You like the Flexcut Pocket Jack.
Call it old school meets new technology. Back in the day, whittling was done with a curious artifact called a pocket knife. Then the experts got ahold of it. These days, just picking up a stick and carving it requires a kit with eighteen different tools.
I'm not against progress but I do think there's elegance in simplicity. Enter the FPJ. It's just a jackknife, but one devoted entirely to making art out of wood. Now you can walk in the woods and spontaneously create. Sure beats dragging along a pack mule laden with equipment.
Only negative is the price. I realize it's a specialty item but I'd prefer the maker to stick with gouging wood, not customers.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Earth to Mars
You like walking on Mars.
I've heard all the arguments about the advantages of unmanned missions into outer space, and I've considered the merits of spending our money on earthly problems before investing in space. Both are intellectually sound and spiritually inadequate.
Let's not get too excited about the reference to spirit. I don't mean a soul. I mean the human spirit--the improvement and progress of humankind. Robots on Mars are useful, and robots-only on Mars makes great sense to an accountant. But poetry matters. As for the perfectibility of humanity on Earth, forget it. Yes, let's work to alleviate poverty. But if we wait until the last starving person has a happy meal, we'll never get off this rock.
Let's walk on Mars. And if any Martians get in our way, let's give them small pox. We still owe those green motherfuckers for the invasion of '38.
I've heard all the arguments about the advantages of unmanned missions into outer space, and I've considered the merits of spending our money on earthly problems before investing in space. Both are intellectually sound and spiritually inadequate.
Let's not get too excited about the reference to spirit. I don't mean a soul. I mean the human spirit--the improvement and progress of humankind. Robots on Mars are useful, and robots-only on Mars makes great sense to an accountant. But poetry matters. As for the perfectibility of humanity on Earth, forget it. Yes, let's work to alleviate poverty. But if we wait until the last starving person has a happy meal, we'll never get off this rock.
Let's walk on Mars. And if any Martians get in our way, let's give them small pox. We still owe those green motherfuckers for the invasion of '38.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
It is broke, so let's fix it
You like living with 100 laws.
It is the nature of government to empower itself. Government gets bigger and the laws it passes are more and more encompassing and invasive. Wouldn't it be great if someone ran on a platform that for every law s/he passed, s/he'd repeal two? Then imagine this thought experiment: that this repeal continued until society had just 100 laws, each detailed on a single page in a book every citizen carried on his person. Everyone knew the law, and every time a politician wanted to pass a new law, s/he'd have to argue why it should replace an existing law. And we'll end the book with a one-page list of ten rights every citizen has as a basis for which to determine when the necessarily generalized stipulations of these one-page laws have actually been broken.
It is the nature of government to empower itself. Government gets bigger and the laws it passes are more and more encompassing and invasive. Wouldn't it be great if someone ran on a platform that for every law s/he passed, s/he'd repeal two? Then imagine this thought experiment: that this repeal continued until society had just 100 laws, each detailed on a single page in a book every citizen carried on his person. Everyone knew the law, and every time a politician wanted to pass a new law, s/he'd have to argue why it should replace an existing law. And we'll end the book with a one-page list of ten rights every citizen has as a basis for which to determine when the necessarily generalized stipulations of these one-page laws have actually been broken.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Wild thing
You like feral cats.
Used to be I didn't like them. Whenever our house cats wandered outside, they'd get their asses beaten by their wild brethren. So I took to sending my Staffordshire bull terrier out first to chase them away. She never caught one--and despite the tough exterior, I'm not convinced she would have actually hurt them (unless they made the mistake of standing up to her). But just as I had an epiphany about domestic cats, I've done an about face on the feral variety: if domestic cats are cool because they're tiny predators that live in your home, feral cats are just as cool for being predators that have reentered the wild animal kingdom. Think of them as feline dingos. (Now try to think of them as feline dingos without hearing Meryl Streep doing an Australian accent. Can't do it, can you?)
I owe feral cats. I tried to execute them with my dog. So this coming summer, I'm going to put together a feral cat shelter and stow it back in the woods; provide a little home for the vicious critters. I'm going high roller on it--two floors, weather sealed, mouse dispenser--the whole kitty and kaboodle. We've got coyotes back there, not to mention black bears, so I may have to take a further step and arm them with spears and slingshots.
Not guns, though. I'm not taking that chance again.
Used to be I didn't like them. Whenever our house cats wandered outside, they'd get their asses beaten by their wild brethren. So I took to sending my Staffordshire bull terrier out first to chase them away. She never caught one--and despite the tough exterior, I'm not convinced she would have actually hurt them (unless they made the mistake of standing up to her). But just as I had an epiphany about domestic cats, I've done an about face on the feral variety: if domestic cats are cool because they're tiny predators that live in your home, feral cats are just as cool for being predators that have reentered the wild animal kingdom. Think of them as feline dingos. (Now try to think of them as feline dingos without hearing Meryl Streep doing an Australian accent. Can't do it, can you?)
