Gone Fishing

Dear Readers,

I HATE TO LEAVE YOU all just when we've become such good blogmates discussing art and life. I've had a wonderful time chatting with you these past months. Has anyone decided which we like better, art or life? Not very likely. That would be tantamount to deciding which we like better, blood or oxygen. Art and life are too interconnected–one cannot choose between them. We have to embrace both wholeheartedly.

Fun though this has been, I must now take my leave. Every Summer I go fishing–not for fish, but for the many esoteric, enlightening, exhilarating adventures the Sea of Life has to offer. I especially like to experience things I've never done before. Actually, now that I think about it, fishing in the Sea of Life is better than blood or oxygen. Everything in the Sea of Life is grist for my painting/writing mill. Some of the things I wish to experience on my sabbatical , in addition to writing my book, Depingo Ergo Sum and preparing for my October 12th solo show are:

Riding a zebra. In my entire life, I have never ridden a zebra. It's got to be easier than riding my favorite horse, the willful Freckles. That supercilious stallion used to intimidate me whenever I mounted him by turning his head slowly and irreverently while looking down at me as if I were addled. I suppose he thought he was too high class for mere riding, because he was a jumper. I tried to curry favor with him by whispering sweetly "We're going to have a nice, polite ride, right Freckles? And you're going to be a gentlehorse, and not throw me, bite me or crush my legs against any stone fences by cantering too close to them, right Freckles?" The look on his horsey face clearly said, "Yeah, right!"

But I digress. I am going to make a point, or should I say a stripe, of riding a zebra this month. It's written in black and white. I must do it. I've heard they gallop at a very fast clip, so we both might work up a sweat during the ride. Perhaps then I can experience another thing I've always wanted to do...

Shower under an elephant. That should be energy efficient, refreshing, and I might even get clean. At least my skin will look better than the elephant's. Then I'll be prepared t0...

Dance a pas de deux with an ostrich. I look forward to pirouetting en pointe in a feathered tutu and being swept up in adagio by an ostrich who is supporting my fragile dancer's body above his head with his wings as he gracefully turns and balances me. I've dreamed about doing this my entire life, but my mother would never let me. Then again, maybe I'll...

Go really wild and dive even farther into Photoshop which is just as exotic as the above when you consider my technical acumen. But catch a fish? Never.

I have a few words on the subject of fishing. First of all, it is quite an unsportsmanlike enterprise to pluck a fish out of its environment with a barbed hook through its lip. When I point this out to my fisherman friends, their stereotypical response is that fish don't feel pain. They often add that they throw them back after they catch them.

Depingo is not one to spoil fishermen's fun. I just want them to be more empathetic with their prey.
Let them imagine that they are walking down the street, going to work or picking up their girlfriend for a dinner date (which dinner I hope is not going to include a fish course.) While sauntering along, my fisherman friend comes upon a fat, lit Montecristo cigar or a slice of chocolate devil's food cake floating right under his nose. The aroma is to die for–and the fisherman may do just that. He lunges forward to get it into his mouth as fast as possible. He's hooked!

To see what this is like, pretend you've been hooked. The next thing you know, you are out of this world, transported to a higher plane inhabited by a more complex form of life, surrounded by air you can't breathe, with a sharp hook through your lip. You are punctured and bleeding, choking and heaving, flipping around because you can't breathe and are terrified by the alien appearance of the creature who hooked you. Are you going to be OK with it if he decides not to eat you and throws you back suffering from hypoxia and a lip with a hole in it? No! You are going to be furious and your girlfriend is going to be even angrier because you are now really late for your date. I say to the fishermen of the world: did you ever even consider that fish might have dates?

To rectify the sporting inequity of fishing, I have devised a new methodology that will make fishing more of a real contest. All you have to do to fish Depingo-fashion is to throw away your rod. Keep the line with the hook on the end of it, though. Next, attach another hook to the other end of the line. You should now have a length of line with a hook on each end. Hook one of the hooks through your own lip, put something that fish find delicious on the other hook and throw that one into the water. Oh, and don't use your hands; clasp them behind your back. If you get a bite, you must bring the fish in using only your cheek muscles. Then you and the fish will be evenly matched. It will be a battle of equals and you will be a true sportsman.

Or, you can skip the hook through your lip and do as I will be doing for the next few weeks– fishing in the Sea of Life. My mind, senses, toothbrush and laptop are already packed in my suitcase, which I've bound up with a chain of nerve synapses. I'm looking forward to catching many new experiences. I'm going to miss you, but I'll be back after labor day. Until then, I'll be keeping in touch via postcard! So watch for them on this blog.

Paint on,

Depingo

Professor Harlot

Starry-eyed, wine-plied Professor Harlot
Conducts her class in the campus car lot
As an educator, she's rated "not hot"
Can't even deliver an occasional bon mot.

She pretends that she's smart
But she's really a tart
Who knows nothing of art
And does not have a heart.

Her stature is small--just her tales are tall
No one believes she modeled at all
If you answer her whining, puerile call
You'll be the one who'll be taking the fall.

Just when you think you're having a ball
And surrender to her in total thrall
That is the moment she'll make you crawl
All the way down the proverbial hall.

All the while you're listening to rot
She is crying; her tears you must blot
She'll tell your wife that you're awesome a lot
And when your caught, you'll sleep on the cot.

The professor continues the classes she taught
You look in the car lot; you're sorry you fought
She hands you your grades; you're more than distraught

F--no stars!
Worse by far than the day you were caught.

A Sock for a Sock

"We were inseparable, having a ball in the spin cycle
and that was the last time I ever saw her."

There are at least two ways to lose a sock. The first is when you wash them. Don't you just hate it when you put a pair of socks into the washer/dryer and only one is there when you sort the laundry? I am really miffed when that happens. I sympathize totally with my sock's lonely lost mate, who has to join Socks Without Partners in the Land of the Lost Sock and live out its remaining life as either a single or part of a mismatched pair. Please see illustration directly above.

The second way to lose a sock is even more infuriating, and it is not so good for the wearer. This happened to my brother,Tommy. During suck–I mean sock, that is, said–incident, my mother, a careful laundress of socks, didn't know how it got lost, nor did my sister. My father was away, saving less fortunate sock-wearers at the hospital, so he didn't even know about the loss. Fortunately for Tommy, I, his older sister (who later somehow turned into his younger sister) knew how to handle this sock situation, which sucked. Feeling plucky and hoping for a a little sock luck, I searched far and wide until I finally found the other, more treacherous, sock domain–The Land of the Wrongfully Taken Sock. It was there that I knew I would find my brother's lost sock.

