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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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Weak V


30 January 2017

gratuitous image

No. 5,152 (cartoon)

I’m not a Neanderthal.

Only a Neanderthal would say that.

31 January 2017

James Stephen George Boggs

Andy Warhol was able to succinctly describe his primary aesthetic concern in just seventeen words: “Making money is art and working is art and good business is the best art of all.”

I think Warhol would have loved J.S.G. Boggs née Stephen Litzner; money was his medium too.


Boggs made photorealistic art depicting currency that no one would ever confuse with the real thing. For example, the guy at my local liquor store would call the police if I tried to pay for beer with a Boggs bill that sold to a Swiss collector for tens of thousands of dollars. (I know how Ahmed would respond to that argument: “Then go buy your booze in Geneva!”)

The astute reader—that would be you, no?—will have noticed my use of the past tense; Boggs popped his clogs last week.


Boggs died young. I know that’s something of a self-serving observation since he was less than a year older than me, but it’s sad to see he’s done tweaking regulatory idiots into a froth over some wonderful art. Bureaucratic schadenfreude will never be that good again; the legal battles and court cases were an integral part of his work.

Lawrence Weschler, who wrote the definitive Boggs biography—if only because no one else did—gave him the most wonderful of eulogies. “He was just short of being a con man, but no more than anyone in the art world, or for that matter in the world of finance—which, of course, was his whole point.”

1 February 2017

Only So Many Orifices

“The human body only has so many orifices and so many limbs you can tie in so many ways.”

That was Peter Acworth’s concise explanation of why his company will no longer make pornographic bondage films at his company’s Sans Frisco studios. It’s a familiar lament going back to Ecclesiastes: “There is nothing new under the sun.”

(I’m reticent to describe anything pornography, but, when I do, I quote Annie Sprinkle née Ellen Steinberg. “Does anyone know the difference between erotica and pornography? In erotica you use a feather; in pornography you use the whole chicken.”)

Acworth’s company will continue to make gripping films in other parts of the country where the cost of living is cheaper. And perhaps people have other orifices in the hinterlands? I wouldn’t know, and plan on keeping it that way.

2 February 2017


I embarrassed Walter when he took me to dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant, Enrico’s. I did so intentionally; Walter leads a boring life and needs some stimulation and entertainment from time to time.

I was fully prepared when the waiter taking our orders asked, “Antipasta, signor?”

“Hell no!” I replied. “I love pasta! Love it! You show me someone who’s antipasta and I’ll show you someone who’s too perverted even for Sans Frisco. I’m as propasta as they come; gimme a big plate of that pasta with the green sauce and lots of cheese, por favor!”

Walter winced and turned red. I got a big plate of the pasta with the green sauce and lots of cheese. It was a lovely and memorable evening, even though I suspect Walter’s trying to forget it.

3 February 2017

Freshly Squeezed Worcestershires

Colleen served some exceptional chili for lunch; it had an unusual, distinctive taste.

“What’s the secret ingredient?” I asked.

“I’m an open cookbook so I don’t have any secrets,” she explained, “I think you’re talking about the Worcestershires.”

“I hadn’t thought of Worcestershire sauce,” I replied, “I’ll have to try that.”

“You weren’t listening carefully,” she continued, “I never said anything about Worcestershire sauce. I used freshly squeezed Worcestershires; that’s the difference.”

Dang! It looks like I won’t be trying that after all since I’m too cheap and lazy to go to specialty food shops for things like Wasabia japonica rhizome and fresh Worcestershires.

4 February 2017

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Eleven Hasty Cement Wall Patches

Once upon a time there were a number of holes in the Internet Archive’s east wall. I don’t know why they were there or where they went, but they’re gone now. The person who patched them apparently did so in a hurry, hence the title of my photographs of the painterly splotches, Eleven Hasty Cement Wall Patches.


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©2017 David Glenn Rinehart