I owe feral cats. I tried to execute them with my dog. So this coming summer, I'm going to put together a feral cat shelter and stow it back in the woods; provide a little home for the vicious critters. I'm going high roller on it--two floors, weather sealed, mouse dispenser--the whole kitty and kaboodle. We've got coyotes back there, not to mention black bears, so I may have to take a further step and arm them with spears and slingshots.
Not guns, though. I'm not taking that chance again.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Bastard, Ontario
You like the town of Saint-Louis-du-Ha!-Ha!, Quebec, and also Mushaboom and Ecum Secum, Nova Scotia, and Gin Cove and Ass Hill in Newfoundland. (The sister cities of Come By Chance and Leave on Purpose were short-listed but didn't make the cut.)
No, I haven't forgotten Dildo. I just don't pander to lewd-minded pervs.
No, I haven't forgotten Dildo. I just don't pander to lewd-minded pervs.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Dyb dyb dyb, dob dob dob
You like scouting.
Might as well address the controversy up front. Boy Scouts have been under fire for years--and deservedly so--for their anti-gay, pro-God views. I've done a bit of reading on this--hey, did you know gay no longer means happy?--and it seems like the criticisms are justified: BSA is a theistic, bigoted organization (I'm aware of the argument that BSA has the right to uphold its values even if other people don't like them, and yes, that position actually has some merit--but it doesn't change the fact that their stance is fucking idiotic). Usually, this would be grounds for me to start some sort of grassroots campaign, but I've given up on those. No matter how many grass roots I collected, no one seemed to give a shit.
In this case, however, the clear evil of prejudice and worship of the Jesus are just the shitty caraway seeds in an otherwise great loaf of bread. Uniforms? Check. Great outdoors? Check. Badges? Check and check.
We need dem stinking badges. Merit badges have changed with the times, while retaining some of the really cool, old school skills. Bugling was awesome a hundred years ago and it's still awesome today, but now you can also get a badge in composite materials. Okay, bad example. But nuclear science is a new badge, and that's pretty wicked: to get the badge you have to enrich half a kilogram of uranium. Or, even better, you can do it simultaneously with crime prevention--which replaced the death penalty badge in 1996--by launching a preemptive nuclear strike on Iran.
BSA also deserves credit for trying to be more progressive--baby steps and all that. They've had a disability awareness badge since way back in 1993, which was only the second year America had disabled people. Not that anyone wants that badge. Wheelchair studies? Fuck that. Do shotgun shooting and robotics; if you design a Terminator, they promote you to Eagle Scout.
Might as well address the controversy up front. Boy Scouts have been under fire for years--and deservedly so--for their anti-gay, pro-God views. I've done a bit of reading on this--hey, did you know gay no longer means happy?--and it seems like the criticisms are justified: BSA is a theistic, bigoted organization (I'm aware of the argument that BSA has the right to uphold its values even if other people don't like them, and yes, that position actually has some merit--but it doesn't change the fact that their stance is fucking idiotic). Usually, this would be grounds for me to start some sort of grassroots campaign, but I've given up on those. No matter how many grass roots I collected, no one seemed to give a shit.
In this case, however, the clear evil of prejudice and worship of the Jesus are just the shitty caraway seeds in an otherwise great loaf of bread. Uniforms? Check. Great outdoors? Check. Badges? Check and check.
We need dem stinking badges. Merit badges have changed with the times, while retaining some of the really cool, old school skills. Bugling was awesome a hundred years ago and it's still awesome today, but now you can also get a badge in composite materials. Okay, bad example. But nuclear science is a new badge, and that's pretty wicked: to get the badge you have to enrich half a kilogram of uranium. Or, even better, you can do it simultaneously with crime prevention--which replaced the death penalty badge in 1996--by launching a preemptive nuclear strike on Iran.
BSA also deserves credit for trying to be more progressive--baby steps and all that. They've had a disability awareness badge since way back in 1993, which was only the second year America had disabled people. Not that anyone wants that badge. Wheelchair studies? Fuck that. Do shotgun shooting and robotics; if you design a Terminator, they promote you to Eagle Scout.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Dive Olaf Dive
You like U-boats.
A sinister thing to like, I suppose, what with u-boats being responsible for the loss of many innocent lives. But then I'm one sinister mofo (I think that's what the kids are saying instead of motherfucker).
If you don't know what a u-boat is, you're probably too stupid to use a computer, but just in case: unterseeboot--U-boat in English--is the generic word for submarine in German, but it's usually used in the context of German subs from WW1 through WW2.
Why like these bad boys? Could be their predatory character, or their distinctive appearance. Or maybe they serve as a reality check for those who like to think people in the first half of the previous century had barely just discovered fire. Dude, people were traveling beneath the oceans in vehicles as technologically advanced as this way back in 1935. Sure, the u-boats were small, but that makes the technology that much more impressive. To think that a vessel barely bigger than an American nickel could travel across the Atlantic and sink dozens of ships...never mind the now-lost device that shrank the crew so they could fit into this toy-sized weapon.
A sinister thing to like, I suppose, what with u-boats being responsible for the loss of many innocent lives. But then I'm one sinister mofo (I think that's what the kids are saying instead of motherfucker).
If you don't know what a u-boat is, you're probably too stupid to use a computer, but just in case: unterseeboot--U-boat in English--is the generic word for submarine in German, but it's usually used in the context of German subs from WW1 through WW2.