When Tommy was in second grade, he made friends with a group of older boys who seemed very nice at school but were, in fact, bullies. One day they told Tommy that they wanted to walk home with him and maybe play some ball. Tom was flattered that the older boys had befriended him and readily agreed. When they came to the bullies' treehouse in the woods, they invited Tom in. As soon as Tom got inside, the boys blocked the entryway and held Tom prisoner. They were in the mood for capturing someone and he was a convenient victim. These bullies then made Tommy take off all his clothes. After a while they apparently got bored and decided to release him. Tommy told them he couldn't possibly walk home nude and asked for his clothes. The bullies told Tom that since they were nice guys, they would give him one sock to wear for the walk home. (It is at this precise moment that Tom's socks separated, with one ending up in the Land of the Wrongfully Taken Sock.) Poor Tommy, one sock on, one sock off, and with no other clothes, had to crabwalk all the way home, bent over into a contortionist's dream, with only his hands to cover himself.

When he finally got home, Tom explained what had happened. I was horrified and furious. Fortunately, I was familiar with lex talionis, the law of retribution, from a former life in which I had been a Babylonian princess. As a Babylonian child, I had studied the Code of Hammurabi, which laid out the concept of equitable retribution. Before Uncle Hammurabi came up with this idea, if a person were hurt, then he or his family would exact revenge. Usually, the retribution was much worse than the crime, perhaps even death. For example, if someone stole one of your cows, you might steal all of his cows in retribution. Or if you were having a bad day, you and your family might just kill the thief. Uncle Ham put an end to this, restricting the retribution to be no worse than the crime. Some years later, this softened law was incorporated into the Hebrew Bible as "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

Reminiscing like this about the old days in Babylon, I decided that lex talionis was the way to go. I not only had Babylonian law with me but I had the Bible on my side as well. I realized that I could punish those bullies just as they deserved. All I had to do would be to slightly expand "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" principle. I immediately sat down and drafted the first amendment to the Code of Hammy in several thousand years: "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a sock for a sock."

Armed with my newly-adopted sock legislation, I went directly to the bullies' lair, stormed in and retrieved my brother's clothes, including the lost sock. Just at that moment the bullies returned and menacingly yelled (not quite as politely as I am recounting the incident in this post) "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" The Babylonian princess in me looked at these transgressors and presented them with a clay tablet setting out my new legal doctrine, which I had written in cuneiform. (You can see what the document looked like in the accompanying illustration.) The bullies, who were barely literate in English, let alone Babylonian, didn't have a clue as to what the tablet said. Taking advantage of their bafflement, I swiftly punched each bully, giving each of them a sock for a sock. Then, I removed from each bully's foot one of their socks, banishing them forever to the Land of the Wrongfully Taken Sock.

Damn, its fun being a princess!

Mc LAUGHS

"If we pedal backward, will we get younger?"

Mc LAUGHS

We're celebrating. She just jumped over the moon!

The Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity

In our youth-oriented culture, we are all searching for the elusive Fountain of Youth. Ponce de Leon couldn't find it and your car's direction lady won't be able to locate it either. You might want to give it a try on foot, but I am certain you will walk until your legs drop off and still not find it.

Youth seekers try to keep themselves young, temporarily at least, by tasting other restorative waters that are easier to come by. Some of the more popular of these are Botox Beach, Restylane River, Liposuction Lagoon, Pool of Plastic Surgery, Exercise Estuary, Rogaine Reservoir and Weight-loss Waterfalls. After immersion in one or more of those waters, the would-be young shop for age-inappropriate clothes in a further futile attempt to seem hip and youthful. These garments tend to be garishly colored, patterned, striped, polka-dotted, zigzagged, sequined, and slogan-and superhero-ridden. This combination of restorative waters and colorful clothing is supposed to help in our efforts at staying young in perpetuity. But in actuality we are only swimming upstream in Clothes Creek.

I know how to save you from this embarrassment. I can guide you to the right body of water. Why do you think I look 29 when my chronological age is 92? That's right, I was born on September 8, 1918. I have been there, bathed in it, drunk of it and I mean drunk! Please understand that although I can lead you to it, I can't make you drink or think. I can simply guide you. But only you can do that which needs to be done to turn your old bones young. The fountain of which I speak is not the fabled Fountain of Youth, but rather the Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity. There is a trail you must follow to get there. Just mount your clothes horse; the old mare knows the way. You will know that you are on the right path when you come to a sign reading "White Shirt Rapids"–just like I did. I desperately needed it and didn't come across it a second too early.

Allow me a brief digression. I first saw the sign when I was a staff illustrator at a daily New York newspaper some years ago. Outrageously, the art director expected me to be at the office drawing at the ungodly hour of 9:30 am. Worse than that, he expected me to stay there until 5:30 pm (sometimes longer if some text were dropped and the resultant hole needed to be filled with a drawing.) I even had to be dressed in proper office attire. Although I can–and indeed like to–dress well, I can not do so at 8:30 in the morning if I also have to take a bath, brush my teeth, blow-dry my hair, drink a cup of cappuccino, feed the dog and cat, catch a bus and be at work at 9:30. Others have pointed out, not unkindly, that my task was made even more challenging by the fact that I generally didn't get out of bed until 9:25. Be that as it may, I was showing up at work looking far from glamorous (OK, not even good) in mismatched outfits. I would grab a navy plaid skirt, and wouldn't you just know that my blue oxford shirt was at the laundry, leaving me only an array of patterned shirts. What could I do? Out of options as well as time, I had to go to work committing one of the worst fashion offenses, the patterned shirt/plaid skirt faux pas.

Back to White Shirt Rapids. The Rapids are most effective for those who want to look well-dressed without the terror of having nothing that matches in their closet. However, swimming the Rapids, though not a prerequisite, is also good practice for the bathing in the Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity. To reach the Rapids, you must pass by some sexy and seductive printed geysers, grand plaid falls, and gyrating multicolored surfs. You must pass all of them by and throw yourself into the rapids. Let its healing waters rush over you and you will emerge totally refreshed. Another more subtle phenomenon will take place as well, although you will not notice it until you are back on land. You will then see that all of the garish colors and bold patterns have been sucked out of your shirt, which is now pure white! You are instantly relieved of all terrifying decisions about what to wear. Henceforth, you will start every day by putting on a white shirt. No matter what else you select, the outfit will work and you will look great.

The need for a dip in White Shirt Rapids and ultimately a sip from The Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity accelerates when you become a senior citizen. Most seniors seem to stop buying clothes once they retire. They are left to choose from a motley assortment of plaids, patterns, stripes and colors acquired over a working lifetime. My fashion advice to them is simple: once you turn 35, start stocking up on solid colors. By doing this you will avoid scaring little children and enraging dogs with your mismatched outfits when you reach your golden years. If you find the Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity early in life it will have sucked the patterns out of your entire wardrobe for you and you will be prepared for your time as a senior.

Take the plunge and you will be cleansed of the primordial slime of garishly colored, patterned, striped and checked clothing accumulating in your closet. This will assure you a permanent aura of youth. So, forget about The Fountain of Youth–The Fountain of Sartorial Simplicity will keep you forever young.

Mc LAUGHS

"These BP stock certificates are delicious--a little too much oil though."

Jelly Donut Grifters

I was returning to my car in the parking lot of a local fruit and vegetable market, thinking about nothing more insidious than how great the haricots verts with herb butter was going to taste at dinner that night. As I reached my car, I noticed a big, black Mercedes parked next to mine with a young man sitting in the front passenger seat. He seemed to be studying me intently. I wasn't sure whether I should be flattered or horrified because I knew I didn't look my best–I never do when shopping. (Actually, I do make an effort to look good at Bergdorf.)

I was annoyed that the Mercedes was parked so close to my car; it was a big lot and there were plenty of spaces. In my usual overly cautious, snail-like manner, I started to back straight out–at about 2 miles per hour–looking to the left, right and turning around to look behind me, as I had been taught. Just as I was safely past the Mercedes, the young man glared at me, leaped out of his car and ordered me to stop. He started screaming that I had scratched the whole side of "his friend's" car. He said he was going to call both his friend and the police and demanded that I wait.

I replied that I would wait for the police but that I was certain my car had made no contact with his. Even though I have on occasion been accused of being oblivious to my surroundings (an accusation that is not entirely without merit), surely I would have felt the impact if I actually had scratched the length of the Mercedes. Since I had felt nothing, I asked him to show me the damage. In response, he gestured to the back rear panel of the car, which appeared to be white. Was the white color a tightly knit mass of tiny scratches? Could I possibly have added this lovely mosaic to his car at two mph without feeling any contact? While pondering these questions, I unconsciously ran my finger over the long white patch on the rear panel and noticed that it left a path of gleaming, black, unblemished Mercedes beneath.

Groping for an explanation of this strange phenomenon, then smiling my most enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, I asked my accuser if he and his friend had spent the morning eating powdered jelly donuts. Although I didn't taste it, the white substance on his car looked and felt exactly like jelly donut sugar. I demonstrated to the young man that whatever the powder was, it came off with the greatest of ease. That only drove him into greater paroxysms of rage. He yelled, "It's not coming off. Get your hands off my car!" I retrieved a soft cloth from my car and started wiping off the "damage." At this, he became totally hysterical and screamed "Get your filthy hands off my car." A bit slow on the uptake (it was still pretty early in the day), it finally dawned on me that I was dealing with a full-fledged maniac. I retreated to my car, locked myself in and waited for the police.

A minute later, his "friend," a bottle blond, would-be bombshell well past her sell-by date, arrived on the scene–a little too quickly and suspiciously unburdened by any shopping bags. She seemed calmer and more reasonable than her friend and gestured to me to roll down my window so we could talk. I deemed it safe to do this since the enraged man was now sulking in their car. I explained that her boyfriend had been aggressive, hostile and rude to me when I was trying to help them by cleaning the jelly donut powder off their car.

Here's where all the time I had logged watching all three versions of CSI came in handy. She said that the young man was not her boyfriend. I replied, "Sorry, friend then." She said "He's not my friend either, he's my son." Then I asked her what the white substance on her car was (even though my personal crime scene investigation had left me pretty sure that it was confectioner's sugar). She said it was scratches from where I had collided with their car. "But your car is black, so why would the scratches be white?" I asked. She looked at me as though I were a simpleton and said "the car is white underneath the black paint and that's what cars look like when they get hit." Although I've never worked in a body and fender shop, I knew not to continue this excursion into Bizarro-car-land. I didn't bother to point out that the white powder was easily removed, revealing the intact, undamaged black surface underneath it.

That's when she suggested that I would probably want to resolve the matter with a cash payment "right here in Brainerd," as it were. She informed me that for $500 they "would forget the whole thing." At this point I realized that she and her son, or whoever he might be, were merely entry-level grifters, since her "son" had already spoiled the scam by calling the police. I knew that once the police were involved I would have to notify my insurance company and let it handle the claim. I got back in my car, once again locked the doors, and waited for the police.

When the police finally arrived a few minutes later (apparently they did not regard a report of a scratching in a parking lot as a high priority) the officer asked me if I was hurt. Apparently the male passenger had told the officer that he had felt two violent impacts and that his neck was starting to stiffen. I, of course, replied that I was fine and that our cars had never made contact. The policeman ascertained that the Mercedes was registered to a construction company (maybe the white substance was construction dust rather than jelly donut powder) and that there were no signs of damage to either car. When I got home I notified my insurer.

I didn't ask and did not care what happened to the pair of inept scammers. They were not very good grifters but I hope at the very least that they enjoyed the jelly donuts.

Mc HOLIDAY

Happy Birthday America*
We think you're here to stay*
To save the world from all its ills*
And never float away.*

To thee we'll drink a bourbon toast*
Because you never sway*
Forget about those right-wing pills*
Have a firecracker day!

Mc LAUGHS

Frank Lloyd Wrong

To nobody at nowhere.com

Every time I blog, I am amazed by the technical ease with which I am able to compose my posts. All necessary research is readily available at my fingertips, not to mention spelling and grammar checkers and the ability to import my artwork, which is stored, edited and categorized in iPhoto. Even though the internet and computer technology has made my writing and illustrating life quite facile, I realize that I am only using a tiny fraction of the features that are available. Every day I come across more that the computer and the internet can do. Just today I discovered a fascinating service called anonymous email remailer.

Did you ever want to give someone a piece of your cranky mind without giving the recipient of your grouchiness the chance for a rebuttal? Well you can do that with an anonymous remailer. If you have an icky-sticky message to deliver and don't want the recipient to answer you or even be sure it is from you, you can send it via an anonymous remailer. You simply write your message and send it to the remailer service. It makes up a random name for the sender and sends the message on for you. It will be your message, but with no indication of its provenance and no valid return email address. Sweet–this might afford you true and pure retribution.

I was fascinated by my discovery and its potential. As a result, I have been ruminating about various injustices I have suffered throughout life–the time my father wouldn't buy me a horse to take with me and board at college, or when my high school cheerleading team elected me co-captain instead of captain. I'd like to tell them what I think about their incomprehensible decisions. I'd also like to chide the various art directors who inexplicably assigned me inside-page illustrations instead of covers, or possibly my daughter who, unfathomably, rarely reads my blog. What about some of the provincial (in the most pejorative sense of the word) art shows I've been in and still didn't win first place? Yes, definitely! l'd also enjoy castigating Madame La Fontaine for her ill-considered choice of a dancer for the lead role of Snow Queen in our junior high school recital. Reliving these experiences was unpleasant and unfortunate. It took the wind out of my sails. I had better stop dredging up these memories before I get really angry. I ultimately decided that, unpleasant as they were, they were not horrible enough to merit using the anonymous remailer.

After much thought, I decided that perhaps the only truly appropriate uses for anonymous remailer are to combat drug dealing and spouse stealing–two high crimes. I have no personal experience with the former, but as to the latter, I did endure a failed attempt some years ago. My husband and I had befriended a seemingly helpless acquaintance. She seemed extremely needy and looked quite innocent in the little flowered dresses she wore. While we helped her cope with healing from an unfortunate life experience, she helped herself by trying to steal my husband! I learned a valuable lesson from this and have never forgotten it: A witch in flowered clothing is still a witch.

So I created the message I would have dispatched, had the internet existed at the time, and sent my hypothetical message to myself via an anonymous remailer. The remailer assigned to me a rather appropriate random name. That assigned name and my hypothetical message appear below. (Getting into the spirit of anonymity, I couldn't resist adding an assigned name for the recipient as well.)

"To nobody@nowhere.com:

Which witch is it who bewitched my love while using me?
Which witch is it wanting fortune, fame, all that she can see?
Which witch is it? The witch imploring favors of me and thee for free.
To which I must reply, "It's not to be. Go climb your own thorned, lust-infested tree."

Which witchmail exposing which tale to my male
Did I stomp on 'til my blushing cheeks turned pale?
The one in which she stated, 'I need your help, I am so frail'.
Forgive me, witch. I balk and bail; I cannot see how you'll prevail
With your sad tale with my or any other male. You must get off his trail.

Which witch is it? I'll cast my spell and see, then ditch
The witch whose pall I'll lift without a hint of email glitch.
Which witch is it? Narcissa, the self-enamored witch.
To which I give the shame and name, The Flowered Witch.

And that's my pitch.

From: someone@somewhere.com"

Golden Ladies

Some of my favorite Golden Ladies meet Stevie Wonder's Golden Lady, as envisioned by my Golden Niece, Amy Youngs. Please click on the golden link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YylAvnNhI_c

Mc LAUGHS

"Do you know how many starving cats there are in Europe?"

Mc LAUGHS

" 'Quote...quote...quote,' I wonder if she ever had an original thought?"

If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the subway."

Mc LAUGHS

I said we should keep our relationship virtual--not virtuous.

Circle of Hell

Two Foxes

I AM NO ANTHROPOLOGIST, but I have observed a particular social phenomenon too many times not to recognize it when I see it. I have been there, studied it, analyzed it, and classified it. My non-anthropological associate and misplaced daughter, Sophie has even given it a name. Like I and Sophie, you will know when you are there, but you will never know the anguish of being the subject/object of the Circle of Hell.

After learning about the Circle of Hell, I am certain you will want to avoid it at all costs. I can tell you how you can do just that. I have developed a simple strategy that actually works. Quite simply, you must never under any circumstances be the first to leave a social gathering. It's OK to be the second to depart, but be forewarned, you must not be the first.

If you are the first to leave, it will be your judgment day. The lights will slowly dim and eventually be replaced by the menacing flicker of candles licking the darkness. The chairs, which were arranged in amicable little groupings conducive to friendly chitchat while you were there, will start to rearrange on their own until they reconfigure into a circle. Their formerly pacific and lighthearted occupants will find their way back to them, but now they look just a little different, maybe a little haggard. The lips of these formerly gentle people are no longer turned up in smiles; their brows are harshly knit. Thus, the Circle of Hell convenes. What's that? You were the first to leave. Well, then, unfortunately for you, it is your judgment day.

Remember that charming, funny, easygoing young doctor with the buzz cut, grey tee shirt and cargo shorts.? He was nice, right? We-elllllll not after you le-eeeave. No way. No more Mr. Nice Guy now that you are absent. He is so on to you. He committed everything you told him to memory while he was studying your body language from head to toe. In your absence he is dissecting your conversation word by word, pointing out every discrepancy and comparing his noted inconsistencies with those noted by other guests. He told everyone that he was too polite to even mention the subject of your outfit and hair, but that if he were to mention it, it would not be favorable. Others were not that polite. How about that tall, slim pretty young lady with the wispy brown hair and dazzling white smile.

You remember her, the one wearing her pet fox around her neck and the ladybug jewelry? She was so friendly and interesting–lots of fun to talk to. I believe I overheard her saying to you "Let's do lunch." Well, after you left, she's having you for lunch, savoring you juicy tidbit by juicy tidbit. Hope you didn't give her too much information to work with. Didn't she tell you she thought it was charming and carefree of you to let your thong show? Suddenly, after you leave, she thinks it's not so charming at all and she's telling everyone in the throng you were wrong to show your thong.

That fashion plate who loved your shoes and asked if they were Manolos? Well, she is now asking "where in the world would someone find a pair of shoes that hideous–in some third world thrift shop for the fashion challenged?"

Do you understand? Fortunately, even you can evade the Circle of Hell. All you have to do is follow my advice and not be the first to leave. Then and only then, can you avoid being judged. It's as simple as that. You will still be little old you (and only you know what that actually is), but no one else will be able to judge you.

Warning: Do not be the first to leave this blog site. You'd be well advised to just keep going down the page reading all the posts. Repeat Warning: Do not be first to leave Depingo Ergo Sum. If you are, you will risk subjecting yourself to the virtual Circle of Hell. Yes, the Circle of Hell exists in cyberspace as well. You will probably have to stay online for the rest of your life and have meals brought in. You may as well do it right here on my blog. There are 67 posts to date and that should keep you busy for a while. You will not be missing out on anything in real life. I will continue observing life with a keen eye and will keep you posted. Thus you will not have to risk being called to account virtually and prematurely. So long as you stay on Depingo Ergo Sum, you will be safe–dum de dum daaaaa--from....... the.......virtual....... Circle of Hell.

Leave at your peril.

Paint on,

Depingo

To see more Depingo family portraits, click on the following links:

Bridezilla  

Mc LAUGHS

Jeez, We forgot the kids!

Spooky Housekeeping

One would have thought I had an ideal childhood. Though our home at 64 Standish was beautiful and comfortable in every physical way, it was not a peaceful environment for me. My parents were very busy, so I was on my own much of the time. I had to figure out a lot of things for myself. In addition to suffering the usual childhood traumas featuring imaginary villains, my brother and I noticed something spooky going on in the housekeeping department. Mrs. Foales, our housekeeper, and Faith, her household assistant, seemed to be turning our household into a battleground of good and evil.

The Angel: Faith took care of cleaning and organizing the house, the clothes and the children. Faith wasn't her birth name. It was given to her by Father Divine. She was one of his "angels" and lived in one of the several communes he called "Heaven." She lived in Heaven rent-free and was fed and clothed by Father Divine. If she hadn't had a job, he would have found one for her. In exchange, all she had to do was turn over her entire salary to him every week. I guess the thinking there was that you don't need money in heaven. He needed money, though, to maintain his extravagant life style. I don't think he was as bad as the press made him out to be. He actually was interested in civil rights and did help a lot of people to overcome poverty. Even if he was helping himself to his angels' incomes, he at least was providing them with services, religious inspiration, a place to live, clothes and food.

Faith was a delightful, happy and contented person who took very good care of us. She quietly hummed cheerful hymns to herself while doing her work. I was fascinated by the way she looked because I had never seen clothes like the ones she wore. Father Divine apparently picked them out for her and all his other angels at thrift and second-hand stores. Her outfits may have been mismatched, but they were always clean, well pressed and colorful. The clothes she wore made her look like a clown of sorts. That was OK–I loved clowns and was happy to have a clown in the house. Once she bent over and I could see that she was wearing red bloomers with yellow polka dots all over them. I thought that was hysterical and burst out laughing. Faith admonished me, saying that I should not laugh at other people because I might hurt their feelings and God would be disappointed in me. I wasn't sure if she meant the God or Father Divine, but I wasn't taking any chances. I never made fun of another person's clothing ever again.

Once when my mother was out, Faith made my little brother Tommy two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I could tell that she was not that familiar with food preparation or sandwiches, because this is how she constructed it: bread, peanut butter, jelly; on top of that bread, peanut butter, jelly, on top of that, bread, peanut butter, jelly and on top of that bread, peanut butter, jelly. Poor Tommy couldn't even fit his tiny mouth around it. Everybody loved Faith and we, as kids, thought the sun rose and set around her.

The Witch: Mrs. Foales lived with us. She managed the household, supervised Faith, ordered the food and cooked meals. She was as colorless in her attire--gray dress, pearls and a white apron--as Faith was colorful. When she first came to the house I was very excited because my father told me she was from England and had worked as a baker in the Queen's confectionery kitchen. Even at a young age, I understood the implications of this--we would have great desserts! "Great hire," I thought. If she could make desserts that were good enough for the Queen of England, they were going to be good enough for me. However, all of her deserts were flops; her cakes never rose. Nor did she in my estimation. She explained that in the Queen's kitchen they used the metric system for measuring ingredients and she was confused by our American system of measure. There went that sweet dream. Only years later did I find out that England used ounces and pounds, just like we did. Also, her accent sounded funny. I used to imitate her much to her dismay by saying, "Blah, blaaaah, blah, blaaaah, blah, bla bla blaaaah." Try it, it sounds just like an English accent.

I frequently overheard Mrs. Folds doing something that I thought was really scary. She would lock herself in the bathroom repeatedly, sometimes for as long as half an hour and it sounded like all Hades was breaking loose in there. There were thumps and thuds and scraping sounds. But more frightening than that, her voice changed from that cheery little high–pitched English blah blaaah to a rough growl that might as well have belonged to Beelzebub, the Prince of Demons. Also the words didn't sound like any I had ever heard before. Might she have been speaking in tongues? When she emerged from the bathroom, she was flushed, sweaty and slightly disheveled.

I couldn't tell my parents about this, because I had already complained about the man with long, hairy, elastic arms and sharp fangs who lived under my bed and would try to hook me with his rubber arms and snap me under my bed, never to be seen again. This necessitated my jumping into bed from as far away as possible in order to avoid being ensnared and imprisoned. I might add that even when I jumped into bed I still was not entirely safe. As soon as I landed, the gathering of Golden Ladies convened. They would float out of the bathroom, giggling nastily with their high heels clicking down on the wood floor as they approached my room to get me. They made quite a racket bumping and stumbling against the long corridor wall and clicking their heels. I had never actually seen them, but somehow I knew they were beautiful, glowing evil specters with long golden hair streaming down their backs over their shimmering, diaphanous gowns. What particular brand of punishment they had in store for me, mercifully I never learned because just as the first one reached my door I woke up screaming. I complained to my parents about the Golden ladies, as well as the hairy, long-armed creep under my bed, every night.

In fear of losing my credibility with my parents altogether, I decided to keep my observations of Mrs. Foales to myself. Between Mrs. Foales and Faith, I believed that I was living in the midst of the classic battle between good and evil. After much contemplation, I was not that worried. I figured out–or at least hoped very much–that Faith's cheerful hymnal humming would overcome whatever evil Mrs. Foales was perpetrating in the bathroom. At a minimum, I hoped that the household would at least hold its own, remaining neither good nor evil but at least neutral. With that in mind, I kept my mouth shut and continued on with my daily life and activities. But I made sure I stuck very close to Faith.

Postscript: I lived at that Zoroastrian battleground of 64 Standish until I went away to college and then on to my own apartment in New York City. Mrs. Foales and Faith stayed in the house until my father passed away and remained there for about six months afterward to look after the house, receive real estate brokers and dispose of the furniture, furnishings. and clothing that remained. My brother, sister and I had left the house many years earlier, to conduct our battles elsewhere, and my mother was also gone. After the house was sold, I wanted to look at it just one more time, so I returned to my childhood home.

As I entered, I remembered how I had worried about everything as a child. I thought that I probably misremembered and misconstrued Mrs. Foales' nefarious bathroom activities. However, when I walked through the house, what I saw sent a chill up my spine.

Spooky housekeeping: The whole house was set up as if one person still dwelled there. All the furniture, furnishings and clothes had been removed, save for one of each item. In my parents bedroom, one suit, shirt and tie, hung in the closet with one brilliantly shined pair of shoes on the floor, and in the one bedside table that had been left was one set of underwear and one pair of socks. One of the twin beds remained and was made up with pressed linens and blankets. My father's pajamas and dressing gown were laid out on top and his slippers lay at the foot of the bed. In the infamous bathroom, there was one toothbrush, one bar of soap one towel and one washcloth. Strangest of all, in the dining room, the large dining table was gone but there was one place setting with a perfectly pressed napkin on our card table.

Outrageous! Dr. McLaughlin would never eat at the card table.

Mc LAUGHS - Politically Correct Science

No I will not because I respect the protozoa's right to privacy!

Binx Speaks

Some years ago, for an undergraduate class in cinematic set design I took at Parsons, I had to give an oral presentation to my fellow students. My professor was the Director of the Museum of the Moving Image. However, it really was not I who spoke. The words came from my mouth and sounded like me, but they were Binx's.

I was in such a panic that you would have thought I didn't speak the English language. My assignment was to analyze Hitchcock's sets to see how they supported his cinematic concepts. Once again, I, a humble artist, was in over my head and Binx bailed me out. He told me to come over to his apartment and said we would work on it together. I thought this would involve a lot of pedantic research. However, when I got there, we didn't go to his library. We went to his TV. Binx had three Hitchcock movies and a bottle of chilled wine ready. What a lovely way to prepare a talk!

The following are my, er...that is...Binx's, talking notes. He pointed them out and I wrote them down while we watched the movies together. All the points he made were from his head, not from any book. When we finished, I asked him how on earth he knew so much about Hitchcock. He modestly said, "I wrote an encyclopedia article about him."

Talking notes: When viewing Shadow of a Doubt, Binx made sure I noted the quote, "If you rip the fronts off pretty little houses, you find swine." That is important. In that and other movies Hitchcock made in the forties and fifties, that's exactly what he was doing. He placed the actors in, if not pretty, at least everyday, sets–ones which are so ordinary that we get comfortable and never expect that horror could happen anywhere within miles of such places, let alone inside of them. In films, Binx explained, the audience doesn't expect anything awful to happen in pretty, brightly lit frames. Hitchcock gives the viewer a false sense of security because of the hominess and familiarity of his sets. In Shadow of a Doubt, we don't expect a psychotic killer in that pretty all-American Thornton Wilderesque town of Santa Rosa. And in North By Northwest, in such a serene setting as a wheat field, we don't expect Carry Grant to be pursued by an airplane.

