Mc LAUGHS

Better have another one just to make sure!

Bottoms up,
Depingo

Sregdab

MY NAME IS SREGDAB

and I CAN TEACH YOU HOW TO BUCKY

I am from the planet Blixtarrg, in a galaxy billions of light years away from Earth. My people are also light years ahead of you Earthlings in intelligence and scientific development. Blixtarrg, and the entire galaxy we dominate, is curious about your puny race. Accordingly, I have been sent by the Council of Ministers of the Blixtarrg Aggregation to report on you Earthlings.

I can do this with ease because I and all of my fellow Blixtarrgans have the innate capacity to understand, speak and write all languages that have ever been spoken on Earth. Because of our highly-evolved state we are fluent even in those of your languages that have not yet evolved. In all modesty, I can truly say that we Blixtarrgans are exquisite beings.

Notwithstanding our billions of years of evolution and our near-perfection, we do, however, have one minor weakness, hardly worth mentioning. Indeed, I would rather call it a genetic quirk. In any event, all of us on Planet Blixtarrg are dyslexic. We have long since dealt with this by self-installing at birth mirrored corneas atop our three natural ones. In this way we can obtain corrected images, enabling us to communicate with lesser races such as yours.

My report follows:

After a brief flight from Blixtarrg, I enter into Earth orbit. While approaching said planet I observe that its prismatic hues consist primarily of blue and white with some greenarrg and beige, with gray hues closer to the population centers. Curiously, however, one area of the surface is predominantly crimson. I select a wooded area on the periphery of this red-stained area as my landing site. As I approach the rouge glow, I find that it is created by an aggregation of mobile red figures. These, I gather, are the species I was sent to study.

The creatures, which appear to be some primitive form of intelligent life, are being drawn by some sort of force field toward a huge, stone fort. Statues cloaked in full military regalia guard the entrances. The creatures are being scanned individually as they enter. The scanners seem to be using a primitive system which can detect metal and are denying entry to persons who are carrying metallic objects. Because my Blitxtarrgan mirrored corneas are metallic (made from a compound your people will not discover for another million years), I realize that I will have to remove them if I hope to gain entry. I remove my mirrored corneas with the insta-surg tool of my Blix Army knife. I never leave Blixtarrg without it!

I now see that the Earthlings are gathering for a religious event and what I thought was a fort is instead a stone enclosure of sacred grounds. I glean this because the red-clad Earthlings are all taking communion while parading toward the entrance. They are drinking a foamy-looking, golden substance called reeb. All of them, young and old, are drinking it. Some carry cases of it. Many are performing a reciprocal ceremony in which they pour reeb on each other's heads and laugh.

I want to blend in so I drink a reeb that someone has handed me. It makes me euphoric. Because I am substantially larger than humans, I take this opportunity to resize myself by enveloping my bodarrg with a marquee tool and at the same time change my colour to red. This is child's play for me because at birth Blixtarrgans have Photoschlarrg microchips implanted in our magnificent brainarrgs.

Once inside the holy ground, I observe about two hundred carefully fashioned robots precisely highstepping around a large open area. Some are swinging huge gold and silver jewelry in the air above their heads while others are sucking or blowing on curved or straight weapons. Still others beat furiously on round weapons which are tethered to them. This creates what I gather passes for music on Earth. I infer that these must be apostles of the deity these Earthlings await.

These marching ones are followed by a cluster of small dancers who prance and leap about in synchronized abandon. These small ones seem to have no problem defying gravity as they fly about with energy and grace. Sometimes they land atop taller Earthlings, who in turn toss the small ones from one to another. They eventually form a pyramid which points skyward, apparently imploring their divine one to appear.