Why like these bad boys? Could be their predatory character, or their distinctive appearance. Or maybe they serve as a reality check for those who like to think people in the first half of the previous century had barely just discovered fire. Dude, people were traveling beneath the oceans in vehicles as technologically advanced as this way back in 1935. Sure, the u-boats were small, but that makes the technology that much more impressive. To think that a vessel barely bigger than an American nickel could travel across the Atlantic and sink dozens of ships...never mind the now-lost device that shrank the crew so they could fit into this toy-sized weapon.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Pamphleteers
You like zines.
Being a self-styled media mogul is cool. There might not be a large distribution market for a periodical on blue toothbrushes, but the people who are passionate about them want a magazine to call their own.
Well, tough shit for them. A zine about blue toothbrushes would be dumb as fuck. Far cooler is my idea: Sea Slut. An amateur porn mag, done on a Gestetner, featuring the hottest ladies of the merchant marine. I get a plank just thinking about it.
I can't recommend any zines because I don't read them. Most seem to be made by art school drop outs who think the more baffling the images and prose, the better the work: "Is it a soiled serviette, or a spear in the bowels of capitalism?"
Huh?
Hate those fuckin' people.
Being a self-styled media mogul is cool. There might not be a large distribution market for a periodical on blue toothbrushes, but the people who are passionate about them want a magazine to call their own.
Well, tough shit for them. A zine about blue toothbrushes would be dumb as fuck. Far cooler is my idea: Sea Slut. An amateur porn mag, done on a Gestetner, featuring the hottest ladies of the merchant marine. I get a plank just thinking about it.
I can't recommend any zines because I don't read them. Most seem to be made by art school drop outs who think the more baffling the images and prose, the better the work: "Is it a soiled serviette, or a spear in the bowels of capitalism?"
Huh?
Hate those fuckin' people.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Lift off
You like firing rockets.
I'm not talking about those foot-tall cardboard tubes with chemical engines barely powerful enough to blow your hand off. Leave those to the toddlers and mental defectives. I'm referring to high power rockets--privately owned powder kegs that can streak into the stratosphere.
I have one modeled after a V-2, the missile the Germans launched at Britain late in the war. I've paid a manufacturer in Thailand who only employs children--I want to do my part to feed the third world kids--to model every single house and building that existed in London on the 8th of September, 1944. When installed, it will cover seven acres of cleared, former rain forest. I can't wait to rain terror down upon my 1:8 scale civilians.
This isn't a cheap pastime. Shooting rockets up where they can make passenger jet pilots nervous uses a lot of fuel, and rocket fuel is pricy. So you'll probably want to rob a bank before investing in this hobby. I suggest handing the teller a note that says, "I have a rocket in my pants." S/he's sure to hand you a big bag of bills.
I'm not talking about those foot-tall cardboard tubes with chemical engines barely powerful enough to blow your hand off. Leave those to the toddlers and mental defectives. I'm referring to high power rockets--privately owned powder kegs that can streak into the stratosphere.
I have one modeled after a V-2, the missile the Germans launched at Britain late in the war. I've paid a manufacturer in Thailand who only employs children--I want to do my part to feed the third world kids--to model every single house and building that existed in London on the 8th of September, 1944. When installed, it will cover seven acres of cleared, former rain forest. I can't wait to rain terror down upon my 1:8 scale civilians.
This isn't a cheap pastime. Shooting rockets up where they can make passenger jet pilots nervous uses a lot of fuel, and rocket fuel is pricy. So you'll probably want to rob a bank before investing in this hobby. I suggest handing the teller a note that says, "I have a rocket in my pants." S/he's sure to hand you a big bag of bills.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Roar!
You like komodo dragons.
Let's extend that to all monitor lizard kind. You see, most lizards suck. No, they really do. Who gives a damn about a chameleon, gecko or a skink. I say, level every last acre of their habitats and let them pass permanently into extinction (especially chameleons, those camouflaged little fuckers: root them out of every hiding place they have, try them in a Spalding tribunal and fry those bastards before launching their charred remains into orbit).
The exception is the monitors. The Komodo is the celebrity of the bunch, but there are lots of varieties, from the smaller red and yellow ackies, to the giant water, Nile, savannah and crocodile monitors. What makes this crew diferent is they're not stuck in the corner wearing dunce caps with the rest of lizard kind. These critters are smart--like, counting numbers smart. They're quick, too. If a komodo decides you're a meal, you'll need to hustle to get away.
And don't forgot the coolest feature Komodo dragons possess: fire-breathing...which presumably means they don't breathe regular air, but must inhale fire at all times or they suffocate.
Imagine having to keep a fire up to your face at all times. Must hurt like a bitch. Honestly, I don't know how they do it, or how any of the fire-breathing dragons did it back in the knight days. Sharon Stone's husband must have suffered terrible burns when a Komodo latched onto his foot.
One thing is for sure: No one but the most experienced keeper, with substantial resources available, has any business keeping any but the smallest-sized monitor as a pet. So I'd like to send out a big fuck you to all of the pet stores that sell eight-inch baby monitor lizards to kids for a hundred bucks. Bad news for the kid and bad news for the lizard.
