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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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20 February 2024

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No. 806 (cartoon)

I just woke up screaming in terror.

That’s common after a nightmare.

I wasn’t asleep.

21 February 2024

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Fiction Comes True

I found Mark’s missing email buried in my bulging spam folder this morning. For reasons I shall explain soon enough, I thought that was hilarious.

In the early days of the Internet, learned people argued passionately about whether the new medium was spelled “email” or “e-mail.” My side won that battle in the mid-nineties. That anecdote isn’t getting me any closer to where I’m going, but thought I’d mention it anyway since a little filler here and there never hurt.

Ever since those halcyon days in the previous millennium, I’ve apologized for extremely tardy replies by falsely claiming that I’d only just discovered that their letter had been mistakenly routed to my computer’s junk folder. It always worked; no one ever challenged my deceit.

As for the promised explanation, here ya go. Mark’s email was the very first personal correspondence in decades that I really did find in my spam folder. It’s too bad that I can’t tell anyone that (even though I just did), but it just wouldn’t do to follow “I just found out the computer misfiled your letter as junk” with, “and this time I’m actually telling the truth.”

22 February 2024

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A Crappy Photograph of an Uneventful Event

I’ve cooked dozens of eggs in my life. No; let’s make that “thousands of eggs” in the name of truthiness. But I never saw nothin’ like I seen this morning.

One of the frying eggs had delusions of grandeur and formed a huge albumen bubble as if was a soufflé. I ran down to the studio and grabbed my serious camera, and that’s when everything headed south.

I rarely use the camera without a tripod; I don’t even have a camera strap for it. The camera was set up for formal use, not snapshots, so I ended up with only a poorly composed photograph that wasn’t all that sharp because I used suboptimal settings. I had to add a garish graphic to point out the amazing egg bubble that wasn’t.

And that’s more than enough blather about a crappy photograph of an uneventful event; pleasant dreams.

23 February 2024

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Salsa Bomb

My late father saw me in various states of severe discombobulation, disrepair, and worse. In all those decades, he only once suggested that I change my questionable behavior. We were burritoing in a San Francisco taqueria and he became concerned about all the hot salsa I was pouring on my lunch.

“All those peppers can’t be good for you, son,” he advised.

I was reminded of his warning when I fished out a small bottle of fresh salsa from the bowels of the refrigerator. Correction: it was fresh when I brought it home from Cilantro in North Beach, but that was a month or two ago. It wasn’t full of additives and preservatives like by stable staple rooster sauce, so it had long evolved from condiment to compost.

I opened the bottle of abandoned salsa, and anyone with a basic understanding of biology knows what happened next ...


The fermented salsa was under so much pressure that it exploded and blew the cap across the room. Had I been even stooopider and pointed the bottle at my face I could have lost an eye. I’d then spend the rest of my life wearing a black eyepatch emblazoned with jalapeño and/or habanero peppers.

Win some, lose some ... but at least not an eye.

At least not yet.

Stooopidity springs eternal!

24 February 2024

Died Doing What He Loved Best

I read everything The Onion prints, even though America's Finest News Source is long out of print. That goes a long way to explaining how I got to be as smart as I am today.

Anywho how, I was recently reminded of a fine piece of journalism published on 28 February 2013, Community Mourns Death Of Beloved Drunk Driver. Here’s the paragraph that stuck with me ...

Dehaene, a fixture in the community whose irrepressible enthusiasm for drinking and driving endeared him to all those who knew him, died doing what he loved best: operating a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol.

Here’s the news report that jigged and jogged my memory:

Freestyle motocross star Jayden Archer died while practicing his signature move Wednesday in his hometown of Melbourne, Australia. He was 27.

Why did the post bother to report that he was twenty-seven? Of course he was twenty-seven. Everybody dies at twenty-seven in one way or another.

I never heard of the late bloke before, and that’s too bad. I could have warned him that flying a dirt bike like a stunt pilot was a big mistake. After all, it’s called a dirt bike for a very good reason.

In closing, it’s time to milk the “died doing what he loved best” cliché with one last squeeze: I hope I can say the same. Yes, I know I won’t be able to say a damn thing after I pop my clogs, but this is no time to go from the ridiculous to the sublime.

25 February 2024

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Bucatini no. 15 with Trumpets and Banana

I think my recent piece, Bucatini no. 15 with Trumpets and Banana, speaks for itself, but I’m nevertheless following Dr. McMullen’s advice since that’s always served me well.

Here’s the visually irrelevant information she thought I should provide: I found the Bugles in a toilet stall in the Las Vegas airport; I’d never buy such garbage.

Chance and art work in mysterious ways.

Coming next weak: more of the same.


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©2024 David Glenn Rinehart