Here are the facts, as I know them:
- The economy is in the shitter.
- People have historically been reactionary pinchfists in these situations.
- Nevertheless, the gift-giving holidays are nigh upon us.
- 40% of Americans will finish their holiday shopping online.
- I SOLD SEVEN SHIRTS AND AN ART PRINT IN A SINGLE DAY!
Yup, discerning celebrants will be sliding some tentacled and/or winged goodness from Cthulhu is my Copilot under their trees this year. Capital idea! Their loved ones will be speechless! And finely attired.
I sort of feel bad for all their other presents...
Say, don’t you have some shopping to do? Might as well get it over with.
You can even UPGRADE TO TWO-DAY SHIPPING FREE, so don't go trying to say there's no time.
(Use code: TWODAYZAZZLE)
My best friend is not feeling well. Poor Marley seems to have acquired some lousy stomach bug. He’s such a trooper; the only indicator that he’s sick is that he isn’t quite as persistent that you throw his hedgehog.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
He came into the bedroom last night as he always does and settled down to sleep on his bed. We’d all been up late watching LOST (which the fuckwit network execs moved to 10pm ostensibly due to all the orgy-sex they’ve added to the plot*) and so I was pretty well crashed out when Marley came to wake me up at around 2am.
Having finally acknowledged that it was my dog and not a Shakira/Karin hybrid that was licking me, I dragged myself out of bed to let Marley out of the bedroom.
My foot found the puddle of poo before my nose did. Of course, each and every toe immediately awakened both members of the slumbering Nostril Guard with cries of “AAAAAH! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! WHERE WAS OUR OLFACTORY EARLY WARNING!? SOMEONE’S GONNA PAY!”
Of course, once Nasal-L and Nasal-R were aware of the situation, they immediately felt compelled to inform Commander Gag who, being a rather edgy guy anyway, threw a tantrum that pretty much incapacitated me.
So there I am, standing on my one unsoiled foot, convulsing violently, and Marley’s waiting by the door doing the “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” dance. In between dry heaves, it occurs to me that after I open the bedroom door, I must make a hard decision: Do I hop behind Marley to the back slider and let him outside or do I make a pitstop to boil my toes first?
The thought of Karin finding me at the bottom of the stairs dead, naked, and with shit all over my left foot was enough to steer me toward the bathroom.
Having washed up, I went to check on Marley, fully expecting him to have made even more work for me. Thankfully, he was lying on the couch and I could neither see nor smell evidence of another accident. I asked him if he wanted to go outside, but he only sighed and gave me a forlorn look. I think he felt bad about the revolting manner in which I learned of his offense.
It was easily close to an hour before everything normalized and I found my way back to bed. But as is common after experiencing unexpected and bizarre trauma in the wee hours of the night, it was quite impossible to go back to sleep with any sort of quickness. My mind just bounced around between everything from “Did I get the water hot enough?” to “I really should have taken the recent rise in Marley’s flatulence more seriously”.
Anyway, that was all a very long-winded and disgusting way of informing you that I am hella tired today and having a rough go of it. I could have just said that to begin with, but what kind of blog post would that have been?
*No, not really. SPOILER ALERT! What I meant to say instead of "orgy-sex" was "ruthless killing".
First things first, many thanks to Randal Munroe of xkcd fame for providing me with a perfect title for this post.
Next item of importance on the list is to remind folks that I am a graphic artist, not a scientist. Those of you who are scientists – particularly physics nerds – will likely read this post and think, So what? You think you’re Tesla now, dimbulb? But for me, the little science experiment I held in my kitchen last night was really quite something and an accomplishment to be proud of.
It all started last weekend when I was doing some cleaning and came across my old plasma lamp. I’m sure most of you have seen one of these devices before. Here is a photo of me playing with mine.
Yeah, see, you know exactly what I’m talking about, huh? Thought so.
I’ve been reading a lot of cool stuff about physics lately, and so when I found the plasma lamp, I started recalling what I’d learned about it in college. Basically, the device sends an electrical current through the gas inside the sphere, ionizing it so we see light*. Touching the sphere grounds it, so that the current runs through the person to the floor.
And that got me to thinking…
…if the current is running through me when I touch it, as evidenced by the behavior of the bolt of electricity, then it should be able to excite other gases outside the sphere…
…gases such as those found inside a fluorescent light bulb, in fact!
So I called the kids into the kitchen and we performed a little experiment, the results of which were highly successful and are shown below.
Simply by holding a fluorescent light bulb close to the plasma lamp, I was able to get the gases inside it to start ionizing. With a few twists of my wrist to expose more of the bulb to the current flowing from the sphere, I eventually got the entire bulb lit without it being plugged into any socket!
Next we tried it with a long fluorescent tube light with even faster success. Almost immediately, the tube lit up like a makeshift lightsaber.
So there you go. Electricity – even tiny currents – can excite gases, creating plasmas and producing light.
Gives me an idea for an urban legend. I could start telling people if they fill their lungs with Helium and stand under high-tension power lines at night, they’ll actually be able to see their chest cavity light up.
*If you want a more detailed explanation of what’s going on at the sub-atomic level, you’ll have to speak up. I don’t want to bore anyone unnecessarily. KEVIN WOLF HAS ASKED ME TO BORE THE REST OF YOU WITH DETAILS.
So where was I? Let’s see... boss thought we kicked ass waterfronts are gross two-headed calf revolting saltshaker eat with a mallet... oh yes, going to see Roman Art from the Louvre at the Seattle Art Museum.
There is something very powerful about antiquity. The idea that a work of art has lasted for centuries is amazing; that it has lasted several millennia is nothing short of awesome*. The effect is, of course, greatly magnified by such exquisite artisanship as that displayed in the Louvre’s Roman art collection. I am deeply moved by great beauty, whether in man-made art or in naturally created forms, and as I stood looking at the very first piece in the exhibit – an enormous bust of Lucilla** – I found myself so taken by it’s artistry and grace that I literally felt all the negativity wash out of me as it was replaced by what can only be described as stupefied awe.
There is a scene in the film Ferris Beuller’s Day Off where we see Cameron standing in front of Georges Seurat’s famous painting Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. As soft and lovely music plays, the camera focuses on the painting, then on Cameron’s contemplative face. Then back to the painting, closer this time. Then Cameron’s face again, also closer. The camera switches back and forth between the two, getting closer and closer to its subjects with each change of view. This continues until we are seeing the painting so closely that the overall image is completely reduced to random colored blotches. Every time I watch this scene, I feel my throat tighten with emotion – not because of the scene’s significance in the film, but because of Cameron’s deep consideration of the artwork before him. He stands there, rigid and still, staring so far into the impressionist’s painting it’s as if he’s trying mentally to climb into it.
That’s sort of the effect all artwork done with this level of mastery has on me. (Shame that I didn’t remember that during lunch.) I can lose myself in it; be taken somewhere else with seemingly more efficiency than that delivered by any drug or somnolent business lecture.
I stared at Lucilla for a good long time. She was beautiful, even carved out of marble. I listened to the story of the colluded plot to kill the Emperor Commodus and Lucilla’s subsequent banishment to Capri. She was a jealous woman and I could almost see that in her eyes and the way she was holding her mouth. A year or so after her banishment, she died at the hand of a soldier sent by Commodus. The striations in the marble suddenly looked a lot like tears to me. When I finally left the bust of Lucilla, I really had no recollection of the terrible lunchtime experience.
I eventually joined a guided tour mainly because it’s far better to listen to a knowledgeable and charming tour guide than hold a sweaty, phallic earpiece to your head. The tour didn’t touch on every work in the Roman exhibit, but rather focused on the larger, more significant busts, bas-reliefs and mosaics. I happened to learn some very interesting things that I’d like to share with you:
♠ The ancient Romans actually painted most of their sculptures in garish colors. Talk about masters of irony.
♠ The mother of the Emperor Claudius was such a bitch, she would frequently insult a person’s intellect by informing them they were “dumber than my son Claudius”.
♠ Women who had lost both their husband and their father were the freest, most liberated women in ancient Rome. They got it ON!
♠ Despite how comfortable it looks, the toga was a spectacular pain in the ass to put on and wear. So much so, that only rich men and female prostitutes wore them.
♠ Caligula was a spoiled little fucker.
♠ Photography is forbidden in the Seattle Art Museum. This was specifically expressed to me by a guard, but not before I had acquired several cell phone snaps, shown below.
As always, thanks for dropping by. If the Roman Art from the Louvre exhibit happens to come to your town, I encourage you to go see it. It's breathtaking and really drives home the value and necessity of having art in our lives.
*And I mean that in the least 1980s way possible!
**Second daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius.
My boss, feeling that his devoted and talented Advertising staff had kicked quite a substantial amount of ass last quarter, took us all out for lunch Friday and then to the Seattle Art Museum to see the Roman Art from the Louvre exhibit. It was, overall, a delightful time though the experience did ironically force me to endure a level of inelegance for which I was terribly unprepared. More on that in a bit.
For those of you unfamiliar with the Pacific Northwest region of the U.S., the city of Seattle is located on a waterfront, which is to say that being downtown is much like being in an open-air fish cannery only with less mackerel blood and more hobo urine. Pretty much everything along the waterfront itself is, as you would imagine, maritime themed. This is because it is impossible to think about anything else when your every sense is being assaulted by the countless and odious essences that waft in off the ocean. When all you see are water and wood pilings; when chum is the only aroma; when you open your mouth to say something and immediately taste brine; when the din of seagulls, ships and foghorns becomes a white noise; when everything you touch is either slimy or gritty... well, let’s just say an environment like that does not readily inspire visions of shiny technology and fine woodworking and glossy metropolitan chic. No, when you’re on the waterfront, you feel like a fisherman – from the cracked lips and cold ears right on down to the unending desire to drink yourself dead.
But if sea life and all its related rankness don’t perturb you too badly, there are some really neat things to see, such as the peculiarities at Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe. There’s nothing like looking at a two-headed calf suspended in a jar of formaldehyde to make you forget how disgusting the waterfront is.
Seattle’s fish district is an enormous tourist attraction. This is because tourists think anything so drastically different than home is worth spending far too much money to experience. Hell, people will shell out thirty clams per person just for the opportunity to eat actual clams the way I imagine actual hyenas might eat actual clams. Which brings me to the irony I mentioned earlier of becoming completely repulsed during an excursion to view some of the most beautiful artwork in human history.
It so happens that the Seattle Art Museum resides very close to the waterfront. It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn it was decided lunch would also be enjoyed consumed on this selfsame locale. It makes sense after all, doesn’t it? Consider: the museum is in Seattle. Seattle is a port city. Therefore, logic dictates lunch absolutely must consist of boiled crustaceans and mollusks. Anything else would unthread the very fabric of universal reason that holds the universe together. And so it was that reservations had been acquired at a lovely little wharf-front eatery known as The Crab Pot. I had been informed prior to the event that The Crab Pot was one of those novelty restaurants – you know, places that feel the need to adopt a gimmick in order to peddle their (in this case smelly and offensive) wares. This, I was assured, meant good times for all.
Oh, and in case it’s not painfully evident by now, I absolutely detest seafood.
So we arrive at the so-called “restaurant” and sit down to a thirteen-foot-long table covered with...
...wait for it...
...butcher paper. As far as I can tell, someone’s going to slaughter a hammerhead right there in front of us as we enjoy our complimentary bread and water*. And then I spy my first random disgusting item: a saltshaker covered in the resultant goop of someone else’s seafood-crazed orgasm. Beginning at the moment my cerebral cortex decoded the visual data, my desire to eat lasted about as long as a virtual electron-positron pair. That’s a fancy way of saying I immediately lost my appetite.
Nevertheless, I ordered the Colossal Burger, one of only three meat offerings not of the cold-blooded variety. And for the record, a forty-two pound wad of ground beef on a bun was the smallest portion I could order. There was no Moderation Burger. I guess in their zealous love of seafood, they figured whoever ordered a cheeseburger at a fish joint deserved to force down half a cow – it would be their own fault for hating fish and being in Seattle at the same time.
Pretty much everyone else ordered The Westport, or as I like to call it, The Shellfish Orgy. Have a look at the pictures that follow and you will quickly realize that as a hater of all seafood, I was in hell. I must apologize to my dear friend Cat who recently hosted an affair that I have to assume was very similar. All I can say is I don’t get you fishmongers.
As you can see, they just come along and dump bowls of briny bits right onto the table. Clams, mussels, shrimp, two kinds of crab, Andouille sausage, corn on the cob, and red potatoes all piled right there in front of you like so much animal fodder. Note that those nubby little cobs would be every bit as at home in a pig’s trough.
Your silverware consists of a shrimp fork and a wooden mallet. You just bib up and start in crushing exoskeletons with a hammer! That’s the elegance of the seaport. No point in concerning yourself with dishes or hygiene, laddie; you might be sucked overboard on the morrow! So roll up your sleeves and revel in the salty, smelly moment! Revel up to your armpits!
Real sailors and fishermen, I’m told, don’t bother to de-poop their shrimp, either.
Well, it’s time for me to go upstairs and spend some time with Karin (she’s been away all weekend house-sitting for her aunt), so I’m going to end this here. Come on back in a few days for the thrilling conclusion wherein I relate what it was like to stand two inches away from sculptures that were carved out several millennia ago.
*Have you ever noticed that bread and water are the staple complimentary items at both American restaurants and Turkish prisons?
I’ve been spending a lot of time over the past couple weeks exporting video from the scads of DV tapes I have piled up. Most of this video is, you guessed it, footage of my pets (and DG in particular). What the tapes lack in diversity of topic, they make up for in life-affirming things like cuteness and purring and untarnished adoration. It’s hard to write a blog post or read other peoples’ posts when I’ve this wealth of heroin-like video on which to waste my free evening hours.
Most recently, I have been working through a tape containing clips of DG when he was still a kitten. I’m thrilled to report many chaoses have been archived for posterity. I’m guessing my cat-loving peeps might enjoy watching one, so here is a look at young DG doing his best to score some “twopercent” from my cereal bowl.