Let's extend that to all monitor lizard kind. You see, most lizards suck. No, they really do. Who gives a damn about a chameleon, gecko or a skink. I say, level every last acre of their habitats and let them pass permanently into extinction (especially chameleons, those camouflaged little fuckers: root them out of every hiding place they have, try them in a Spalding tribunal and fry those bastards before launching their charred remains into orbit).
The exception is the monitors. The Komodo is the celebrity of the bunch, but there are lots of varieties, from the smaller red and yellow ackies, to the giant water, Nile, savannah and crocodile monitors. What makes this crew diferent is they're not stuck in the corner wearing dunce caps with the rest of lizard kind. These critters are smart--like, counting numbers smart. They're quick, too. If a komodo decides you're a meal, you'll need to hustle to get away.
And don't forgot the coolest feature Komodo dragons possess: fire-breathing...which presumably means they don't breathe regular air, but must inhale fire at all times or they suffocate.
Imagine having to keep a fire up to your face at all times. Must hurt like a bitch. Honestly, I don't know how they do it, or how any of the fire-breathing dragons did it back in the knight days. Sharon Stone's husband must have suffered terrible burns when a Komodo latched onto his foot.
One thing is for sure: No one but the most experienced keeper, with substantial resources available, has any business keeping any but the smallest-sized monitor as a pet. So I'd like to send out a big fuck you to all of the pet stores that sell eight-inch baby monitor lizards to kids for a hundred bucks. Bad news for the kid and bad news for the lizard.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Classy comfort
You like smoking jackets. Look at this man. The monocle, the teeth, the jacket. You wish you could be like him, and I'm telling you it's possible.
I have seven smoking jackets. All of them are velvet. The scarlet jacket has paisley accents on the yoke collar. It's my favorite. I wear it for afternoon social gatherings. You can't have it. But I might be willing to loan you my emerald green jacket. It's a good fit for cognac tastings or getting erotic enemas from a fat maidservant. Not that I've ever worn it for that four times.
The greatest man who's ever lived wears a smoking jacket every day. Hugh Hefner, the bastard son of God, will wear a smoking jacket when he ascends to his heavenly throne, and all the men who wear smoking jackets will be called to join him. Will you be in their number?
Fuck. I think this beer is interacting with these pills.
I have seven smoking jackets. All of them are velvet. The scarlet jacket has paisley accents on the yoke collar. It's my favorite. I wear it for afternoon social gatherings. You can't have it. But I might be willing to loan you my emerald green jacket. It's a good fit for cognac tastings or getting erotic enemas from a fat maidservant. Not that I've ever worn it for that four times.
The greatest man who's ever lived wears a smoking jacket every day. Hugh Hefner, the bastard son of God, will wear a smoking jacket when he ascends to his heavenly throne, and all the men who wear smoking jackets will be called to join him. Will you be in their number?
Fuck. I think this beer is interacting with these pills.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Under Down Under
You like New Zealand.
I had the good fortune to visit this small nation for a couple of weeks--not long enough to do the country justice, certainly, but enough to give it the Rick Spalding endorsement.
Like I said, it was two weeks, so don't ask me to comment on their politics (I'm guessing peacenik commies), Maori history, NZ culture or really any social subject of substance. I know fuck-all about New Zealanders, the people, except that most of them speak funny and have rotten teeth from eating pavlova all the time (seriously, it's disgusting: every person I met had a mouthful of white meringue and black stubby teeth. Think Gollum on a good day).
Their environment, though, is freakin' gorgeous. The North island is lushly sub-tropical, while the South island, dominated by mountains, ranges from rainforest to high, arid plateaus. The climate is ideal, the vistas spectacular and the flora verdant.
The cities won't wow Europeans, but North Americans will feel at home, except that NZ's communities are likely smaller, cleaner and prettier than the place you come from. Auckland reminds me a bit of Vancouver, but half the size, with little traffic and fewer heroin addicts. Actually, that's a poor comparison. Maybe Auckland is more like a tiny San Francisco but, again, with little traffic and fewer heroin addicts.
Bay of Islands impressed me, as did Milford Sound. I was less impressed with security at the international airport. Fuckers totally confiscated my wolverine and alligator collection. Some bullshit about introduced species. I'm just lucky they didn't find the guns in my carry-on.
(In the linked Auckland photo, see that yacht in the harbor? Yeah, mine is bigger.)
I had the good fortune to visit this small nation for a couple of weeks--not long enough to do the country justice, certainly, but enough to give it the Rick Spalding endorsement.
Like I said, it was two weeks, so don't ask me to comment on their politics (I'm guessing peacenik commies), Maori history, NZ culture or really any social subject of substance. I know fuck-all about New Zealanders, the people, except that most of them speak funny and have rotten teeth from eating pavlova all the time (seriously, it's disgusting: every person I met had a mouthful of white meringue and black stubby teeth. Think Gollum on a good day).
Their environment, though, is freakin' gorgeous. The North island is lushly sub-tropical, while the South island, dominated by mountains, ranges from rainforest to high, arid plateaus. The climate is ideal, the vistas spectacular and the flora verdant.
The cities won't wow Europeans, but North Americans will feel at home, except that NZ's communities are likely smaller, cleaner and prettier than the place you come from. Auckland reminds me a bit of Vancouver, but half the size, with little traffic and fewer heroin addicts. Actually, that's a poor comparison. Maybe Auckland is more like a tiny San Francisco but, again, with little traffic and fewer heroin addicts.
Bay of Islands impressed me, as did Milford Sound. I was less impressed with security at the international airport. Fuckers totally confiscated my wolverine and alligator collection. Some bullshit about introduced species. I'm just lucky they didn't find the guns in my carry-on.
(In the linked Auckland photo, see that yacht in the harbor? Yeah, mine is bigger.)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Cosy Noggins
You aspire to being a country gentleman (or gentlechick), which is why you like wearing an Irish tweed hat.
I'll confess to a conflict here. I've already advocated wearing a hockey helmet all the time. I'm amending that now: wear a hockey helmet whenever you leave your estate, but always wear a tweed hat on your own property. Even in bed. (Or a balaclava. But don't wear a balaclava in bed...unless you're in to that.)
Can't you see it now? The emerald fields and low, stone walls. The border collie feasting on a dismembered lamb. And you, hat on head, shillelagh in hand, eyes peeled for trespassing leprechauns: "You'll taste me blackthorn, ya wee fucker, or me name's not Seamus O'Flannagan!" The faerie folk are quick, though. Might do better with an AK-47, pick em off at two hundred yards.
I forgot to mention one thing: Don't get the ones with the feather on the side. Those are for senior citizens, and all senior citizens smell like soiled diapers.
I'll confess to a conflict here. I've already advocated wearing a hockey helmet all the time. I'm amending that now: wear a hockey helmet whenever you leave your estate, but always wear a tweed hat on your own property. Even in bed. (Or a balaclava. But don't wear a balaclava in bed...unless you're in to that.)
Can't you see it now? The emerald fields and low, stone walls. The border collie feasting on a dismembered lamb. And you, hat on head, shillelagh in hand, eyes peeled for trespassing leprechauns: "You'll taste me blackthorn, ya wee fucker, or me name's not Seamus O'Flannagan!" The faerie folk are quick, though. Might do better with an AK-47, pick em off at two hundred yards.
I forgot to mention one thing: Don't get the ones with the feather on the side. Those are for senior citizens, and all senior citizens smell like soiled diapers.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Barnett Newman, you suck
You like box easels.
Paint. Paint indoors. Paint outdoors. Paint even though you don't know how to paint. And one of the most convenient ways to get started is with a box easel. You can get one with legs, if you prefer (definitely more useful, but bulkier and a lot more expensive).
"But I don't paint!" you say? Well fuck you, you do now. I've had a real epiphany about this art form: a bad painting is better than no painting (no one else has ever thought this before ever; it's entirely original to me--I checked!). Now, before we get too philosophical, allow me to offer an exception. An all-black canvas called "Study in Happy," inevitably coasting one million dollars, isn't better than no painting--in fact, it isn't better than having your testicles stomped with hob-nailed boots--so let's not indulge in thought-experiment paintings (for more on the subject, read The Painted Word). But other than those, the most amateur painting ever is still cool.
Here's the thing: paintings don't have to be technically proficient to be enjoyable. I realize that's sacrilege in some circles. But the advent of photography changed the purpose of painting. No longer was painting the way we recorded what we saw. Photos capture objective facts very well (easy there, egg-heads, save your objections for someone who gives a shit about your over-intellectualizing). I'm afraid I don't see the point in creating a photo-perfect painting. I can respect the talent it takes, but I believe painters should pursue what paint does best: expressing personal bias or, simpler, decorating our lives. It doesn't mean that we have to declare the finger mashings of a four-year old the equal of Van Gogh, but it means that we can step away--miles away--from the elitest view of painting. Everyone can paint, and if the result isn't always art, it's undeniably the personal made public.
So where did we start? Oh yes, box easels. I love these things because they are the tools of my manifesto. Don't get stuck in a studio doing Art. See the world and say something about it with paint.
(And to all my beret-wearing detractors with doctorates in Abstract Expressionism, yes, someone did die and make me the greatest art critic in the world. Go smoke another cigarette.)
Paint. Paint indoors. Paint outdoors. Paint even though you don't know how to paint. And one of the most convenient ways to get started is with a box easel. You can get one with legs, if you prefer (definitely more useful, but bulkier and a lot more expensive).
"But I don't paint!" you say? Well fuck you, you do now. I've had a real epiphany about this art form: a bad painting is better than no painting (no one else has ever thought this before ever; it's entirely original to me--I checked!). Now, before we get too philosophical, allow me to offer an exception. An all-black canvas called "Study in Happy," inevitably coasting one million dollars, isn't better than no painting--in fact, it isn't better than having your testicles stomped with hob-nailed boots--so let's not indulge in thought-experiment paintings (for more on the subject, read The Painted Word). But other than those, the most amateur painting ever is still cool.