In Psycho, made in the late fifties, we see Hitchcock masterfully toying with our expectations through set design. Psycho was a low budget film made with a TV crew. It is different from his earlier movies in that it was meant to be shocking. He shot it in black and white because he thought seeing blood in color would be too shocking for the audience. His earlier movies were more of the suspense or thriller genre. It is rumored that he was jealous of the attention that Henri-Georges Clouzot's Diabolique was getting, so he made Psycho.

Sets: The architecture is presented with a strong feeling for the ways it restricts and regulates human movements. Hitchcock uses the architecture expressionistically, as does Douglas Sirk. Hitchcock's film architecture expresses ideas that do not depend on the architectural functions. He uses architecture more as a tool. For instance, the architecture in Psycho traps Marion. The small spaces through which she continually moves are a metaphor for her horrible fate. Her movement illustrates the inevitability of that fate. Also, the claustrophobic sets are so small that she seems enclosed, trapped, and unable to escape.

There are two different, contrasting kind of sets--horizontal and vertical. The Bates Motel and most of the other sets are horizontal and the Hollywood gothic mansion, home of Norman and his mother, is vertical--looming above it all. Hitchcock uses this contrast to misdirect our expectations. Again, we don't expect the horror to happen in the ordinary, sterile, well-lit Bates Motel. Once he shows us the gothic mansion, we are manipulated into thinking that's where the horror is going to take place.

The Victorian house is fully furnished. Again, with this densely cluttered set, Hitchcock is deliberately trying to misdirect us into thinking this is where the horror happens. The Bates Motel bathroom where Marion's murder actually does take place is bright and sparse in comparison. There is a jokey foreshadowing of this scene in the beginning of the film as Marion is shown in her own bedroom with a brightly lit bathroom in the background. Also, the viewing of the bathroom in this scene indicates that Marion is a transgressor, which we know her to be, namely an adulterer and a thief. "Good" women were not shown in the context of a bathroom in the 1950's.

Hitchcock carefully selected forties-style furniture for the contemporary sets even though this movie opened in the late fifties. That's the kind of furniture most people had in their home at that time. When styles changed into the kidney-shaped tables and such of the fifties, people didn't rush out to buy them. Most of America still had forties furniture in their homes. If Hitchcock had used fifties furniture in the sets, they would have lost the ordinary everyday quality that he was seeking.

Motifs: Throughout the set decor, there are recurring visual motifs: windows, mirrors, eyes, vanishing point perspective and vortexes.

Windows: Usually the windows are closed and Marion is being viewed by the audience as voyeurs. (Voyeurism is another recurring theme in Hitchcock's movies, e.g. Rear Window.) Initially, we are viewing Marion through the windows of the small motel room of her tryst. Then we are viewing her through the car windows, emphasizing that she is in a small place–like a cage–from which she cannot escape. Finally, we view her through a peephole, with Norman Bates simultaneously doing the same.

Mirrors: The mirrors in the interior sets deny the "reality" of architectural space in order to comment on the characters and their helplessness. The mirrors in almost every scene are analogous to eyes. In Norman's mother's room there is a double mirror which makes us anticipate another murder. (my thought follows) Also, I believe it is a metaphor for the split in Norman's personality.

Eyes: Hitchcock told Francois Truffaut that in an earlier movie he had attempted to create the image of a pair of eyes shifting back and forth by having two men in the back of a paddy wagon looking out the two back windows. He succeeds in doing this in Psycho in a different, more fascinating way. The windows of the vertical set of the highly organic Victorian house are like eyes and Norman's mother (very small because she is seen from a distance as she walks back and forth in front of the windows) becomes the pupils. The pupils (Norman's mother) seem as if they are shifting because she is pacing back and forth. That was my absolute favorite visual.

Vanishing point perspective: In any real tragedy, which Psycho is, there is a sense of inevitability. Hitchcock utilizes all the visual motifs discussed here to support the concept of inevitability. But we sense it unmistakably through use of vanishing point perspective. In the beginning of the film there are vanishing points in the artwork on the walls which frame (trap) Marion in her office. Then we see the highways on which she travels to her death as vanishing point perspective. We see it again reflected in the state troopers' sunglasses (which are also mirrors). These recurring pin-point perspectives are graphic indicators that she is on a straight-line, no-detour journey to her horrible fate. There is no way out for her. She can only go in one direction. In addition, the rearview mirror in the car reinforces this idea by reflecting the vanishing point of the highway, so we see it twice. This is Hitchcock's typical frame-within-frame approach of driving a concept home. Douglas Sirk used this approach as well.

Vortexes: The vortex appears at least three times - first as a flushing toilet, followed by water and then water mixed with blood draining in the shower drain and finally as Miriam's car becomes mired and is
pulled down into the marsh.

Hitchcock was insistent on having the toilet visible in the movie. In addition to the vortex it created, it is so mundane, it fools the audience into thinking nothing unpropitious could happen in the presence of something so ordinary. (The next thought is my second contribution to my presentation.) In fact, Marcel Duchamp had already rendered the toilet harmless when he presented the urinal along with other ready-mades as art. How scary is art? And how about the shower? They're pretty innocuous too, aren't they? If you really want to know how successful Hitchcock was at set design, just ask anyone who saw the film how comfortable he or she was taking a shower after seeing Psycho. And speaking of showers, I have to go to bed right now–as is–because there's no way I'm going to get into the shower in my brightly-lit, sparse bathroom so soon after writing this post. No way.

Oh, I forgot to mention that Goer was actually one of my classmates. Following the conclusion of my presentation, Goer said in front of the whole class that my presentation was "fatuous and extremely simplistic." Our professor, the museum director, disagreed and said that he was quite impressed with the originality of my ideas. When he asked what sources I had consulted, I simply replied,

"Binx has spoken."

All My Children

Probably nothing this deplorable has ever happened to you (and I hope it never does), but it did happen to me.

One day my entire family got killed violently and in one fell swoop. It was death in a most horrible way–by exsanguination. A vicious, untrustworthy editor stuck a knife in the back of every one of my children while I, their beloved mother, had to sit by impotently in a refined, business-like manner and watch the ink drain out of their tiny bodies until they turned white and expired.

Three months before the massacre, I had been hired to create my little family by this very same editor. She said sweetly they would appear weekly for a year in a four-panel cartoon strip in the newsletter of a renowned international law firm. I said, "Shouldn't we have a contract?" She replied, "No, a handshake is good enough for me." So we shook on it. Then she brazenly paid me to conceive them. I didn't like the concept of exchanging money for life. But knew that it meant that my children would have a good life, be comfortable and get to travel all over the world. Even if this evil editor did own them, I would still be their birth mother and in control of their weekly activities. So, I left with the check, set about my creative work and became pregnant immediately. Labor was not easy. I was paid for 35 hours of creative labor, but it took more like 355 hours to create my children and their strip. No matter, a mother loves her children, however difficult and long the labor.