Panda shot the video. Apologies for the lack of a nifty soundtrack. I couldn't come up with a song that worked. If you think of a good one, let me know!
As a bonus, I'll send a copy of DG's upcoming DVD and his 8x10 promo
glossy to the first person who can name, in the comments below, the
movie playing in the background.
Lord have mercy, it wasn’t easy, but I’ve successfully snagged some more footage of DG giving his private, super-secret lessons in Deej Fu to little Diblet. As luck would have it, I happened to catch a segment of Dibby’s green belt test and caught him performing the very complicated Brown Eye Chi maneuver! If you don’t remember the Brown Eye Chi, be sure to watch Part 1 to see it originally being taught to Diblet. You’ll appreciate Diblet’s accomplishment more if you do.
So anyway, here it is, Deej Fu 2:
What follows is my video documentation of the Deej teaching his little nephew Diblet his own personally developed kitty martial art. Of course, this two-minute clip of footage barely scratches the surface of the vast wealth of self-defense mastery DG has acquired in his 21 months. In fact, I’ve just been informed by DG himself that he is rather unhappy with this video because, as he puts it, “it has very inaccuracies and glasses over many things”. I promised to make a more accurate, in-depth video, but he’s incredulous. Ah, well. I’m posting this one anyway.
DG’s style takes specific advantage of the polydactyl cats’ unique trait and is known as Six Toe Do. It is a combination of Siamese Jiu Jitsu, Persian Cat Wrestling, and good old American Alley Fighting. I hope you enjoy this brutal but beautiful art form!
Oh yeah, one last thing: I’m aware that Hong Kong Phooey was a dog. Everybody knows this. But we also know that everything was actually accomplished thanks to Spot the cat, so cut me some slack on the soundtrack, m-kay?
As always, thanks for watching!
Diblet just turned six months old, which of course means the time for his feline rite of passage (his cat-mitzvah, if you will) is at hand. So, with due diligence, we starved him for half a day, then Karin and I packed him into his carrier and I shuttled him off this morning to see Dr. Miller for the ceremonial removing of the harbls. Thankfully, there were no potentially exploding cardboard boxes this time around.
Diblet has never been out of the house before, so he remained rather still for the first mile. It wasn’t long, though, before he began to fuss. It was a tiny wail, but a heart wrenching one. It continued the rest of the trip, killing me just a little with each new cry.
We arrived at the vet’s office at 6:57am. I saw no reason why Dibby had to stay cooped up for an entire three minutes, so I opened the door to the carrier and let him out.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but Diblet is the purringest kitty I have ever beheld. His motor is so loud, he rumbles. And when I opened that cat carrier door, he really started rumbling! He sprang out and started exploring the car as if it were some new kitty playground. Backseat to front to back again, buzzing like a lawnmower the entire time. Happiest. Kitty. Ever. He had no idea what was going to happen to him in a couple hours’ time.
The clinic opened up. Diblet surprisingly gave me no trouble as I put him back in the carrier. There was only one other patient in the vet’s office; a gorgeous female German Shepherd Dog was there with her owner, evidently for the same procedure as Dibby only, you know, girl style. Dibby’s no stranger to German Shepherds, as you know, and didn’t seem perturbed by the clinic at all. In fact, every time I reached in to pet him, I could feel his motor running. He was purring even as he awaited castration.
On a side note, I thought the waiting room reading material offered was rather humorous, so I snapped a quick photo with my cell phone. The Beginner’s Guide to Animal Autopsy. How... interesting and sort of creepy.
Anyway, I handed my priceless package over to the vet tech and was informed, as always, I could call around noon to see how he was doing.
I called the vet’s office on my lunch break and was informed everything had gone swimmingly and that I could pick Diblet up anytime before five.
Precisely three hours after that, I was punching out and making my way back to the vet clinic. I didn’t need to call home to know that Panda was crazy-anxious to see her kitten.
But it wasn’t just Panda who wanted to see little Diblet. DG also missed his little buddy and was quite relieved to have him home, as you can see:
One final note: It would seem that the extra $18 for the pain shot is still a hella good deal. Other than the incessant licking, you'd never know by the way he's acting that Diblet had just been separated from his nuts. It worries me a little to see him so active so soon, but it's not like he's doing a lot of jumping, so I guess he'll be alright.
I think you've waited long enough. Time for another minute and a half (give-or-take) of Intensive Kitten Therapy! Here's your dose of 100% pure freebase cute. I give you the one and only DIBLET! (Watch your step, there's catnip all over the kitchen floor, as usual...)
Special thanks to Marie, who provided the little packet of Herbe Aux Chats Diblet is seen batting around in this video.