As the excitement reaches a fevered pitch, the deity appears. He is much taller than the typical Earthling and though he walks upright, he looks more like one of the lower life forms than an Earthling. He possesses a huge brown head with a white stripe down the center, running to his long black snout. He has all-seeing, all- knowing eyes. His bodarrg as well as his head is covered with fur and he wears a gaudily-decorated, striped "talis" (for that is what such a garment is called by the tiny minority of Earthlings who follow the Hebraic religion) over it. I would not describe him as a dignified god. In fact, he appears quite ridiculous. He waves to his thousands of red-clad supplicants and mimes some foolery. Nevertheless, the crowd becomes more and more frenzied. They call out to their god, shouting in unison “Og Ykcub! Og Ykcub!" I surmise that is the great one's name.

Suddenly, Og’s soldiers appear. I surmise something solemn and serious is about to happen–perhaps a sacrifice is about to be offered up to Og. The warriors are huge and fierce, much larger than their fellow Earthlings. They wear the requisite red for the ceremony but they are heavily armored under their garments. Another set of warriors, clothed in uniform garb of a different color, emerge from the other side of the arena and taunt Og's warriors. Suddenly, pandemonium erupts! The opposing groups of warriors lunge and chase each other around, trying to capture some sort of disputed oblate spheroid icon. Some fall injured or dead and are dragged off the field of battle. Meanwhile the others push, trip and jump on one another in chaotic fashion.

Og seems extremely delighted by all of this, especially when his soldiers seem to be succeeding. But Og wants more. He is greedy, so it starts all over again. Sometimes Og is so elated when his soldiers succeed that he has a group of his followers lift him onto an altar. From his platform above his followers' heads, Og leads the masses in prayer by repetitively pumping his prostate body up and down on the altar. His followers thank him for their bounty by counting out loud the number of times Og propels himself upward.

At various times the multitudes jump up and down in spasms of frenzied joy. At lulls in the combat, they amuse themselves by slowly waving their upper appendages from side to side, while singing “U-rah-rah-U-rah-raaaah." This hymn causes tears to form in the eyes of many of the older Earthlings. In addition, some of the congregation have taken off their red shirts, exposing their chests on which are painted images of Og. Others have smaller forms of the Og images painted on their foreheads, cheeks, arms and legs. Upon further inspection, I can see now that Og's countenance, sometimes fierce and other times friendly, is imprinted on many of their garments and head coverings.

As the events around me build to a climax, I decide to return to Blixtarrg at once. I am a sensitive and civilized sentient creature and I have no wish to see tens of thousands of Earthlings sacrificed to their animalistic and bloodthirsty deity. I am certain that in a matter of moments, Og will become angry at some failure by his warriors, tire of the entertainment and invoke his wrath upon his hapless people. I have had enough and am not waiting around for this sordid end to the spectacle.

As I take my leave of this obscure and insignificant planet in a backwater of the inhabited universe, I resize myself to my splendid Blixtarrgan form and restore my natural coloration. I make my way back to my IGS-craft and take off for the short, faster-than-light journey back to Blixtarrg. As I gain altitude, I notice a large sign which I must have missed upon landing. It reads:

nisnocsiW, nosidaM ot emocleW

!ykcuB, oG

I realize that I have forgotten to replace my mirrored corneas. I insta-surg them back and am able to read the billboard. This is the message I bring back to Blixtarrg:

Welcome to Madison, Wisconsin.

Go, Bucky!

TEACH ME HOW TO BUCKY

***Concept inspired by my friend Ken Feldman

ICG

MY HEART SKIPS A BEAT when I open the door because I don't recognize my own home. Maybe I have taken leave of my senses and somehow returned to the wrong place. The apartment I find myself in is dismally dark and eerily quiet but for some low growling sounds and another high-pitched, muffled one. The air is thick with the odor of some rotten universal solvent.

As my eyes acclimate to the darkness, I notice a sprawling heap in the center of my living room, with strewn clothes atop and around it. I can see that the bouquet of flowers on the coffee table is now in the garbage. A pungent, past-its-sell-date, fish smell assaults my nose. Something is fishy here, indeed. I discern a scowling figure sitting in one of my easy chairs in the darkened living room. Although the chair is not in the right spot, it does look like mine. I notice its mate is missing. What is going on here? Perspiration runs down my cheeks, my heart beats even faster, I hyperventilate. Should I fear for my life, run, scream?