At this writing, my drained, pale children have been living for some years (if you can call it that) in a storage locker in my basement. Sometimes, when I am down there storing a painting, I can hear their cries and whispers. They are barely audible (remember, they had all the ink sucked out of them) but they are there. If I listen carefully, I can make out the words and hear them reminiscing about their heyday--their 15 minutes of fame--in the newsletter. "Ah, those were the days," I hear them whisper amongst themselves. Their vitality, adventure, graphic beauty and moxie were unmatched.

I loved my children and still do. My favorite is Attorneyman, the protagonist; he had beautiful, golden #2 Mongol pencils for hands; he was sharp. Let's say about Handria, what she lacked in body (her body was comprised of just a hand and an arm) she made up for in organizational skills. Gavella was born to be a judge. She got her name because she was shaped like a gavel. Using the top of her gavel-head she made legal points with a thunderous whack. But she only hammered for justice–either that or trying to knock some sense into Attorneyman's head. Loose Ends was my problem child, but I loved him too. He was very smart but couldn't apply himself--too many loose ends. He also interfered with others when they wanted to get something done by entangling them in his own loose ends. There were many other children, too numerous to recount, but I loved the first-born four the best.

My children were not born of a natural, nor even a Caesarian, birth. They were born of the pen. Although they are comprised of ink and paper, they are just as rewarding as if they were flesh and blood. Ink and blood are pretty much the same anyway. A difference in color and consistency maybe, but both support life.

My children were sophisticated, classy, clever and funny–just what the editor wanted. They enjoyed providing their rather humorless lawyer-readers with a laugh or two on Fridays after their very boring week of hostile takeovers, CMO's and REITS. My children were drawn into amusing situations weekly, some of which poked gentle fun at lawyers and judges. Actually, it was Attorneyman, not Loose Ends (as I would have thought) who got the strip and all my children killed when he referred to a judge as "a hypoglycemic donut dunker" who wasn't sophisticated enough to understand his legendary legal legerdemain. Apparently, some of my insecure, puerile lawyer-readers thought that they would lose all their court cases if their firm newsletter referred to judges as hypoglycemic donut dunkers. Did they think that judges were that sour?

I did what any mother in the same situation would do. I laid my children to rest in a basement storage locker, got hysterical, drank 52 white wine spritzers and slept for an entire weekend. Then I went to that lying, cheating editor's office and reminded her that we had a handshake deal that my children were hired for a year. She replied, "Do you have it in writing?"

Potscript: The international law firm in question left its posh quarters in one of the most prestigious office buildings in Manhattan, and is now conducting business in a sleazy, dark building on Sixth Avenue. Several of its lawyers are serving time in prison for various frauds and Ponzi schemes. The editor who betrayed my family lost her job and relocated to Saudi Arabia, where she had both her hands cut off as punishment for the many deceitful handshake deals she perpetrated in that country. Attorneyman and the kids are happy to be out of the basement storage locker and living with their Mom in her studio again. They are thrilled to be making a comeback on Depingo Ergo Sum, which by the way has readers from twenty countries, which is 15 more than the countries in which the law firm had offices. Soon Attorneyman will be made into a major motion picture with Brad Pitt playing the lead role. Angelina is hoping that Brad doesn't fall for Handria, who is even taller, slimmer and prettier than she. Mother is happily blogging, painting and gardening at Foxglove Cottage and planning to paint formal portraits of all her children very soon.

Mc LAUGHS

Modigliani finds the perfect model.

The Dilettante Lifeguard

A dilettante lifeguard named Tom admired
a pretty blond bather he really desired.
He saw with a grin, she was thin as a pin
but did not notice the circling fin.

~~~

Splashes and wakes of crimson transpired.
Tom blew his whistle--loud! and got wired.
He had to jump in and fight with the fin
Who swam off with the girl and ate her for din.

~~~

It troubled Tom his rep might be mired
He schemed and hoped he wouldn't be fired.
Encountering crying from her next of kin
He placated them....."at least I jumped in!"

Belle of the Ball, Shoe and Bra

PART TWO

Several other unfortunate incidents made me consider, with angst-ridden guilt, returning my willful pup to her North Carolina kennel. Bella, as if reading my mind, turned nice immediately. She became obedient, polite, calm, and devoted overnight. Night turned into day. Puppy love resumed.

YOUNG ADULT: She has replaced nips and bites with kisses. The word "kiss" is one of her 200 word-vocabulary favorites and she kisses on command. We never intended to show Bella, but don't tell her that. Her presence and commanding strut are far more seductive than any supermodel's.

Previously on walks she would tug on her leash while simultaneously tripping me and shredding my trousers. Now my little champ obediently heels all along the length of the Carl Schurz Park promenade. Her elegant gait, soulful eyes, alert erect head, stretched out tail , floppy golden ears and feathers gently blowing in the wind are an arresting sight. Everybody stops to admire her. She looks up at me if she wants to say hello to them. I give her permission to "break" the "heel" and she greets them enthusiastically. She looks at me again seeking permission to kiss them.

She has replaced her systematic destruction of shoes and underwear with careful and thoughtful management of these items. At night she secretes them in her den (which is under our bed). There they are safeguarded with her own most treasured possession, her tennis ball. In the morning she returns them to us. In addition, she has elevated herself from cat bad-deed instigator to cat monitor. If Blossom, our cat, starts manicuring her nails on our furniture or rugs, Bella officiously chases her away.

Bella has also taken responsibility for guarding the house. Foxglove Cottage is secluded and surrounded by woods and lake. Whenever anyone approaches the house via the long steep stone steps, Bella rushes the intruder and actually holds him at bay on the stairs, barking, growling and lunging. She has never hurt anyone but our visitors don't know that and are afraid to move. The only way she will let the visitor pass is if I put my hand on their shoulder or shake hands with them. It is our "safe" gesture. I did not teach her that. Indeed, she taught it to me.

SENIOR: Bella is sweeter and more affectionate than ever. Though she is quite lame, she keeps up with her self-assigned work. She does not have as acute a sense of order as she once did, so now we might find our socks, shoes or underwear in a neighbor's house or outside or not at all. Also, when she brings them to us now, they might be mismatched. Still, she guards the house when she is not in too deep a slumber to hear suspicious noises. She can no longer make it up the stone stairs without great difficulty. However, she now sits under an old three-trunk birch tree with a perfect view of the stairs. She will bark to alert me whenever she sees a car or person approaching. She still keeps the squirrels in line. She also swims many times every day, rolling in the grass to dry herself before returning to her post under the tree.

Now that it is spring, when I brush her, I leave the removed tufts of her hair on the lawn so birds can use them for building their nests. While reaching for my garden hose today, I startled a bird who was busy making her nest in a nook between our cottage's roof and drain pipe. I was startled as well. She flew down and landed on a branch about an inch away from my nose. There we stood beak to nose. Neither of us budged. It was among the prettiest sights I have ever seen. In her beak she had a bundle of Bella's hair, which she was using in the construction of her nest. It was also the prettiest sentiment. Bella has made a complete turnabout. In her dotage she has gone from birdivore to bird-adore -- benefactor of birds.

Belle of the Ball, Shoe and Bra

The best looking, sweetest creature I know is Bella, my yellow Labrador Retriever. Please note I did not say "best behaved."

Bella is her "call" name. Her full registered name is Top Honors Belle of the Ball. She is canine royalty–a princess sired by BIS BISS Am Can CH Boradors Alligator Shoes JH, officially designated as the no. 1 Lab in the US for 2000. Her mother, Quintessential Caper, though not a champion herself, has an elegant bearing, an uncommonly pretty face and a pedigree boasting five generations of champions. We had to request Bella's adoption before she was born because puppies with pedigrees like Bella's go very quickly. Top Honors Kennel, where she was born, is in North Carolina, so we couldn't even see Bella other than in photographs for eight weeks because she needed to be with Caper. Her breeder told us that she matched Bella with us because she was fearless. The breeder, or " the food lady," as she was known to the pups, said Bella's littermates were too skittish to live in New York.

When finally weaned, the breeder put Bella in a crate and shipped her to New York. The princess flew cargo. However, it was special cargo (for princesses). The food lady trained Bella for her solo flight. She practiced with Bella by placing her in the crate and leaving her in it for increasingly longer periods so that she would not be traumatized when it actually happened. She needn't have done even this though. Bella is truly not afraid of anything.

Bella flew up to New York all by herself. I picked her up at Kennedy Airport's special cargo area. When I opened her crate, she came galloping out and leaped into my arms. Thirteen pounds of puppy kissed me all over with her long, wet, soft pink tongue. White as snow, she looked like a fur-covered basketball. She was soft and sleek. In fact, she looked more like a baby seal than a puppy. She had no doggy odor. Her scent was fresh as spring air, except for her oversized paws which smelled exactly like Fritos. It was puppy love at first sight. She could not stop kissing and nuzzling me the entire ride home from JFK. And that was the last time she was nice to me for the next two years.

PUPPYHOOD: Our relationship quickly deteriorated from love at first sight to love at first bite. After she rested from her long journey, Bella immediately set about trying to establish dominance over her new litter mate--me. She loved "play" fighting with me. That's how puppies entertain themselves in the litter. The only trouble was that I have a much softer hide than her original littermates and therefore sustained multiple wounds about my feet, ankles, hands, forearms and face from her sharp little puppy teeth–not to mention torn clothing and broken eyeglasses. She probably thought she was pretty scary because I never bit back.

Bella also liked roughhousing. Like Tina Turner singing "Proud Mary," Bella didn't do anything nice and easy, she did things nice and rough. She galloped around, crashing into things and breaking them. She chewed everything she came upon--doors, furniture, shoes (Pradas were her favorites because the leather was deliciously soft.) She instructed my cat on shredding upholstery and rugs more efficiently.

I was quite smitten with her anyway and brought her with me everywhere, sometimes with disastrous results. On weekends away, even though by this time she was fully house trained, Bella invariably chose to conduct her business inside our host's house. One weekend she had so many in-house "accidents" that when Bella "woofed" to go inside, our host asked, "Why does she want to go inside? Does she need to relieve herself?" When visiting other friends, Bella reduced their children to tears by systematically puncturing and deflating every one of their pool floats and toys. As if that were not enough, she terrorized their dog, a hyperactive and nervous terrier who spent the entire weekend in a kitchen cabinet, hiding from Bella.

I hired a personal trainer for Bella and enrolled her in canine charm school. She was an excellent student learning all of her lessons quickly and performing them perfectly, with a "ho-hum-big-deal- give-me-the-reward look" on her face. When she finished her performance, all canine pandemonium broke loose. A cacophony of growls, barks, snorts, and fang-bearing lunges from Bella's classmates accompanied us back to our seat. Unbeknownst to me, Bella had been flashing intimidating looks at her classmates on the sly as we passed by. When the trainer investigated, Bella put on her sweet, innocent "who me" face. Though an excellent student, Bella did not change her attitude and after a while we were not invited back to classes.

I could live with most of Bella's transgressions, but one day she crossed the line. I could see that she had a small live bird in her mouth. Labs have "soft" mouths, so I knew the bird would be all right if I could extract it. I approached Bella in a casual manner with a dog cookie in my hand and offered a trade. Bella sensed what I had in mind and, rather than relinquishing the bird, she simply swallowed it whole. Then she demanded the cookie.

TO BE CONTINUED

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Windy City

Like Janus,
the wind is two-faced
coaxing teardrops from my eyes
then gently drying them.
Windswept whitecaps on the lake
energize me
and refresh my spirit.

The Janus-faced wind fiercely
breaks my lilac limbs
and shatters my umbrella,
my protection.
Gnarled spokes point at the wind
accusingly.

Swallows defy the wind.
They shake their tiny feathers in its windy face
and pierce it with their beaks,
circling around its blustery gusts
engaging in demented dance.

Might I defy the wind?
No, I will acquire and sell it–
Twenty-five cents a blow.
The wind is cheap.
The wind is someone you know.

Killing the Comment

Don't let the comments get you down.

An acquaintance of mine, Comment, actually said to me, "No gallery has ever expressed any interest in you." This dampened my eyes as well as my spirit because, generally, Comment is quite supportive. It made me feel like never approaching another gallery ever again. Worse than that, for a while I did not even feel like painting.

So that I wouldn't forget those intentionally discouraging words, I hand-printed them on a paper and displayed them on my bulletin board. I frequently do that with remarks that hurt or baffle me. That way the comment cannot be denied. Also, I can readily recall it and analyze it for truth and accuracy. Usually, this way I can kill the comment.

My analysis of the statement, "No gallery has ever expressed any interest in you": Presently I am being considered for two prestigious and well known galleries for emerging artists -- one in New York and one in Connecticut. The one in New York has my digital portfolio. I guess there is a case for their not expressing any interest in me in that I have not heard from them yet. Upon submission, though, they told me that it would take a long time to get back to me because they get many submissions and have to review them all. On the other hand, you could say that they have not rejected me either and for the sake of argument that could be construed as interest.

The assistant curator of the Connecticut gallery emailed me after receiving my portfolio to let me know that their gallery schedule is filled up for this year, but said he will contact me with dates for a showing of my work for next year. Additionally, he provided me with an insightful critique of my work, let me know which of my paintings he preferred and suggested that I take my current work in that direction. I thought that showed a great deal of interest. Because his input strengthens my work, and so he will remember me, as I complete new paintings, I email the images to him. Comment referred to my keeping in touch like this as pestering the assistant curator.

Over the weekend, I delivered paintings to a local show. Despite the discussion that occurred initially regarding raw edges on my paintings, I thought my work was enthusiastically accepted. The show chair came over while I was registering. She said she thought the pieces were quite accomplished and that she agreed with my decision in not framing them. This I believe showed interest and was very encouraging.

A high-end event planner and florist in New York has given me his prominent storefront window to use as my own personal gallery because he likes my paintings and believes they will enhance his shop. This shows interest also.

My final comment on Comment's comment?...No comment, other than... back to work for me and...

I killed the comment.

Mc LAUGHS

They're nice, but I prefer something a little more representational.