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Weak XLIX

3 December 2020

No. 2,993 (cartoon)

Come closer.

I don’t want to catch your disease.

You are my disease.

4 December 2020

Timeless Winter Love

Francesca said she was upset because Jimmy sent her a photo of a winter scene with the words, “I love you.”

“I can see why that might distress you,” I responded.

“You don’t understand,” she continued. “It was written in the snow with urine.”

“I’ve never done that,” I lied, “but I think a lot of guys do. Sounds kinda romantic in a backwoods sort of way.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she demanded. “That’s not the problem.”

“Please enlighten me,” I replied.

“It’s his wife’s handwriting!” she replied.

Oh, that.

I was about to say something about the difficulties of modern romance, but then decided to keep my mouth shut.

Biology evolves, technology matures, but love is timeless.

5 December 2020

The Numeral One, But Why?

I spotted a building site when I was cycling down a country road in rural New Mexico. It looked typical in every way except one: someone had planted a large plywood board on a near the road emblazoned with “1” in red paint.

The sign clearly had nothing to do with mail deliveries. I didn’t see any construction projects within a few kilometers, so it’s not as if contractors might end up at the wrong address. Nothing about the signboard made sense; what a wonderful discovery!

The numeral one, but why?

6 December 2020

Spider and Shot Glass

My friend Sherri is an expert in her field, but having achieved one goal in life is boring so she’s exploring new horizons with, “confections and croissants.” She brought me a key lime pie she made, and asked for any suggestions I might have as a former propaganda minister for promoting her nascent baking business.

I told her that she had a good albeit cheezy business name, Queen of Tarts, but she needed a zippy service mark. After a delicious slice of her pie—and I usually don’t even like sweets—I suggested, “Just Like an Angel Taking a Dump on Your Tongue!”

She politely demurred, and said she was looking for a visual identity and branding. I was relieved to hear that since her logo featuring Queen Nefertiti didn’t scream yummy nums; it didn’t even whisper it.

Please bear with me. This may seem like a non sequitur, but it is, in fact, a bona fide sequitur.

I never look for ideas or wildlife, I wait for them to come to me. Both happened simultaneously this morning when I observed a rather large spider on my desk observing me. I captured the diminutive muse by placing an empty shot glass over the arachnid when s/he tootled over Sherri’s business card. After that, it was just a matter of setting up a few powerful strobes to illuminate the new Queen of Tarts’ new branding and visual identity.

She didn’t like my proposal, but I’m sure she’ll come around once she appreciates that she’s the only baker branded with spiders and Scotch. I think it’s so brilliant that I do believe I’m a-gonna help myself to another slice and wash it down with some Bunnahabhain.

7 December 2020

A Better Blue Period

Olga told me that her paintings, drawings, and collages that I praised aren’t too big—less than half a meter in the longest dimension—because her studio is her small kitchen table. I replied that sometimes limitations can be aesthetically rewarding, and cited Picasso’s “blue period.” He used lots of blue paint because that was the least expensive.

She politely informed me that I was mistaken: the suicide of one of his young friends was the catalyst for those paintings. I thanked her for the factual update, but told her I was going to repeat my version because it’s a much better story. I greatly prefer the unique reality I’ve created to the unimaginative one with which Olga is encumbered.

8 December 2020

Forty Years Without Lennonism

Angus suggested we toast John Lennon this afternoon on the fortieth anniversary of his murder. (That didn’t sound quite right, but I was thirsty and accommodating.) He explained that John Lennon’s observation about Pablo Picasso’s life provided the foundation for his. He still had the quote that inspired him when he was a teenager pinned to the wall of his studio. The paper had yellowed over the decades, but the typewriter text was still clear.

Picasso didn’t go to the museums. He was either painting, or eating, or fucking. Picasso lived where he lived and people came to see him.

After reading that, I noticed that there didn’t seem to be much of a correlation between Lennon’s and/or Picasso’s life and his. I gently pointed out that he’s been telling anyone that will listen—and even a few who won’t—that he’s been celibate since his divorce over a decade ago.

He gave a good reason: a true Lennonist can’t imitate Lennon. Instead, he said being a curmudgeonly recluse with a huge wine cellar was the lesson he took home.

He may have been right. After all, I was visiting him again, and he’s never come over to my place.

9 December 2020

No Bad Sex: Blame It on the Virus

The slothful, slovenly editors at the Literary Review have canceled this year’s Bad Sex in Fiction Awards. Their specious reason is that, “the public had been subjected to too many bad things this year to justify exposing it to bad sex as well.”

What a bunch of hoohah! And what a den of lazy buggers!

The judges, who’ve appointed themselves as the arbiters of excellence in creative writing, demonstrated a breathtaking lack of imagination when they took the year off because of Coronarama.

Here’s how unresourceful they were. Please make a list of all your current shortcomings, disappointments, and outright failures. (Take your time; I’m not in a hurry.) Is there a single thing in that inventory that you can’t blame on the ubiquitous virus?

A pox on the indolent Literary Review staff for being too lackadaisical to even bother to seek out vomitous examples of bad writing about sex. A five-minute Internet search for anything containing “heaving bosom” and any phallic reference would probably be all that’s needed to find a winner for that dubious achievement.

10 December 2020

Redundant New Words

After glancing at a story about pandas in The Guardian, “China's famed bears remain at US zoo despite Trump ructions,” I had to consult my dictionary to understand a headline for the first time in years.

“Ruction” means, “a disturbance or quarrel.” And now I’m going to maunder into a segue, even if it doesn’t exactly smell like one.

Maunder, “talk in a rambling manner,” is the other recent addition to my vocabulary. The two new words are obviously not synonyms, but they do have something in common: as far as I can tell, which is plenty far enough for me, they mean exactly the same thing as the equivalent common words I’ve been using most of my life.

“Maunder” and “ruction” are redundant for practical purposes, but I’ll keep them in my storeroom should I ever need to trot out some of those pretentious fifty-cent words.

If you’re looking for a useful but underappreciated word without an obvious synonym, I’m happy to oblige. You’ll need your own dictionary, though; I’m too much of a flâneur to reach for mine again today.

You’re quite welcome.

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©2020 David Glenn Rinehart