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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

Last Weak  |  Index  |  Next Weak

Weak VIII

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20 February 2017

gratuitous image

No. 4,296 (cartoon)

I want to keep you ...

What do you mean?

... far away.

21 February 2017

Taller from Side to Side

Ayako is back from visiting friends in Japan for a few weeks, and she’s surprised that she forgot how big Americans are.

“Are they really that much taller?” I asked.

“Absolutely!” she replied, “especially from side to side.”

Of course.

22 February 2017

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Archival Wall (Patch)

Dang; I hope I’m not repeating myself, but I just photographed another of the Internet Archive’s walls for the third time in a hundred days. It’s too tempting because it’s too easy; should that be a warning sign?

[Shrugs]

I don’t take myself seriously, so I didn’t resist the readymade composition, complete with reflection and shadow, and made Archival Wall (Patch).

23 February 2017

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Drink by Sunday

Used Foods, my local grocery store, had a sale on cheap wine: five liters for eleven dollars.

I asked the “customer satisfaction concierge,” i.e., stock clerk, why the swill was so heavily discounted. He said the manager had blacked out the “best if consumed by date” on the box recommended drinking the contents by the twenty-sixth, then belatedly realized his literal coverup could be easily discovered.

“Who’s going to drink five liters of wine by Sunday?” he asked.

It’s been thirsty out and the forecast calls for more, so I bought two boxes. As for the “sell by” dates, I’ve always ignored them and am alive and well enough to tell the tale.

24 February 2017

Wilma Flintstone, the Greatest Living Poet

Someone asked me who was the greatest living poet.

“I know nothing about poetry,” I admitted. “I know it’s either Wilma Flintstone or her chauffeur, but I’m not sure which.”

I was roundly castigated since Wilma Flinstone is an immortal cartoon character and thus she’s neither living nor dead. Also, she’s never had a chauffeur. That, and she’s not a poet; she doesn’t even play one on television.

I might have been a tad embarrassed by my ignorance had this exchange occurred anywhere but in a dream.

Juanita, a Freudian psychologist, assured me that I was just dealing with a childhood fixation with impossibly slender women in skimpy dresses.

“That’s a fascinating insight,” I replied.

I learned long ago that the best thing to say when discussing Freud is, “fascinating insight,” not, “total bollocks.” I’m proud that one of my minor achievements in life is having nothing to do with Fraudian psychology.

25 February 2017

Fake News Kills

President Cheetoh’s would-be Goebbels forbade a reporter from the Los Angeles Times from attending yesterday’s press briefing because the newspaper publishes “fake news,” i.e., reportage that fails to be sufficiently sycophantic to the liar-in-chief. This Nixonian attack on the first amendment and the fourth estate led journalists to wail bigly, gnash their teeth, and make other feeble protests.

I reluctantly admit that there may be some truth in the “fake news” accusations. Here’s an example, a headline from yesterday’s Los Angeles Times: “Well-known Magician Found Dead at Magic Castle.” (That’s not a bad headline, although it’s certainly not in the same league as Vincent Musetto’s masterpiece, “Headless Body In Topless Bar.”) The problem is that the story may not be true for obvious reasons.

Daryl Easton, a prominent magician, allegedly killed himself. But when an illusionist purportedly takes his own life in a magic castle, did any reporter ask the obvious question: was it an act? Did anyone examine every lead?

Apparently not.

If there’s ever an inquiry into his death and investigators find scratch marks inside the lid of Easton’s coffin, I hope they conclude that he ultimately died from fake news.

Stare.

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©2017 David Glenn Rinehart

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