Here's the thing: paintings don't have to be technically proficient to be enjoyable. I realize that's sacrilege in some circles. But the advent of photography changed the purpose of painting. No longer was painting the way we recorded what we saw. Photos capture objective facts very well (easy there, egg-heads, save your objections for someone who gives a shit about your over-intellectualizing). I'm afraid I don't see the point in creating a photo-perfect painting. I can respect the talent it takes, but I believe painters should pursue what paint does best: expressing personal bias or, simpler, decorating our lives. It doesn't mean that we have to declare the finger mashings of a four-year old the equal of Van Gogh, but it means that we can step away--miles away--from the elitest view of painting. Everyone can paint, and if the result isn't always art, it's undeniably the personal made public.
So where did we start? Oh yes, box easels. I love these things because they are the tools of my manifesto. Don't get stuck in a studio doing Art. See the world and say something about it with paint.
(And to all my beret-wearing detractors with doctorates in Abstract Expressionism, yes, someone did die and make me the greatest art critic in the world. Go smoke another cigarette.)
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Choo Choo
You like owning your own railroad.
Some people want a Ferrari, while others aspire to private jet ownership. Both are fine, I guess, but a little high falutin' for my tastes. Next thing you know you'll be eating foie gras toast for breakfast and using cloth napkins with supper.
A rideable, mini engine and track says, "I've got expendable income but I'm still in touch with my working class roots." Oh, and also, "I'm mechanically inclined and possibly a little fuckin' nuts." These are all good things.
When it comes to engines, you gotta go steam. It's just cool--that whole Jules Verne thing (voted Sexiest Dead Man by People magazine in 1982). It may surprise you to know that a niche industry has sprung up supplying people and amusement parks with genuine scaled-down steam locomotives. These little trains don't come cheap, especially if you get all the bells and whistles (seriously, the whistles will bankrupt you).
I'd like to buy one of these trains and then kit it out like the armored monstrosity in The Passage. Make the entrance to your driveway a railroad crossing, and post a "No Trespassing" sign. Whenever someone goes to pull in, chug up in your train, cannons locked and loaded, and accuse them of being vampires.
So fuckin' awesome.
Some people want a Ferrari, while others aspire to private jet ownership. Both are fine, I guess, but a little high falutin' for my tastes. Next thing you know you'll be eating foie gras toast for breakfast and using cloth napkins with supper.
A rideable, mini engine and track says, "I've got expendable income but I'm still in touch with my working class roots." Oh, and also, "I'm mechanically inclined and possibly a little fuckin' nuts." These are all good things.
When it comes to engines, you gotta go steam. It's just cool--that whole Jules Verne thing (voted Sexiest Dead Man by People magazine in 1982). It may surprise you to know that a niche industry has sprung up supplying people and amusement parks with genuine scaled-down steam locomotives. These little trains don't come cheap, especially if you get all the bells and whistles (seriously, the whistles will bankrupt you).
I'd like to buy one of these trains and then kit it out like the armored monstrosity in The Passage. Make the entrance to your driveway a railroad crossing, and post a "No Trespassing" sign. Whenever someone goes to pull in, chug up in your train, cannons locked and loaded, and accuse them of being vampires.
So fuckin' awesome.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Neptune
You like being the ruler of fish kind.
Imagine that shit. More than half the planet's surface is covered in water, and most of that is unexplored. The Mariana Trench is more than 35,000 feet deep, which is like having ten Mount Everests stacked on top of each other if Everest was 3,500 feet tall! What I'm saying is, it's a lot of ocean.
It's a lot of fish, too. And they'd all do your bidding. "Hey blue shark, fetch me my coral slippers." You get the idea. You could harness a whale to carry you around your domain, or shatter millions of human lives with a tsunami any time you had the urge.
Mermaids don't exist, though, so your sex life would be lacking. For that matter, neither do Greek gods, so this whole Neptune thing is bullshit.
Fuck. Apparently Neptune isn't even Greek. He's Roman. I hate the ancient Romans, those dicks. Okay, forget the whole thing. You don't like Neptune--not even the planet--you like aquariums: shallow boxes of water containing a few fish pathetically gulping away their lifespans.
Imagine that shit. More than half the planet's surface is covered in water, and most of that is unexplored. The Mariana Trench is more than 35,000 feet deep, which is like having ten Mount Everests stacked on top of each other if Everest was 3,500 feet tall! What I'm saying is, it's a lot of ocean.
It's a lot of fish, too. And they'd all do your bidding. "Hey blue shark, fetch me my coral slippers." You get the idea. You could harness a whale to carry you around your domain, or shatter millions of human lives with a tsunami any time you had the urge.
Mermaids don't exist, though, so your sex life would be lacking. For that matter, neither do Greek gods, so this whole Neptune thing is bullshit.
Fuck. Apparently Neptune isn't even Greek. He's Roman. I hate the ancient Romans, those dicks. Okay, forget the whole thing. You don't like Neptune--not even the planet--you like aquariums: shallow boxes of water containing a few fish pathetically gulping away their lifespans.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Biever fever
You like pop music.
