2015

On LSD in Chicago

This is a true story. Of course, everything I say is true: it either happened or it will. This is one of those factual accounts of something that actually already occurred. Just this morning, in fact.

A Chicago policeman spotted me on LSD and ordered me to get into the back of his patrol car. Since I was an old person of noncolor, he didn’t take me to their secret torture center. Instead, he took me to my hotel, the one I was trying to get to on LSD.


I appreciate that acronyms can be confusing. That’s especially true when it come to LSD, usually synonymous with lysergic acid diethylamide. Unless you’re in Chicago, that is.

In Chicago, LSD in not usually a reference to the hallucinogenic drug, but rather a means to go from here to there. (I suppose going from here to there is the raison d'être of every hallucinogenic drug, but that’s neither here nor there.) In Chicago, LSD usually means Lake Shore Drive, a major thoroughfare.

And now, the boring story becomes tedious ...

I walked south along Lake Michigan, and found that I couldn’t get to my hotel because I was on the wrong side of LSD. I tried to cross the busy highway, and that’s when I was stopped for being on LSD. The nice policeman who didn’t torture me explained that I was an idiot, and drove me to my hotel.

The whole experience was a bit traumatic, but cheaper than a taxi.


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©2015 David Glenn Rinehart

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