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Weak IV

22 January 2025

No. 8,261 (cartoon)

I’ll be there tomorrow.

The pleasure will be all mine.

I know; I’m only stopping by to get the money you owe me.

23 January 2025

Wile E. Coyote’s Petard

I did something too embarrassing to admit this morning, and once again found myself hoisted by my own petard.

That’s the first time in my life I’ve used that phrase because I never understood it. Hoisting involves ropes and pulleys, and I couldn’t even imagine how a small bomb, a petard, could serve as a hoist.

Eric came over for lunch, and we talked about almost everything under the sun—and a few things under the stars—when I mentioned my inability to understand “hoisted by one’s own petard.” He explained that I was going down the wrong semantic path by scratching my head about petards because “hoist” can also mean “pushing up.”

I had an epiphany when I imagined Wile E. Coyote flying through the desert sky after yet another Acme explosive device unexpectedly detonated beneath him. Aha!

I’m relieved that I’ve finally added petard to my regular vocabulary; now I can use it the next time I need it. I’m afraid that shouldn’t be too long, alas.

24 January 2025

The Band Across the Great Divide

Garth Hudson was the final member of the Band to cross the Great Divide. I recognized the name, but wasn’t sure of his part in the group. And then I read the glowing obituaries.

The organ and more. Of course. His playing was woven into the fabric of the band’s (the Band’s?) music, so I never really heard it, which is how it should be. I pulled out a 1971 recording of a live performance at the Academy of Music in New York. I listened thoughtfully, and sure enough I heard his organ everywhere, but it never took center stage except for his virtuosic solo in The Genetic Method.

I had a similar experience a few years ago when Charlie Watts died. I grabbed some Rolling Stones albums and heard his drumming in every minute of every song, something to which I’d never listened for before. And that’s ideal; exhibitionists shouldn’t be in bands.

The music of my youth is fifty years old, so I fear I’m up for another music lesson from another round of obituaries sooner than later.

25 January 2025

Rabbie Burns Night

Today is the twenty-fifth day of January, and that means it’s time to celebrate the birth of Robden of Solway Firth, the Scottish poet who famously described haggis as, “great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race.” Traditionally, Burns Night is celebrated with haggis, neeps and tatties, whisky, and readings of the bard’s impenetrable work.

Or at least that’s what they do in Scotland. Real haggis has been illegal here since 1971; that’s when nattering nanny state nabobs of negativism banned it because it contained sheep’s lung. But now, the esteemed haggis engineers at Macsween of Edinburgh (not to be confused with McSweeney’s of San Francisco) may have found a way to, as Peter Tosh said, legalize it: replace sheep lung with sheep heart.

I’m skeptical. The new formula for modern haggis sounds like it might be slightly less disgusting, but where’s the Burns Night fun in that?

26 January 2025

Contraception Begins with Keeping the Cork in the Bottle

I didn’t blink when I saw the headline, Mississippi lawmaker introduces “Contraception Begins at Erection Act.” I thought it was just another stone age edict by the American Taliban, but, as is all too often the case, I was wrong.

Bradford Blackmon, a young senator in his first term, submitted the bill to point out how sexist all the real Taliban legislation targeting only women is.

It was a great idea, but poorly executed. As Harry Shearer advised, “Leave comedy to the professionals.”

I’m thinking of a song from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, Every Sperm Is Sacred.

Every sperm is sacred
Every sperm is great
If a sperm is wasted
God gets quite irate

And that, Mr. Blackmon, is how you mock, ridicule, and entertain. Good luck with that.

My proposal for a new law is the “Contraception Begins with Keeping the Cork in the Bottle Act.” Having learned my lesson from Blackmon’s failure, I’m turning my idea over to the old hands. Harry, it’s yours if you want it!

27 January 2025

Whodunit

Over a year ago I reported that Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, not Marcel Duchamp, should perhaps be credited for creating Fountain. Some say yes, some say no, and I’m sure the debate will continue until the sun explodes.

And speaking of whodunits, a new documentary, The Stringer, has a simple premise: Nick Ut didn’t take the Napalm Girl photograph fifty-two years ago, Nguyen Thanh Nghe did. I haven’t seen the film and won’t, but I’ve read that the investigation, including forensic evidence, is quite persuasive, as is Ut’s refusal to be interviewed. Ut worked for the Associated Press, and the news agency issued a twenty-three-page rebuttal of the film’s findings ... before anyone there had seen a second of the film.

The debate reminds me of Robert Capa’s legendary time at D-Day: it never happened. The accounts in the history books are almost entirely fictional (or, if you’re being charitable, a myth), as A. D. Coleman and his colleagues conclusively proved, at least for me.

Ideally, the right person will receive the credit. Regardless, Henri Cartier-Bresson was right when he candidly acknowledged what most photographers won’t, “Of course it’s all luck.”

As for the whodunit, I’m more concerned about dinner tonight. I think I bought blue cheese the other day but I’m not sure. It’s time to head for the reefer and answer that question of immediate importance.

28 January 2025

The January Music Massacre

Even with silicon lubricants and a digital shoehorn I couldn’t make all the music in my computer fit on my phone, er, pocket computer. Some recordings had to go. And out they went.

I deleted well-respected Big Names (Beastie Boys, Elvis Costello, K. D. Lang, Steely Dan), classic blues guys (John Lee Hooker, Lightnin Hopkins), as well as art ensembles (Negativland, Residents).

I like all forty-thousand songs on my computer; my primary consideration was gaining more storage space. All the recently departed musicians had one thing in common: although I think their work is great, I never listened to a single track of theirs in ten or twenty or maybe even thirty years.

I don’t feel guilty about erasing part of our cultural heritage, because I didn’t. The recordings that used to be in my computer are still easily accessible on the Internet as well as in millions of private libraries. If I ever get a hankerin’ to listen to Elvis et al again I can.

First time for everything?

29 January 2025

Bucatini no. 15 Star of Me (David) and Bagel

I have a lot of Jewish friends; they’re all secular as far as I can tell. All of them assured me that the title for my new piece, Bucatini no. 15 Star of Me (David) and Bagel, was fine. I’m not entirely convinced, and will be glad to change it for a trusted Talmudic scholar or anyone who threatens me with great bodily harm.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart