Ode To A Hippie, Butt Cheek Pocket

"...I got a freaky old lady
Named Cocaine Katy
Who embroiders all my jeans..."
~ Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show

I don't know why I do things sometimes. Nearly forty years ago I threw out an old pair of jeans but before I did I cut off the right butt cheek pocket and I have carted that damned thing around with me ever since. I don't tell you this to infer that when your jeans are dead it's only proper that you should remove its pocket and hold a memorial service where you bow your head and say somber stuff like "It was a good pair of jeans" and sing a hymn or two. I do so as a testament to the fact that I was once as close to being a hippie as you can get without actually being one.

You see, hand embroidery of a butterfly done by a woman on the butt of your jeans is a very hippie-like thing to have happen to you and means you might be very close to actual hippiedom. And back then everyone wanted to be a hippie. 'Cause it was cool. And you got to put two fingers in the air and say "Peace, man" and grow your hair long and get discriminated against because you had long hair and you could sing "Alice's Restaurant" in four part harmony on a city bus without getting busted and scribble peace signs on your jean jacket and stuff like that. And if you were in the right place at the right time there was a period where you got free love. Before that evidently you had to pay for it and after that it became kinda dangerous.

You had your city hippies and you had your country hippies. The city kind went to coffee houses had pictures of Che Guevara on their walls, wore bell bottoms, sandals and tie dye shirts with love beads and patchouli oil, maybe worked at record stores where they were cooler than their customers and said "far out" a lot. And the country hippies maybe were originally from the city but left and went to the country in their VW vans where they joined communes, played Dylan songs around wood stoves, did farming, talked to animals, wrote poetry about deep and meaningful things like the evils of society, made tea out of strange plants and maps for the county where they left off their location so others couldn't find them. But that's another story.

I don't mean to make fun of the hippie culture. Well, okay, I do. But in fact; it introduced a lot of good things to a lot of good people. People who still get a pang when they hear Scott McKenzie's "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair..." or the Beatles' "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band..." If you look past the heavily hyped psychedelic, drug-taking, foul-languaged surface that the media would have you see, you'll find the basic precepts of love, peace and brotherhood. The questioning of traditional middle-class values and the embracing of aspects of eastern philosophies prompted a different way of looking at life. One that said it was okay to be the you that you were meant to be and it was okay to be poor and not have a two car garage and it was also okay to love who you love and one that, I'm sure, would be tickled day-glo pink to have a little fun poked at it.

Fate had it that I was too young for Woodstock and too far away from the whole Haight-Ashbury thing so I missed being a real hippie. But this pocket and the fact that a nice woman did it for me says that maybe there was a little hippie thing in that moment. The good kind.

Sometimes The Muse Shows Up

“There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.”
~ Sappho

This pic, taken at a summer concert (year unknown but most likely sometime in the mid-70's and probably at Camp Fortune) that I hand tinted in the old fashioned way, is of Jesse Winchester, a song writer and singer and conscientious objector back in the days when people found it necessary to come up to Canada from the States to avoid conscription into the U.S. military. Memphis born and raised, Jimmy Carter gave him a pass in the late seventies and sometime later he moved back home. He's an amazingly modest, plain-spoken man. And during an interview when asked about whether he had any success collaborating on songwriting, he said he spends most of his time writing mistakes before anything good happens and it's hard to share that process with others. His workday begins and sometimes the Muse shows up and sometimes it doesn't.

Which, of course, got me started thinking about Muses. Wikipedia gives this information regarding the phenomenon: The Muses are nine goddesses in Greek mythology who control and symbolize nine types of art known to Ancient Greece, and are associated with artistic inspiration. This is not to be confused with other meanings for MUSE (one of which is an English rock band and another is a brand name for Prostaglandin E1, an erectile dysfunction treatment... which I suppose is yet another incarnation of inspiration).

Ray Bradbury once wrote, “To feed your Muse, then, you should always have been hungry about life since you were a child. If not, it is a little late to start.” Which sort of puts the kibosh on the assortment of "How to Summon Your Inner Muse" coaching sites out there. The writers and artists who have an inkling of what creative inspiration is all about, all seem to agree that you can't summon a Muse. You just have to be there when it decides to show up. And she is a fickle character who will grace one person and then leave without warning to favor another. Author John Updike once wrote, “I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.” 

If you recognize the role or the influence of the Muse in creative work, or if you've ever been lucky enough to have the magic happen to you... after hours, even years... for no special rhyme or reason – you're apt to give the creative Muse her due. There is no formula, no spell to recite to elicit the adornment of her powers. But once she arrives the effect is remarkable. And the memory of her grace is electric. It's a moment that makes time stand still. Where those who witness the inspiration will forget to breathe for a split second. Or a minute. Or more.

Mother's Day

Give a guy a digital version of old home movies, access to iMovie and some time to play and this is what happens... my apologies to Capra, Kazan, Scorsese, Coppola and Lucas. (And yes, the little guy getting his new slippers put on is yours truly.)

My Feet Were Here

I shouldn't read people's reasons about why other people shouldn't bother to write blogs. Because it can be disheartening. Some call it narcissistic clap trap. They say the only reason people have a blog is because they love themselves so much that even their crap is gold. Or they say people write blogs just for self aggrandizing purposes. To prove their superiority. Or they write just to bitch and vent at an unfair world. Or to prove their astounding leadership capabilities.

And some people do that. They repeat stuff they hear from other sources, reinforce their importance through recognizing the words of others as their own. These are people who figure they should be greater than they really are. But like everything in life, these would be the minority.

Then there are people who write blogs to keep the wheels turning, to push themselves to learn, to explore, to share something they feel of worth (and not necessarily of monetary value). These are the blogs that don't have advertising, whose content doesn't try to promote their services or those of others, who don't set out to prove how great they are. It isn't their intent to impress. These are the ones you find that try to make a little sense, to share a small thought. These people tell stories, make you laugh, attempt to find some reason in what can be a very unreasonable world at times. Or to poke some fun at the stupid stuff around us.

Google Analytics - Rand's Place visits to date for the year 2013

If we figure our net worth by how much of an impression we make on the world around us, our true imprint (when we're standing anyway) is the area the bottom of our shoes block from the sun. But in this day of internet communications, to a guy that grew up with dinky toys and a sandbox, it's amazing that something that I do or draw or think can be shared with people in every continent in the world. From Beirut to Kuala Lumpur. Copenhagen and London to San Antonio to Sao Paulo. Syndey. Cape Town. Aukland. Ho Chi Minh City. Some places I've never heard of (where the heck is Toronto?) and people I would never hope to share anything with in pre-internet times. How wild is that?

So thanks for visiting. And rest assured, the posts here are not meant to prove I'm anything other than what I am, warts and all. I try to throw around no more weight than can be stuffed into my size tens. Know of other sites that do the same? Feel free to share!

Everything Is Tragic, And Nothing Is.

It was the most important date in Pam's entire life. John was supposed to pick up Pam for their date at seven, but it was going on seven-fifteen and he wasn't there yet. He was never late, she thought. This proved he was secretly seeing Jessica, Pam thought, otherwise why else would he be so late? She paced the floor of her bedroom in her nicest flowered dress, the one with the lace. The one he liked. They had been going to the malt shop and then to the Lakeview Drive-In to see the new Elvis movie, Girls Girls Girls.

Every time she heard a car she raced to her window to see if his red car, the one he loved so much, was coming down Apple Blossom Avenue. The way he always came....

Unbeknownst to Pam, John had been was on his way to Pam's house but nineteen minutes ago, at six-fifty-three, he swerved to avoid hitting a kitten owned by the widow Mrs. Abernathy, who ran the local Welcome Wagon and sang in the church choir beside the hunchbacked Julie Forsythe, whom she'd been secretly in love with since grade school. John's '57 Chevy had left the road, smashed through a wooden barrier and dove over a cliff.

Pam, thinking of John in Jessica's arms, threw herself on her bed and sobbed into her pillow. She was sure her life was over.

Meanwhile, the cold river water at the bottom of the cliff swirled into the car's interior through the broken windshield, rousing John from his unconsciousness. Still in a stupor, he fumbled with the door latch, but the door was jammed. The water rose quickly to his chin and as he took what might be his last breath, he thought of Pam's smile, her warm embrace and of the engagement ring from Liecherstein Jewelers in the pocket of his jacket.

The fins of his beloved Chevy disappeared below the dark, inky waves.

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About the visuals: Glass slide mounts provide frames for small, hand-drawn retro romance comic art. Pins glued to the back make them wearable... an old project.

Outdoor Playtime...

If you've been wondering where I've been, I was working on a post about political attack ads. It took me three days of fighting with it to realize I hated it. No matter what I did, how I revised the visual or reworked the copy, it didn't seem to help.

It reminded me of a time a few years ago when a partner in crime and I spent two weeks working on a concept for a full-blown integrated campaign, a direction that was prompted by initial talks we both thought had potential. During the initial stages we both still thought the idea was neat, but the further we got into development the more it became a struggle. Finally we sat across the table, with the pile of mockups spread out on the table in front of us. In almost the same breath we looked at each other and said, "You know what? I don't like this anymore." Turns out we were both sticking with the concept because we both thought the other still loved it. But it became evident to both of us that it didn't work, for much the same reasons. We both sighed in relief and threw everything in the trash. In a few days we had something we both loved. The client loved it too. 

So about what I was originally going to post. Sorry. Suffice to say I had nothing good to say about attack ads, and there appears to be no way for me to say that in a way that satisfies me right now. They say that the difference between a good piece and a bad one is that the good one looks like it belongs on the page. And my attack ad piece just didn't. So I chucked the whole thing. Sometimes you have to do that. So in a few hours I put together these playtime billboards for you. They just sort of flowed out.

