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Weak XXVII

2 July 2025

No. 5,028 (cartoon)

I’m just a piece of fiction you concocted.

I’m just a story you like to tell yourself.

Great litterture!

3 July 2025

The Noisy Neighbors

I’m catsitting for a week on Nob Hill; the orange kitties and I are on the top unit of a classic two-floor building. We have a great view of San Francisco Bay out the back and cable cars running in front. So far so good, but then there are the loud neighbors below without much soundproofing between us in the old Victorian.

And then there’s the music they blare. I’ve been wondering what’s worse: hearing some throbbing disco crap or the muffled bass of a good album I recognize. Tonight I finally came up with the answer. They’re playing a classic Roxy Music album and singing somewhat along at the top of their lungs. I’m guessing that alcohol is involved.

I doubt if Bryan Ferry lost his voice and, and, if he did, whether he’s looking for it. If he is, he can avoid my current neighborhood. He might find Tony Bennett’s heart here, but certainly no one that sounds anything like him.

4 July 2025

Independence from Freedom Day

Two hundred and forty-nine years ago today uppity colonists in the new world declared that they were independent of King George and his parasites, and sent him a memo now referred to as the Declaration of Independence. The day is now a national holiday, celebrated with hot dogs, beer, and fireworks.

Nevertheless, Americans remain fascinated with royal leeches, and one of ’em fancies himself the next king. A year from now is the country’s bisesquicentennial or semiquincentennial (depending on where you are on the political spectrum), and I’ve heard from friends who know These Things that he’s planning on rebranding Independence Day as Independence from Freedom Day.

I’m not sure what to make of these rumors. I maintain that nothing surprises me, but I’m unpleasantly surprised every time I scan the headlines in the morning.

5 July 2025

Holey Wardrobe Malfunction

I’ll begin by pointing out what the image of the ripped jeans is not. As the astute observer will note, the banana is emerging from the back of the pants so it’s certainly not phallic. And for the same reason, it’s not a reference to the album cover Andy Warhol created for the Rolling Stones’ 1971 album, Sticky Fingers.

Nope, this is a straightforward documentary photograph, the kind one might submit to a manufacturer or insurance company when making a claim. It’s been decades since I had such a catastrophic clothing catastrophe, and of course it had to happen to the only pants I brought with me for my catsitting stay.

I violated The Catsitter’s Code of Ethics and rummaged through my hosts’ closets until I found trousers that allowed me to cycle back to my studio to get another pair. Okay, I admit that I may have overstated the severity of the problem. Packs of nude cyclists roam the San Francisco streets, so I doubt anyone would notice if I rode my bike in my underwear.

Lesson learned. I don’t like to carry much, so I’ll continue to travel with one pair of jeans, but I’ll first examine their structural integrity and leave my ratty cycling pants at home.

6 July 2025

The Repetition Cow is Dry

I made that snapshot—complete with gratuitous seagull—of one of the Fort Mason piers on 23 March, just after having lunch with a friend. Ever since then, I’ve been thinking about making a couple decaptychs, one of the doors on the side of the building and the other photographs of the marine critters attached to the pilings.

Both are technically challenging. I’d need consistent lighting for half an hour, and that’s a tall order given San Francisco Bay’s bipolar weather. I’ve also watched the tide tables for months to find a good time that wouldn’t involve setting an alarm clock.

Today, after a hundred and five days of deliberations and planning, I abandoned both projects after identifying a fatal problem: I was imitating myself.

I’ve never thought of it as one body of work, but for decades I’ve been making series of photographs that look similar to each other but aren’t. I’ve never been able to decide whether I was milking a dead cow or, if you’d like to be charitable, mining a rich vein. After seeing that I made Twenty-One Fort Mason, San Francisco, Parking Lines in 2008 and Seventeen Fort Mason, San Francisco, Painted Rails in 2009, I finally decided that the bovine banquet is over.

I am relieved.

7 July 2025

Drinking le Vin Nouveau

I just read a nice little article about exquisite corpses; they’re alive and well. I have been familiar with the concept since 1983 thanks to Andre Codrescu’s lovely periodical, The Exquisite Corpse. (If you’re uninformed about the idea, the Internet is standing by and eager to tell you more than you’d ever want to know.)

Anywhichway, there’s one little bit of etymological history that’s new to me after all these decades: the name’s origin. The first time the approach was used, the result was, “Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau.” (The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine.)

I’ll drink to that!

8 July 2025

Bad Egg

Every two years or so I chop off the end of my ponytail and put it in a bag in case I might want to do something with it someday. I don’t recall if I was awake or dreaming, but the other night I thought it would be a good idea to photograph an egg filled with hair, so that’s what I did a few days ago.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it at the time, but after living with it for a few days I decided I dislike it. It’s cute; if I drew a face on it I could make a twee poster or postcard. If there’s anything worse than a bad photograph, it’s a cute one.

I regard the image as a cautionary tale; it’s too bad I can’t burn the bad egg’s bytes and bits.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart