Art Imitates Death

The gallery was a makeshift affair on a desolate lower west side block; the enormous paintings had been craned in through the loft building’s half demolished roof and no provisions had been made for their subsequent removal after roof repairs were hastily completed and the interior prepped for the opening. The paintings were effectively entombed.
The artist’s will had stipulated the works for display, all with prices so obscene that their purchase and need for removal was remote anyway. But the will also landed a upon the noted promoter a sum commensurate with his formidable guest list.
Gallery opening prior to evacuation and destruction
The opening announcement’s absurd scheduled seance attracted a crowd of young trust fund goths but less predictable were small groups of outlaw bikers, glitterati and inscrutable Silicon Alley billionaire types who smirked their respective amusement when the cheesy occult proceedings were busted by an obviously staged raid.
Then the whole cast was suddenly busted by what appeared to be an actual raid by NYPD undercover cops, simultaneous with urgent demands to immediately evacuate the premises. Doubtful stragglers were caught desperately racing for exits when the place shuddered with the first explosions.
Only when the adjacent building’s wall collapsed onto it in a grim cloud of dust did the gallery’s last lights fade on its huge doomed canvases.
The stunned crowd was ordered back and cordoned off, eventually dispersing into the night, away from the flashing emergency lights and sirens.
No one later interviewed had any recollection of the artist’s name or cause of death. No paintings were reported sold.
The promoter, following legal machinations and fines was besieged by pleas for representation, predominantly by a new wave of suicidal deconstructionists.

Chuck Croll — Internet Jedi

Found a chat site for beleaguered bloggers and a dude named “nitecruzr,” aka Chuck Croll posted a remedy that seemed to fix my pirate problem.

He just came out of nowhere and fixed it.

So I’m putting a link here to Chuck the internet Jedi. Because whitehat heroes are good to know.
Plus he’s a nut for cats. I borrowed the gif from his site.

Google Blogspot Harbors Hackers

Blogspot runs this site and about a million others, for free. At those prices, get in line if your blog is overrun by pirate sites. This site has been hacked into for months—if you’re even reading this, it’s likely because you pushed “back” a dozen times until this pirate phishing site stopped force- loading over the real page.
There are a couple other competing cockroach URL redirects that force-load over this blog... including, predictably, porn stuff. Since Blogspot is for code-illiterate laymen, surely Google has remedies for such cyber evil-doing?

Google’s “Send Feedback” is supposed to help bloggers with problems. It doesn’t. Dozens of problem reports= zero responses. Zero help, zero support, zero concern.
 Zero precisely correlates to my cost (absent countless hours of content creation)—but it also sums up Google’s value to customers—unless you count hackers, pirates and porn purveyors.

Schwa de Vivre

Since cursive handwriting is disappearing, all finer points of written or spoken English are doubtless soon doomed too, so sticking up for the schwa is like rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers, but I’m going for it.

The schwa (ə) is the most common vowel sound. A, E, I, O, U and Y vowels are all frequently pronounced with a short, neutral schwa sound. The e in “vowel” is a schwa, so’s the a in “local,” the i in “pencil”— so forth—just in case you’re recently born or were sick that day in English studies.

Increasingly, this seemingly irrelevant yet ubiquitous sound has morphed. In the mouths of more and more young women, all vowels are now pronounced “oah,” so the schwa becomes a pronounced and drawn-out “ah.”

As schwas occur often, the valleygirl speech affect causes their mouths to take on a perpetual aspect of awaiting a surprise insertion. And the unassuming schwa is embarrassed no end. Please have pity.

Meanwhile, Just Use Some Spit

Humans had a fourteen hundred year brainfart.

R.D. Laing Walks Into a Bar with Ayn Rand

“Palavers?” said the skeptical bartender.

Cattle Mutilation? Wasn’t Me.

Some mornings are touch and go.

Another Puntoon

The clever self-taught might know what this awful visual pun is scratching at.
(click picture in its own window and answer is revealed)

Moore’s the Pity Law

Gordon Moore predicted that every 18 months or so machines get twice as fast—and get cheaper.

More—for less! It’s worked since Moore made his prediction in 1965. Our labors are fewer, our burdens lighter and our productivity greater than ever in human history.

The power of mind and technology has eclipsed all advancements since the dawn of civilization in 40 short years!

Vast, unstressed leisure time makes for flourishing arts and culture and the charitable milk of human kindness is evident everywhere.

Because we have more! And there is more still—exponentially more!

See Attle

Seattle is a state of don’t mind. It’s where you don’t mind spectacular unseen scenery, don’t mind mossy socks and knickers, don’t mind shaving around prehensile gills and don’t mind perpetual seasonal affect disorder expressed as genial optimism. It is the ultimate getaway for the delusional, with highest per capita sales of sunglasses and your choice of medical or recreational marijuana dispensaries. Catch the buzz. The buzz is Seattle.

And The Poop Disappears, Too!

Family gag—7th grade woodshop—don’t ask.

A Star, a Script— And Funding Cratered

Couldn’t make our Kickstarter nut.

Cat Encouragement Fail

Might've crossed the line on peer pressure.

Think or Sink

Somebody’s still writing philosophy books, wow.
“Brief” is in the title but it’s still about three thousand tweets long.

Here’s a Twitter synopsis:
Money competes with God for our brain. Argue a couple millennia. No clear winner but money’s got the edge since God pays a suckier salary.

Okay, that’s kind of a lie— Luc is actually pretty soft on the idea of higher ideals. He’s for instance not a fan of Nietzsche. Spends a lot of ink going after the “God is dead” guy— which is weird since anybody who claims the death of an Immortal Eternal just plainly craves attention. But in philosophy, you can cover your eyes, smirk and declare “you can’t see me” and it’ll launch a hundred excited egghead arguments.

I’m more a fan of the applied sciences— curing disease, figuring out how to stick up longer bridges and taller buildings, shooting dune buggies onto Mars. I also prefer just drawing conclusions from obvious evidence. Quantum physics is nuts, they’re torturing all logic and sense— look what it’s done to poor Stevie Hawking. The bionic man ain’t what it used to be, any more than the future is.

So I look around me right now to see how that God vs. Money argument’s going and draw my conclusions on the evidence, using tried and true scientific observation:

Talking To My Cat

I bore him to distraction.

Porn Aversion Therapy

Banishing the scourge of smut.
(Caution: aggravates symptoms for the over-60 set)

Reality Isn’t If Untelevised

The only  proof of existence is TV. Being off-camera is being a tree in a forest in Mongolia in a zud. Don’t be irrelevant, be famous. Everyone was promised their fifteen seconds by a mystical, ghostly wizard from Pittsburgh late last century. Okay, rounding errors and sequestration have altered the numbers, but still.

To get on TV you need to have killer connections or surrender all  morality and dignity. Or, less redundantly, you need to be resourceful. Crushing up against the Times Square morning show broadcast windows only counts as being a televised shrub in a zud, think bigger.

Offer to polish Donald Trump’s pinky ring with personal adrenaline fluid while under lethal injection. Juggle burning kittens at a Tea Party rally. Hire a blind, autistic personal stylist, pump up your tattoos with some ’roids and an S&M fitness regime, have a double sex change, create a religion based on incontinence, unionize sperm donors, get busy and get famous!

Remember: the world’s your oyster, and you’re its saliva!

Sorry About That.

A Zud spokesman extended apologies to the residents of Mongolia, where the maiden launch of collaborative missile project with Raytheon went awry.

“Obviously, this is a disappointing setback for our defense systems initiative, and a full investigation is underway to determine the cause. Ongoing talks with the Pentagon promise future interest in the program’s potential as a livestock deterrent.”

The affected residents of Mongolia, an 87 year old farmer and his wife, seven yaks, eleven sheep, nine goats and a dog refused evacuation for medical attention.

Through an interpreter, the farmer, who huddled nearby the burning wreckage remarked that “this is the warmest I’ve been in half a century.”

What’s a Zud?

Wikipedia tells us a zud is a bummer Mongolian winter where all the livestock starves.

There are several kinds of zuds: white, black, cold and iron zuds—which are snowy, dry, lethally frigid and frozen rain zuds, respectively.
Livestock have no stated preference for the sort of zud that causes their starvation.

Those who thankfully do not live in zud zones still have the cleaning product Zud. Which is apparently the tough answer to limp-wristed competitor Bon Ami, although this is sheer speculation.

What’s important is the monosyllabic perfection. Zud. Marketing gold. There are multinational plans and a rumored IPO launch. Frozen government and global warming be damned.

Wag the Werewolf

Vamping up for Halloween

Phil’s Dog

Every dog has his day.
Phil’s dog seizes the day.

Charlie is World’s Dumbest Bird

...and has a potty mouth, too.


Cat Caught Skyping

Egad - a Maine Coon in Bangor, an Abyssinian from Albania, a calico in Rio, a Portugeuse Siamese—they’re everywhere! Pried his little paw off the mouse which he claimed was so named because it’s remnant human memory of implanted computer tech from alien cat scientists.
Overheard them gloating “the feline mind invasion nears completion.”
Met with hostile silence trying to elicit more info. Threats useless—critter crapped in my slippers and went on a three-day hunger strike.
Odds are it’s just harmless delusions, but can I risk it?

Monsanto Invites You to Eat This

Here’s a nice, juicy, red-ripe tomato, fresh from the garden. 100% organic, nothing genetically altered or anything, really.
Nature is imperfect; can Monsanto make that claim?
Nature occasionally does stuff like that on its own. Reminds you of a ____, doesn’t it?
And if it was genetically altered? By Monsanto?
You’d eat it?
But that’s stupid. Monsanto wouldn’t sell tomatoes looking like that. Maybe nature makes the occasional tomato with its ____ sticking out; Monsanto makes perfect genetic tomatoes...the ones we get to see, anyway.

So it’s odd that Monsanto is against genetic labeling—since nature, its competition, is so obviously prone to careless mistakes.