Now I feel better. 

Hope you like 'em.

~ Rand

Multiple Personalitudes

"So that's what you think eh oh geez okay go 'head great great go on you'll see okay okay go 'head you'll see you'll see."

"Come on-n-n you want me doncha looking good honey feelin' all juicy for you oh yeah baby want a taste of me come on that's right..."

"Look the fug out comin' through get the frick outta the way stoked here gonna do it do it getter done big fella that's right hoo-hah!"

------------------------

Thoughts and ideas, like blessings, come at us in all sorts of ways and with different kinds of attitudes. Some days you get a crowd and you have to feed and entertain them all; even when they don't agree with each other and you have to jump in to referee. Others come slinking in hoping they won't be noticed. Those we just smile at and let them sulk in the corner. Others are great right off the bat and we celebrate. With balloons. And cake. They like cake. Chocolate. With icing.

Sketchbook Dangerous

Stretching the ol' brain cells in the old fashioned way – via the sketch book – is... well... um...

Let me just say this: if you have been spending thousands of dollars on therapy in order to find out more about your inner self, you may want to consider spending a few bucks on a book of blank pages and a pen that fits easily in your hand instead. Giving yourself some time to play and letting thoughts be transported from one's brain directly through one's hand onto paper can lead to surprising and highly entertaining things. 

But beware. There is a dark side. In fact, doing this can be a dangerous road to travel. Often things will reveal themselves. Things you didn't know existed within you – scary things...

So a word of warning. Before you begin, know that what you are about to reveal about your innermost being may not be something you want to share with young or impressionable members of your family – lest they develop horrible nightmares and/or facial ticks and/or a compulsion to stomp out the alphabet with their left foot. Of course, it would be safer for all concerned if you could stick to drawing unicorns, pictures of dancing fruits and kitties saying hello, but really, what would that say about you? That may be more revealing than you'd care to admit. No, you may be best letting your mind wander onto paper unencumbered in a locked, private room; away from others.

But, of course, I jest. Pick up a pen. Any old paper will do. Loosen those creative spirits within you and let them flow onto the paper. Do it often. You'll feel amazingly refreshed when you're done... and the evidence has been destroyed.

Why are there nice men in white coats at my door?

Let The Begatting Begin

"In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours."
~ Mark Twain 

My mother used to say, "Enough is enough." She used to say a lot of things actually; some of which I can't include here. But I clearly remember her using the idiom for the same reason I'm thinking of it today. The weather. To be specific – the crappy weather. Of course, it's all part of the natural process of things. Like day becomes night becomes day. I know how things work. Summer begats fall and that begats winter which begats spring and spring begats summer. But I'm thinking we're missing a pretty big begat just about now. Anyone seen the spring into summer thing yet? Because I'm really into begatting that. I'm looking out my window and all I'm seeing is stuff like cold, sideways rain. Squirrels, robins, outdoor patios and crocuses alike are all looking around going, "What's with this pissy weather?"

Wait. Maybe that's it. Maybe there's a significant call of nature thing going on. I'm serious. Like, what could hold anything that important from happening? A sudden urge of the bodily kind, right? Maybe whoever is in control of the warm weather switch was going to make it warm, like it was on their to-do list, but then they had to pee really bad. That would certainly explain all this rain. It's entirely understandable if that's the case. You can't really put off an urge like that, especially if you have an issue with tinkling excessively, which I don't – since I gave up beer – but some people must because adult diapers are flying off the shelves in Japan (according to Bloomberg, they topped the sale of baby diapers last year). And as we all know, along with a fascination with flower arrangements, Karaoke, total quality management, horror films, smartphones, motorcars and non-stick cookware; Japan always leads the pack when it comes to trendsetting. Maybe adult diapers are the coming thing. Maybe Japan knows something that we don't. Maybe people wear them not because they're incontinent but for the convenience: because they prefer going when and where they need to without either interrupting their duties or worrying about filling their shoes. Maybe the stigma is disappearing. This development would surely help if that's what is holding us back from getting some nice, warm, summer-like weather here.

So. Excuses and crossed legs be damned. Whoever is in charge of nice weather has kept everyone waiting long enough. We need some warm weather begatting done here and if Depends are the answer then I say, take the money from petty cash, get a quicky courier going and tell this whoever they are to get on with their job.

I've got some serious vitamin D soaking up to do.

The Beat

                  

            we have a here (now)
                 where
                 what
                 wait

where we pulse
          spreading magic for
               flesh and bones
                        where we cry
   where we laugh
           where we sigh

           fed by the heat
                   below     it
         tip-tops our
     my-mys

           it feeds
                 the new
     --- in you (too)
a place here                    now
    where          the thing is

                        the beat beat beat

Scientific Sh*t

The world of science has given us so much. The thing I enjoy the most is how science has devised ways of defining things like conditions in both a quantitative and a qualitative fashion. Visually. Like charts, graphs and such. They're just so... analytical.

This is an official chart, devised from decades of experience and unbiased clinical observation, that portrays both the quality of shittiness and its severity. Position 1 is where you're at if you're lucky. This is a best case scenario where you are experiencing a mere hint of shitty. Position 2 is where you don't want to be. This is a worse case scenario, possibly the result of a series of events. Anywhere else on the spectrum of things you are able to say, "Well, things could be worse."

It's easy to get confused because there are different varieties of shit:
Nasty Shit is the type that seems to be out for you. Either because you've been a dick (karma's revenge) or someone has decided to put a kibosh on your life. Examples: getting thrown in jail for something you didn't do, throwing up that Chablis on your shoes, anything to do with the Kardashians, getting the bird flu when you're allergic to feathers.  
Normal Shit is stuff that is basically environmental. It comes with life and is the reason you don't drink the water in Mexico. It's an equal opportunity shit; waiting for you, or the next guy or the one after that; it doesn't care. And you don't have to actually do anything in particular to qualify. Examples: sitting in a highway parking lots, holes in condoms, a booger hanging out of someone's nose, some expert trying to tell you how to run your life uninvited.  
Stupid Shit is just the stuff that you know you shouldn't have done, or stuff that someone else should have known better but is done anyway and you have to deal with it. Examples: speeding tickets for anything less than 5 mph over the limit, saying yes when you know you should have said no the moment it comes out of your mouth, someone being lousy to someone, yet another article about that Zuckerberg guy, having to eat brussels sprouts.
Oops Shit has its basis in plain old human fallibility. Mostly harmless, there's still no escaping this type of shit. If you think you're immune, look up "in denial" in the dictionary (or look for your name in the obituaries). Examples: moving a chair and then 5 minutes later stubbing your toe on it, dissing the boss when he or she is within earshot, wearing white after Labor Day, bed head, mismatched socks, food stuck in your teeth, peeing yourself when laughing.

And, of course, there are different levels of severity for each classification. Where an incident falls on the scale is sometimes dependent on how much you're paying attention. For instance, one can be in deep do-do and not know it.

You'll notice there is no place for the lack of shit on this chart. Let us not fool ourselves into thinking this is a possibility. This is science we're talking about. And science doesn't deal in fantasy.

All to say it's not a complete downer thing. After all, even the hardiest of garden flourishes with a bit of fertilizer.


 

His Wife Wanted Him To Win A Wristwatch...

An interstice is a small opening between things. And if we were to look in the space between funny and unbelievable, we'd see a gentleman named Jonathan standing there...

Very few times in your life you might meet someone whose genius takes your face prisoner and to your delight, you find you just can't turn away. Jonathan Winters was such a person: grandmaster of the improv, inspiration to young comedians like Robin Williams and recipient of the 1999 Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, and sadly gone this week at age 87.

How did it all begin? A few months into his marriage he lost his wristwatch and the couple couldn't afford to get him a new one. His wife, hearing of a local talent show where the first prize was a watch, told him to go down and win it.

He did.

Someone Should Get Working On This ASAP

You love your pants. And rightly so. They not only cover everything from the naval to ankles but the right ones set off our lower body attributes in a godlike fashion. And when we get that perfect pair we just love to wear them. Finally, they get worn in perfectly. And then, the horror. They wear out (or you get really wasted one night and wake up the next morning without your pants and you have absolutely no idea where you left them and you're too embarrassed to go looking for them because asking people "Have you seen my pants?" just sounds so lame). It happens to us all. This needn't be the catastrophe it has been until now.

We need a pant registration and retrieval service. You get your pants scanned, store the data and get issued a handy swatch with a personal PANTone number and if something happens to the pants you just let them know and a 3D print of a perfect duplicate happens and you get another pair exactly the same as your old ones shipped to you the very next day. Call it pant replacement insurance.

We need this. We have the technology. Someone should get on it.

Are you a super Sous-Chef? Save your favorite pan as a PANtone file. If the pan disappears in a kitchen nightmare, they shoot you an exact replica. And you're back cookin' again like nothing happened.

Collect rocks? Digital 3D PanSTONE storage and output would allow for limitless rockin' on.  Those gold nuggets you're sitting on? Never lose them down a toilet again.

Note: The 3D Replacement System would not work with living things or body parts. Inanimate objects only. (Cousin Billy-Bob would not qualify as an inanimate object.)

Okay, so someone get on this okay? I need to retire soon. Call me. We'll work out my end.

Aren't Leaders Supposed To Be Good Examples?

Ah geez. It seems the more us common folk follow world leaders, the more we learn that if we're looking for good examples for our children we should stick to Hollywood fiction.

Take the situation in North Korea. Unreal. Here we have a young, twenty-something leader who just took over the store from his dad.

Kim Jong-un was appointed Great Successor following his father's death in 2011. He can't be called President because his late grandfather will hold that title forever more. And Supreme Leader is reportedly out because his late father has that one sewn up for eternity. Still, you'd think Great Successor would be enough. But according to the Christian Science Monitor, he also got Marshal of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, First Chairman of the National Defense Commission, First secretary of the Worker's Party, Chairman of the party's Central Military Commission, Member of the Presidium of the Party's Political Bureau and Supreme Commander of the Korean People's Army added to his job description. Appears to be over the top with the titles thing, but what do I know? It may be a quaint cultural tradition. If that's all it was, no problem. But he also exhibits several peaks of concern on the weirdness meter.

First, there's the issue of why everything about him is a big secret. Kim Jong-un's whole life is a mystery – he refuses to tell anyone his age, his date of birth, or the fact he's been married for a while to a bombshell, ex-cheerleader, Ri Sol-ju – like what dude wouldn't let the whole world know about a catch like that? And the couple may have given birth to a little girl, a speculation that followed a sudden loss of weight by Ri Sol-ju. Wouldn't you be proud to let folks know you became a father? Like, okay, maybe it's none of our business. But still, where's the harm in showing a little love? And about the rumors that he underwent plastic surgery look more like his grandfather? Really. Maybe he has a negative body image. He remains plump in a country where a third of its population is suffering chronic malnutrition. But hey, maybe it's a gland thing. Something that can only be helped by the installment of a delux spa (which, when you're into late nights with all-girl '80's disco bands, also helps with hangovers from drinking and partying all night).

So what if he has a propensity for American basketball? What's so wrong with that? What's wrong with growing up like many kids, loving Michael Jordon and Nike sneakers? So what if he hangs out with Dennis Rodman? Lots of people have strange friends. Especially rich kids. He's a young guy educated in Sweden, who was reportedly socially awkward, living off the riches possibly siphoned from aid to his country. And to have Dennis tell Obama to give him a call? For what? Obama's folks must have told him by now he shouldn't play with the kid.

Then, there's the thing about his control issues. Jongie hates not to be in control. Of everything. He appears to get off on intimidating others; traveling around with a gang of generals and officials whenever he leaves the house. Plus, he's bossy: having citizens in the thousands either stand and simultaneously pump their fists in the air at the ugly American Imperialists or face the possibility of being banished to political concentration camps. And if he can't control you he calls you names; recently referring to America as a "boiled pumpkin" unable to withstand the military might of North Korea. Boiled pumpkin? Now that's mature. Our children can take a good lesson from that.
  
But I guess what is most alarming is his obstinate behavior. From what I can see he has quite the temper. His petulance is like a child venting over not being able to fill up the cart with candy in a grocery store. Except his tantrums come with threats of nuclear bombs. Even after being warned by his friends, his armed forces successfully conducted a "high-level" nuclear test. Then he gave orders to restart a reactor apparently to develop nuclear arms. So people will be afraid of him and either he'll get what he wants or he'll hurt someone. Even his best friend, China, has been telling him to chill. Still, this guy seems to think that if he is mean enough and acts tough enough that will guarantee his survival and get his country aid. Handouts that he can call a 'victory' over his enemies and proof of his party's superiority. Seems like a nasty way of going about getting help for his folks. One would be forgiven for constantly wondering how or why he is going to strike out next. Like a schoolyard bully.

This is a guy from which theoretically we are supposed to be able to teach our children about things like decency and maturity. But it seems more like the type of behavior we tell our children "This is a good example of how not to act." My mother would have something to say to this person, as he lies on his back on the floor of the world's supermarket having a tantrum.

"Clean up in the East Asia food aisle."

Finally: A Quotient for Creatives

Intelligence quotient, moral quotient, emotional quotient, adversity quotient, social quotient, quotient quotient – we live with a measurement system for just about everything but until now there has been no reliable tool for creativity and how it measures up in the grand scheme of things. Not that we need to measure up. But sometimes it's nice to know just where we are so we know where we're not.

Several very smart people have tried to devise a method of measuring levels of creativity in people, called the Creative Quotient, with no real success. It may be they were just trying to be too intelligent about it. Certainly not a problem here...

Maybe we can only measure our creativity in relation to other things. The Creative Value Quotient (CVQ), takes into account how we've made our way to wherever we are and to what extent what you are good at overlaps with what the world thinks is good. This overlap, for lack of a better phrase, is called what you are good for. It speaks to the product of your creativity and how that relates to the real world. Everything is variable. What is of value to you and the world today may not be tomorrow. Add in the fact that everyone is different and pitfalls for some are nirvana to others and you'll see why an intelligent system of measurement is bound to fall short. The genius of CVQ measurement is that the value of your measurement is simply what it means to you. Not to others. And if the results are surprising or you don't like where your pin is stuck on the chart, then that gives you the reference metric to change that. Or not. It's very much a zen-like thing.

The results from this tool are interesting and equanimous. Because there is no bad or good. Some are very happy doing what we are good at with absolutely no consideration given to how much it fits in with societal values. Others feel the need to contribute to the extent we end up not doing what we are really good at but something else that is of value to others. Like a music composer who writes website code for a living. Or an artist who teaches children with difficulties to paint. There's no losers here. Just an awareness of stuff no one else would bother thinking about. Because that's what creative people do.