Kesha, Rihanna, Aguilera, Katy Perry, and the rest of the top 40, nouveau disco, dance floor froth. I'm gaga for Gaga and I'm sick of being expected to apologize for it. I've listened to everything, okay: from Bach to Slayer, Mike Oldfield to the Sex Pistols. I've dialed 911 while listening to Public Enemy and jumped around in Doc Martens to the soothing beats of H.O.P. I dig Radiohead and REM, White Stripes, Ry Cooder, Stompin' Tom and Soundgarden. But guess what? Nothing gets me revved up these days quite like hit chart radio.
One thing, though. Pop music should only be sung by chicks. I want to hear a PVC-wrapped diva cooing about getting taken all night. I'm not as interested in Pit Bull bragging about the size of his dick or whatever the fuck he's always growling about.
Guys can write good pop music, sure, but they should hire porn stars to perform it for them.
Kesha, Rihanna, Aguilera, Katy Perry, and the rest of the top 40, nouveau disco, dance floor froth. I'm gaga for Gaga and I'm sick of being expected to apologize for it. I've listened to everything, okay: from Bach to Slayer, Mike Oldfield to the Sex Pistols. I've dialed 911 while listening to Public Enemy and jumped around in Doc Martens to the soothing beats of H.O.P. I dig Radiohead and REM, White Stripes, Ry Cooder, Stompin' Tom and Soundgarden. But guess what? Nothing gets me revved up these days quite like hit chart radio.
One thing, though. Pop music should only be sung by chicks. I want to hear a PVC-wrapped diva cooing about getting taken all night. I'm not as interested in Pit Bull bragging about the size of his dick or whatever the fuck he's always growling about.
Guys can write good pop music, sure, but they should hire porn stars to perform it for them.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Brain bumpers
You like hockey helmets.
I don't play hockey. I don't watch hockey. I resent the fact that popular culture defines me as a hockey lover simply because I was born in Canada. But wearing a hockey helmet all day, every day strikes me as 1) eminently sensible and 2) very fashionable.
Having a black shell protecting your cranium makes one very cool statement: "I'm prepared. If you flip me off, I might try to punch your lights out, and I don't care if you go for your tire iron because I'm wearing a hockey helmet. Oh, instead you want to flee and have a high-speed chase? Well I can do that, too. That's right, cuz I'm wearing a hockey helmet."
And if someone assumes you're retarded, good. Let's have a little more solidarity with our brain-impaired brethren.
Here's a little known fact: Delta force special ops don't wear standard helmets, they wear hockey helmets. So do astronauts and lumberjacks.
So wear a helmet. And wear hockey gloves, too. They make you look like a wicked robot.
I don't play hockey. I don't watch hockey. I resent the fact that popular culture defines me as a hockey lover simply because I was born in Canada. But wearing a hockey helmet all day, every day strikes me as 1) eminently sensible and 2) very fashionable.
Having a black shell protecting your cranium makes one very cool statement: "I'm prepared. If you flip me off, I might try to punch your lights out, and I don't care if you go for your tire iron because I'm wearing a hockey helmet. Oh, instead you want to flee and have a high-speed chase? Well I can do that, too. That's right, cuz I'm wearing a hockey helmet."
And if someone assumes you're retarded, good. Let's have a little more solidarity with our brain-impaired brethren.
Here's a little known fact: Delta force special ops don't wear standard helmets, they wear hockey helmets. So do astronauts and lumberjacks.
So wear a helmet. And wear hockey gloves, too. They make you look like a wicked robot.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Death from above
You like meteorites.
Let's get our terms straight first. A meteoroid is a metal and/or stone object hurtling through space; a meteor is the same thing as it's streaking into our atmosphere; and a meteorite is a piece of the same that's survived impact. Cool thing is, some people hunt these cosmic souvenirs down and sell them. You too can own a piece of outer space!
It's funny, really. Meteorites are just space dirt. We've got an entire planet of the stuff. Still, when you think about this object hurtling through the universe since the dawn of time, only to come to rest on our planet, it's pretty cool -- nerd cool, granted, but cool.
Among the most interesting--and spendy--items one can acquire is a piece of an asteroid of Lunar or Martian origin. A very small number of meteorites started as chunks of dirt on those celestial bodies, and now they're here--and expensive! Gram for gram, accumulating crack rocks would be much less pricy (until you start smoking your collection).
The other item that meteorite fanciers covet is rocks that have hit a man-made object, an animal or person on impact: hammer stones.
I guess it makes the story better when you're handing someone a space pebble: "Yeah, this is my meteor. It's worth more because it brained a porcupine on impact."
No, on second thought, it doesn't make the story better. Digging a rock specifically because it hit something is weird at best and downright ghoulish if it was a murder-missile. Still, I got dibs on the name if I ever start a metal band.
Let's get our terms straight first. A meteoroid is a metal and/or stone object hurtling through space; a meteor is the same thing as it's streaking into our atmosphere; and a meteorite is a piece of the same that's survived impact. Cool thing is, some people hunt these cosmic souvenirs down and sell them. You too can own a piece of outer space!
It's funny, really. Meteorites are just space dirt. We've got an entire planet of the stuff. Still, when you think about this object hurtling through the universe since the dawn of time, only to come to rest on our planet, it's pretty cool -- nerd cool, granted, but cool.
Among the most interesting--and spendy--items one can acquire is a piece of an asteroid of Lunar or Martian origin. A very small number of meteorites started as chunks of dirt on those celestial bodies, and now they're here--and expensive! Gram for gram, accumulating crack rocks would be much less pricy (until you start smoking your collection).
The other item that meteorite fanciers covet is rocks that have hit a man-made object, an animal or person on impact: hammer stones.
I guess it makes the story better when you're handing someone a space pebble: "Yeah, this is my meteor. It's worth more because it brained a porcupine on impact."
No, on second thought, it doesn't make the story better. Digging a rock specifically because it hit something is weird at best and downright ghoulish if it was a murder-missile. Still, I got dibs on the name if I ever start a metal band.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Sweet treet
Did you know maple syrup comes from trees? Yeah, it does. Seriously. Trees. And you like it.
All you do is jam a beer tap into a trunk and rich maple syrup flows out. It's that easy. Thomas Jefferson envisioned a future when America's sugar would be supplied by maple trees. Man, he was addicted to the shit. His cooks made the very first Kit Kat bars, but they made them with maple syrup and acorn butter, instead of cane sugar and palm oil.
But I digress. Eat maple syrup. It's "The great taste of trees--in a bottle!" (And no, I did not receive $342.89 from the Maple Tappers Board of Montpelier to push their slogan. That's a bald-faced lie spread by my enemies at Domino. You know the old Sicilian saying: Never believe a man who makes pizza for a living if he's a liar.)
All you do is jam a beer tap into a trunk and rich maple syrup flows out. It's that easy. Thomas Jefferson envisioned a future when America's sugar would be supplied by maple trees. Man, he was addicted to the shit. His cooks made the very first Kit Kat bars, but they made them with maple syrup and acorn butter, instead of cane sugar and palm oil.
But I digress. Eat maple syrup. It's "The great taste of trees--in a bottle!" (And no, I did not receive $342.89 from the Maple Tappers Board of Montpelier to push their slogan. That's a bald-faced lie spread by my enemies at Domino. You know the old Sicilian saying: Never believe a man who makes pizza for a living if he's a liar.)
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Fine vines
You like making your own wine from your own grapes.
Spare me all the sommelier lingo. I don't care if my Beaujolais has a rat's piss finish or undertones of charcoal. I like wine I've grown and fermented myself, reputation be damned.
So when Nova Scotians tell me they don't like Nova Scotia wine, first I threaten to kill them, then I calm down and threaten to maim them. Then I calm down more and explain why they should be excited about this province's wines.
First of all, Canadian wines have come a long way, and NS wines are no exception. The average consumer overestimates how discerning a palate they possess. I am sure in blind taste tests there are Annapolis Valley wines they'd love and Sonoma wines they'd hate. In other words, the top wines being produced here can go toe-to-toe with affordable wines being produced anywhere in the world.
Second, you need to grow your own vines to really embrace local wine. For example, Frontenac is a gamey grape--an acquired taste--but you need to understand the role climate and terroir play in grape growth to appreciate its distinct character. The very idea a grape exists that's winter-hardy to -30 fahrenheit is staggering. When you manage to grow a peach at the North Pole, you don't complain because the flesh is slightly more yellow than you like -- no, you marvel at the accomplishment, full stop.
I'm growing l'Acadie blanc. It has become one of the leading white grapes in Nova Scotia because it's well-suited to our climate. Now, I could be a wine spectator; I could stick with red, buy my bottles at the store and bemoan the fact that my property isn't conducive to merlot. Or I can embrace where I am: drink l'Acadie, learn the good from the bad, school my palate, and derive satisfaction from working towards mastering my grapes.
Spare me all the sommelier lingo. I don't care if my Beaujolais has a rat's piss finish or undertones of charcoal. I like wine I've grown and fermented myself, reputation be damned.
So when Nova Scotians tell me they don't like Nova Scotia wine, first I threaten to kill them, then I calm down and threaten to maim them. Then I calm down more and explain why they should be excited about this province's wines.
First of all, Canadian wines have come a long way, and NS wines are no exception. The average consumer overestimates how discerning a palate they possess. I am sure in blind taste tests there are Annapolis Valley wines they'd love and Sonoma wines they'd hate. In other words, the top wines being produced here can go toe-to-toe with affordable wines being produced anywhere in the world.
Second, you need to grow your own vines to really embrace local wine. For example, Frontenac is a gamey grape--an acquired taste--but you need to understand the role climate and terroir play in grape growth to appreciate its distinct character. The very idea a grape exists that's winter-hardy to -30 fahrenheit is staggering. When you manage to grow a peach at the North Pole, you don't complain because the flesh is slightly more yellow than you like -- no, you marvel at the accomplishment, full stop.
I'm growing l'Acadie blanc. It has become one of the leading white grapes in Nova Scotia because it's well-suited to our climate. Now, I could be a wine spectator; I could stick with red, buy my bottles at the store and bemoan the fact that my property isn't conducive to merlot. Or I can embrace where I am: drink l'Acadie, learn the good from the bad, school my palate, and derive satisfaction from working towards mastering my grapes.
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