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17 December 2011

No. 9,556 (cartoon)

You’re repeating yourself.

I only plagiarize from the best.

18 December 2011

One Hundred Nonexistent Artists

Shea Hembrey is publishing a book of a hundred artists’ work, sort of. In alleged fact, Hembrey concocted both the work and the accompanying biographies of each of the hundred artists. I admire his ambition and industriousness, but I’m not sure about the work. The few examples I saw looked like well-executed clichés.

I’ve considered doing something like that for decades. I’ve though about publishing my photographs from my precocious teenage years and attributing them to a tragic figure whose grisly suicide cut short a promising life. I’ll probably never get around to it, but it’s a nice thought.

Everyone loves a dead artist, but I plan on sticking around for a bit longer. I hope Hembrey does as well; I wonder how he’ll follow up his epic pseudo survey?

19 December 2011

Clutterphobia

Many people understandably fear burglars and thieves, but not Florian. She has the opposite phobia, if there is such a thing.

Florian’s cousin, Rosalind, is a hoarder. Her house is filled with a kajillion things, most of them useless objects of no value. She’s not as bad as the people who store their urine and excrement in jars and cans, but it’s not unthinkable that she may be headed there.

In recent years, Rosalind has asked Florian if she could use her garage to store a few odds and ends: a canoe, spare tires, an airplane propeller, that sort of thing. She’s constantly refused, but that didn’t stop Rosalind from leaving seven snow shovels there, “just in case you might need them.”

Florian woke me up at dawn this morning with an urgent phone call. She asked me if I’d left an espresso machine at her place last night when I came over for dinner. I replied that I had. I’d intended to ask her if she wanted it before I recycled it, but forgot about it and left it there.

I appreciate Florian’s fear of clutter; I wish more people shared that admirable phobia.

20 December 2011

Clothes Without Holes

Oliver invited me to his party, and strongly suggested that I wear clothes “without holes in them.” I pointed out that a toga was the only traditionally male attire I could think of without holes; every other garment needs apertures for arms, legs, et cetera. I asked him why he was throwing a toga party, but couldn’t follow up with more queries before he interrupted me.

“Fine, have it your way,” he said. “You can wear your ratty cycling clothes if that’s the best you can do.”

And that was the end of that discussion. I always stop arguing when someone tells me to do whatever I want.

21 December 2011

Twenty Years Later

Today’s winter solstice marks the twentieth anniversary of my father’s death. On the shortest day in 1991, Glenn Albert Rinehart took a nap and never woke up. I often wish he was still alive; we got along quite well. On the other hand, he checked out while he was still enjoying fishing, drinking, and eating the tasty food that contributed to his relatively early demise at seventy-one.

Since he died, I’ve seen other people of his generation decline into decrapitude, losing control of their bodies and/or minds. I’ll never know whether this is the wisest course, but I’m following my father’s hedonistic example of living for the quality of days, not the quantity of days.

22 December 2011

Gratuitous Photo of the Weak: Sausage Grease Shadow

Adriana’s not a slave to tidiness, so I wasn’t surprised to discover a tableau of dirty dishes in her kitchen. My favorite sight: a large frying pan with a layer of congealed grease with the impression of an absent sausage.

23 December 2011

Gestation Pains

Luciana announced she’s working on her first book. That was of course a huge mistake. Now, whenever anyone sees her, they’ll ask her how the book is progressing. I didn’t tell her that; she’ll find out soon enough.

I’ve had a piece in gestation for over a decade, although gestation may not be the most accurate word. Friends still ask how it’s progressing; I should have kept my mouth shut.

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©2011 David Glenn Rinehart