You'll get a more meaningful feedback score if you measure your CVQ well into your second childhood and while contributing on some level. Because chances are everything that will gel will have gelled by then. Attempting to get an accurate measurement while still in your Development Stage will see your attention diverted by dodging bright shiny objects that may be pitfalls. And waiting until you're a puddle may be a tad late. Because by then, where you are in relation to how your creativity overlaps with what society finds of value is something that doesn't really matter anymore. Except retrospectively. Not to say that retrospectively isn't interesting.

So there you go. Devise your own CVQ. Then, if someone asks you what you're good for you can whip out the printout and show them. Then you can serve tea. And eat cookies. And be friends. And write naughty limericks together... or watch cartoons...

Warnings, Warners and Warnees

The gates are closed tight and triple shackled with (anti-snap, anti-bump, anti-drill, anti-extraction and anti-pick) locks and fortified with around the clock state-of-the-art electronics that are set to alert the long arm of the law at the first sign of trespass. But traditional wisdom holds that warning signs are required; as if they were a critical element in a comprehensive process of keeping the unauthorized at bay.

Warnings are perplexing things. So of course I felt it my duty to do an extensive, detailed, highly scientific investigation in my mind.

Types of Warnings
There are 7 different types of warnings: 1) Needed. There are honest, valid warnings of potential danger and impending doom. These include shouts like "Watch out for that falling piano that you're standing under because you're about to get squashed" (often shortened to "Watch out!") 2) Vain. Some tell only of a sense of self importance meant only to impress – like one posted on a gate or wall that doesn't really hold anything of value but the owner would like people to believe there is. 3) The Bluff. Example: home security protection signs on the front lawn of a premises not actually equipped with home security protection equipment. 4) Granny State. Some warnings are legislated postings, placed in order to inform a seemingly brainless public of common sense advice. 5) Derriere Protection. Warnings meant not for the well being of others but merely to satisfy fears of law suits. 6) Do That and You're Toast! Others are messages delivered in a blowhard fashion – a tough guy message of things to come if certain conditions are not met. A common response to which is often, "Oh yeah? Try it!" or "You and whose army?" And finally, 7) Satirical. There are those postings that are clearly meant as humorous, lighthearted parodies. "Warning! Attack Cat!" and "Danger! This dog has a gun and refuses to take his medication!" signs come to mind.

Types of Warnees
There are three ways people will react to warnings: 1) Adventurers. There are those lurking who would not just ignore warnings but take them as a challenge. They do things just because they're not supposed to. If there hadn't been a warning these lurkers would be happily doing something else. You try to warn them but there they go doing exactly what you warned them not to do. So you stop warning them and then something happens and what do they say? "Why didn't you warn me?"

Some defiers of warnings take out their frustrations on the very wall that blocks their way. This is evident in practically every urban setting. Their writing is in an ancient language called graffiti; one that combines logographic and alphabetic elements – reminiscent of the hieroglyphs of 3500 BCE Egypt. These inscriptions are often symbolic of petulant attitudes, tantamount in nature to a Monty Python taunt and are not, as commonly thought, an expression of their rebellion but perhaps more of a testament to their impotence. 2) Scaredy Cats. Then there are those who are excessively fearful and heed every warning, cringe at every expression of authority. These are the people who need and live for the superfluous posted flotsam of dire comings. Gullible, saucer shaped eyes take in every exclamation mark. Babes; all. Hiding under the covers in fear of life because nothing is without inherent danger. 3) The Indifferent. This describes myself. It's a rare time that I come across a scene and look for warnings that others have left. And when they are there I'll notice but would gladly live without most. I prefer the living in ignorance thing.

Indifference is bliss. It really is. Or not. Then again, who cares?

“Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR
per
G.G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE”
― Mark Twain

Minimalizing (Not Minimizing) The Classics

"I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am."
― Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.”
― Margaret Wise Brown, Goodnight Moon

“In front of them was the Square, containing a considerable quantity of inexpensive vegetation, enclosed by a wooden paling, which increased its rural and accessible appearance; and round the corner was the more august precinct of the Fifth Avenue, taking its origin at this point with a spacious and confident air which already marked it for high destinies.”
― Henry James, Washington Square

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I had a dream. All the designers in the world and all the people in the world that look at what designers do woke up one morning and agreed that textures are cheesy, drop shadows are to be dropped, ghosting is dead, fancy borders are too confining, and adding a glow to something is like putting lipstick on a pig – in fact, photoshopping anything is crime against nature. This would be a true nightmare for some, but we may be inching closer to it becoming a reality, or at least recognized as the difference between good and amateur design. With all the talk about minimalism and flat design these days it almost seems like you're an axe murderer who hides their mother's walker if you do anything to tart up a design. (The hate-on folks have for skeuomorphism these days is a taste issue, comparable perhaps to catching someone entering a folk festival with a disco ball.)

In the dream I secretly rejoiced that I would never again get a client requesting a day glow, fun fur background for their ad, or a pink faux leather texture for their logo.

I say secretly because one always wants to please but it's hard doing artwork when you're gnashing your teeth...

Top 3 Classic Comedy Tributes

Ethel Mertz: I refuse to go anywhere with someone who thinks I am a hippopotamus.
Ricky Ricardo: Lucy, is this true?
Lucy Ricardo: No, I just implied that she was a little hippy... though she has got the biggest potamus I've ever seen.

Basil: [Sarcastically] Rosewood, Mahogany, Teak? 
Mr. Leeman: I beg your pardon? 
Basil: What would you like your breakfast tray made out of? 
Mr. Leeman: I don't really mind 
Basil: Are you sure? Fine! Well, you go and and have a really good night's sleep then, I'm hoping to get a couple hours later on myself but I'll be up in good time to serve you your breakfast in bed. In fact if you can remember to sleep with your mouth open you won't even have to wake up. I'll just drop in lightly buttered pieces of kipper when you're breathing in the right direction! if that doesn't put you out!

Ralph: If any of the Racoons ever get sick, it'll be my responsibility to go and visit them.
Alice: Oh, that is a very important responsibility, Ralph. You better start now and find out what the visiting hours are at Bellevue.
Ralph: That did it, Alice - that did it. You have just broken the camel's back with that straw. You have ridiculed my brother Racoons. You have just made fun of something very big that's close to my heart.
Alice: The only thing big that's close to your heart is your stomach.

(11" X 17" poster format...)

Have been working on minimalistic formatting, type character selection and personality graphics in Illustrator. What better way to do that than to pick three of my fav sitcoms from my youth? Okay, John came in a bit later than Lucy and Jackie, but that wasn't his fault. Happy to have grown up with these three around. They don't make 'em like that anymore...

Talent: Energy + Direction = Vitality

Talent is energy. Brainpower fueling industry. It allows progress. You won't find talent on the stock market. But you'll find evidence of its work there. In success stories.

Talent is direction. It travels as steam, heating up things along the way you wouldn't think it would. But it does. Tap into it. You'll go places.

Talent: Energy + Direction = Vitality

Personifying The Unpersonable*

Some smoldering innuendo for your day: an assumption that matches only get to do it once and then instantly get dumped...

Of course this isn't true. Matches do not have sex lives. Maybe it is proof of a demented mind but I have cursed out the microwave when it didn't operate as wanted or happily proclaimed a certain pen a champion when it allowed me to do something I didn't think I could do; as if it could understand and correct or celebrate its behavior. But actually this personification of non-human objects, animals or other phenomena (weather, governments and other abstract concepts) is an ancient phenomena, if not art.

And they have a name for it. It's actually a form of anthropomorphism...

Anthropomorphism is any attribution of human characteristics to non-humans and began being used by humans as early as the Upper Paleolithic era, about 40,000 years ago, when hunters would empathetically identify with hunted animals to better predict their movements. Folk stories and fables, including the famous ones by Aesop, used this technique "by announcing a story which everyone knows not to be true, told the truth by the very fact that he did not claim to be relating real events". In the 19th century Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) by Lewis Carroll employed anthropomorphic elements. Why, without this personification of the unpersonable (*new word) we wouldn't have Mickey Mouse or the great Far Side cartoons. How terrible that would be.

So the next time you call a chair stupid for stubbing your toe, relax. You are actually syncing up with an ancient art and just may be on the verge of understanding that matches could have sex lives... or the Higgs boson particle may just be playing hide and seek... or how furniture may not want to be moved...

Those Spires Amongst Us

So. Cardinals are meeting in Rome to begin the process of choosing a new Pope today. This is an ancient procedure precious to so many.

My thoughts go to the art and architecture the religious world has given to us throughout the ages; the attention to detail, and speaking of that, especially the symbolic nature of spires – structures that point up to the sky. The sky. Up. A wonderful direction in so many conceptual ways.

The sketch above depicts (roughly) a spire that has all these mini spires surrounding the big one, all topped with these metal finials. I like this spire in particular because it's like a whole bunch of 'ups' gathered together. With exclamation marks.

Spires originated in the 12th century as a simple, four-sided pyramidal roof and provide the same message as the pyramids. Pyramids weren't originally meant as just burial places for pharaohs. In fact, I have it on reliable authority that some Egyptians were sitting around one day and one guy said, "Hey why don't we leave a message for people in the future and build these things so big they can't help but notice. Something that no matter what language they speak, it says; "Up!" And they all went "Brilliant," got their chisels out and set to work. Then some pharaoh came around and said "Hey, I'd like to be buried in there, make me a room in the middle and seal me up in one when I die." Of course then the pharaohs took over the copyright and claimed it was all their idea. True story.

But what I really wanted to say is that people can be spires too. Not necessarily by standing on top of buildings with their hands together over their heads but by how their actions remind you there is an 'up'. And not by being bossy about it but simply by how what they do raises your spirits. When we recognize that is indeed what they're doing, we're never without folks who show you an upside. Like Italian actor Roberto Bellini. The lovely wacky energy of Bette Midler and fellow Canadian the late Leslie Nielsen, who once said, "Doing nothing is very hard to do... you never know when you're finished." And about the first person in my life that cheered me up was Lucille Ball, in black and white, no less. All these folks could be one of the mini-spires on the sketch above. You can probably name many mini-spires from your life who 'up' your days. Artists, musicians, actors, writers, thinkers... Michelangelo, daVinci, Mozart, Charlie Chaplin, Emmet Kelly, Barbra Streisand, Charles Schulz, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., maybe even the blackboard writings of Bart Simpson. What a wonderful gift these people all have. They remind us to see the upside. Like those ancient Egyptians with their chisels.

Maybe that's why they say people who do that inspire you. 

This Dusty Trail We Travel Upon

It is both fair gift and common curse; these steps we take. Our uncertainty itself fuels our most serious attentions. The surety of failure should we remain stagnant creates the determination to proceed. One step. And another. Footsteps echo our progress and reflect the vibrancy of our intentions. Our hearts are lightened by the heroics of our fellows, for we are not alone. We watch for each other. Tales are told along the way to allay our fears and wisdom is shown in what is spoken and, more importantly, what is not.

And when the sun breaks through every now and then, we enjoy a brief respite of a pleasure born of our pained ploddings.

Then we finally arrive: emerging scarred but not broken. Changed. Better. And we find that after spending all those years looking down the trail for the riches of our destination; that the journey itself was perhaps our reward all along.

Stirrer-Uppers

Dedicated to all the Stirrer-Uppers in the world. And we're all Stirrer-Uppers. Peace out, Rand

Two Dogs Barking At The Moon

Two men passed each other in the street one day. One mistook the look in the eye of the other as something of an insult and was instantly filled with rage. For perhaps he had grown up in a family that had taught such sensitivities, or he or someone he was related to had been hurt in the past by someone else who had the same look. Or his community, even society itself, had placed blame on these looks for the reason behind the hardships of their own kind. Who knows? Possibly his friends, through lack of understanding, had condemned these looks as those given by freaks or deviants and in fearfulness had labelled them unworthy. Whatever the reason he felt so outraged at this person and the look in his eye that he lashed out against him there in the street; abusing, hissing, spitting, demeaning, and cursing.

The other man raised his head to the sky and laughed and threw his arm around the angry one's shoulder and said, "You are RIGHT! I am all those things. Come now lad, I will buy you a refreshment and then another and we will share tales of our travels and families and we will eat and drink some more and laugh and find fair company and then, when it has grown dark, we will come back outside and you can tell me again what I am and we will both laugh and bark like dogs at the moon. Because what are these words? They are not you or I. These words are mere expressions of the outrage we both share at the unfairness of life: a common view we will have found in the ensuing hours. For there is no gain nor profit in either of us thinking the other is evil because of our looks, customs, beliefs or heritage. I may be different than you and you from me but by the end of this evening...

...we will be just two dogs barking at the moon!"  

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"Anger and intolerance are the enemies of correct understanding." ~ Mahatma Gandhi

Boiling Canadian Saps

It is commonly accepted around the world that we Canucks are a docile bunch who suffer our fools lightly (to a fault some would say). So you may be shocked to hear that once a year we take great glee in boiling our saps. But take relief. We're not actually gathering all our foolish together and sticking them into big pots set over open fires.

The saps we like to boil come from trees. Sugar maples in particular, although other varieties have their saps as well.

Each year at this time, as temperatures begin to get warmer during the day and dip below freezing at night; the sap begins to run, carrying the nutrients that have been stored in roots for the winter up into the limbs to prepare for spring. (You can usually time it by watching as ice fishing huts begin sinking into the lakes.) And taking a lesson from Native Americans who developed the technique long before written history, when the sap runs we tap into the trunks, collect and boil it down, thickening it into syrup roughly at a rate of 40 gallons of sap to 1 gallon of maple syrup. 40/1: much better than the odds of many lotteries or having a pleasant evening at your boss's house for dinner.

Sugarbush, 1958

Of course, I've tasted the sticky treat a number of times, even right in the sugarbush as a child. (I'm the little guy beside my mother on the right.) Culinary experts have tried to classify its taste and can only agree that there is no other taste quite like it. Scientists have tried to detail the formula but have been unable to break the code.

While there are cheaper syrups (mainly made from corn syrup) there is no comparison. Francophones refer to imitation maple syrup as sirop de poteau ("pole syrup"), joking that the fake syrup comes from tapping telephone poles.

So you can relax about the Canadians boiling their fools thing.

Not that I haven't, at times, thought about what we should do about our silly citizens.

But it saps the energy right out of me... :o)