I cannot move, let alone run and before I can initiate screaming, the scenario becomes clear. "Ohhhh," I sigh. "Ahhh," OK, I can relax. It's only ICG (Insufferable Composite Guest) who's come for a visit. She looks like a CGI (computer generated image) executed by a Photoshop neophyte. She has arrived early for her visit without alerting me. Chaos demystified.

ICG has turned off all the lights with the exception of a small table lamp from which she removed the shade. This irritating, isolated glare she pronounces the proper light for reading at night. She has turned off all the other lights because she doesn't like to waste money on electricity–even mine. All the window shades are down even though there is no need for privacy; the apartment is surrounded by a private garden. The music has been inexplicitly silenced--maybe she doesn't like White Stripes? A pair of easy chairs has been moved so that they are out of their decorative comfort zones. One has been moved about six feet so that it is adjacent to a window with a shade at half mast to facilitate daytime reading.

The other chair is placed in front of the entry hall. ICG is sitting in that one wearing a frown, a white t-shirt and red underpants–nothing else. She had to throw away the bouquet, she explains. There might have been bugs in it. Grumpily ICG accuses Bella, my elderly dog, of pinning her in her chair so that she can't get up and move about the house. I say, "Bella's just safeguarding you." But I think,"Good girl, Bella." No telling what ICG would have done next.

Thinking that I should salvage some of my living room decor, I decide to move ICG's smoked salmon-scented, over-sized suitcase to the guest room. It is currently lying in the center of the living room, flap hanging open like some exhausted, huge, brown tongue. There is another tongue–pink–licking it. The pink one belongs to Blossom, my cat. She is rooting around behind the brown one trying to find the salmon. She digs methodically and meows hysterically every time she thinks
she's close. Eventually, she finds it! ICG leaps up and wrests the leaky package from Blossom, permanently infusing my rug with eau d' smoked salmon. She admonishes Blossom, "No cat is going to eat my well-traveled smoked salmon."

And indeed it is. Apparently ICG originally acquired the smoked salmon at a wedding in Saskatoon at the beginning of the summer, and has been traveling with it ever since. She brought it back to Florida, post wedding, then took it to the Jersey Shore to visit her son. She and the salmon then visited her daughter in L.A. and then flew back to Florida. Now they have both flown up to New York. ... You know ... where is Homeland Security when you really need them? I'm telling you, that salmon had a more smokin' summer vacation than I did!

ICG explains to me that she has decided to sleep in the living room. She does not want to sleep in the guest room because the mattress there is too hard. She further instructs that she doesn't want her suitcase put in a closet because it would be too hard for her to get her things out of it. Compassionately, she notes that a suitcase in the middle of a living room doesn't help the decor and also blocks egress and ingress. Nonetheless, it is more convenient for her there. I allow ICG's clothes-vomiting suitcase to remain in the middle of the living room, thinking I can endure anything for a week.

That's when she springs it. Her visit might be longer than a week, so she has brought enough clothes for a month. She's kidding right? "No," she says, "What if I fall down and break a leg and am laid up here for a month. I'll need clothes." With no segue whatsoever, she continues, "And you're not going to like this next thing I have to tell you, but your husband is going to have an affair." How does she know? At this point, for peace of mind, I silently vow to take impeccable care of ICG so as to prevent any fractures. I also decide to answer any of her inappropriate viewpoints with "Whatever."

Then I serve some wine to take off the edge I am beginning to feel. I also put out a generous plate of hors d'oeuvres. Before I can even sit down, ICG has consumed them all, save one. I reach over so that I can have the last one but my hand collides in midair with ICG's. We do the "No, you take it-no, you take it" dance a couple of times and then ICG says "No, you can have it because I didn't really care for them." Perplexed, I wonder why she has eaten so many if she didn't like them. Guess she just wanted to make sure.

Trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I attempt to cheer myself up by thinking about something positive–like what is the best thing about ICG's visits. After considerable thought, I come up with something: the best thing about a visit from ICG is when she leaves! And when that time finally comes after infinity plus a day....

I do a little dance, do a little dance, get down that night, get down that night.
Do a little dance, the departure dance, get down that night, that's right!!

Paint on,
Depingo

Mc LAUGHS

ad infinitum nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn ad nauseum

Ms. Parenthetical

ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS is the poignant Mr. Pitiful, by Otis Redding. In addition to delighting me, it strikes a melancholy chord in my mind and heart and stirs up memories of betrayal every time I hear it.

Mr. Pitiful and I are kindred spirits of sorts for I was once Ms. Parenthetical. The cheery, upbeat melody of Mr. Pitiful belies its sad lyrics, just as the common-looking curved parentheses hide their destructive power behind a benign form. You probably think that parentheses are just another innocuous form of punctuation. Not true; if used thoughtlessly, they can be treacherous.

The opening verse of Mr. Pitiful follows:

They call me Mr. Pitiful
Baby that's my name now
They call me Mr. Pitiful. That's how I got my fame
But people just don't seem to understand
How someone can feel so blue
They call me Mr Pitiful, cause I lost someone just like you.*

I don't have to be told "how someone can feel so blue." I can write my own blues song. A verse from Ms. Parenthetical would parallel Mr. Pitiful and, perhaps, read as follows:

They called me Ms. Parenthetical

Baby, that was my name then

They called me Ms. Parenthetical. Tell you how I got my fame when

Parentheses imprisoned me and

Made me feel so blue,

I don't never, ever, ever want that to happen to you

They called me Ms. Parenthetical 'cause I lost someone too.

This is how I became Ms. Parenthetical. My boyfriend, a mutual acquaintance and I were corresponding via email about life and our artistic endeavors, which included my illustrating our acquaintance's book. The three-way emails were pleasant enough and continued for about a month. They then came to a temporary halt because the author needed to rewrite her work before I could start any drawing. Candidly, I was happy to put the work aside because I thought the story dull, unimaginative and lacking in vision or poetic beauty.

About five months hence, I discovered that the correspondence had only stopped for me. My boyfriend and the author had continued emailing each other, behind my back, daily, privately and for reasons other than collaborating on a book. Due to email misdirection, I had the occasion to read their ignoble emails.

Though the discovery of betrayal was emotionally unsettling, it was overridden by my fascination with the correspondents' use of parentheses in their dialogue. I was stunned by the power of this common punctuation and how these marks made me feel. Of all the words and sentiments I read in those emails, the parentheses were the most lethal. In a nutshell, punctuation punctured my heart.

For the first week or so after I was excluded from the emails, my boyfriend, Dalton, continued to sign his emails with both our names–"Dalton and Depingo." And the author addressed her emails to "Dalton and Depingo" as well, even though she was exclusively corresponding with Dalton. After a while, the author began addressing her emails to "Dalton (and Depingo)" and once to "Dalton (and, of course, Depingo)." Dalton followed suit and started signing his emails "Dalton (and Depingo)." Trapped between parentheses, I was being phased out, imprisoned, marginalized and rendered powerless. I was, indeed, in parenthetical jail, as it were. And I can tell you it was cold, dark and lonely between those restrictive, hard-edged, curved bars. It didn't take long though, before I was set free, grammatically at least, released from parenthetical prison and never again mentioned in their salutations or valedictions– ever–even in parentheses.

Deciding inquisitiveness was a better modus operandi than despair, I looked up "parentheses" in the dictionary. I learned that the definition is: to include material that you want to de-emphasize; a digression; a person, episode or incident that is irrelevant. Irrelevant! I? ...irrelevant? The second verse of my song started writing itself.

They called me Ms. Irrelevant!

That's what I was, baby

In parenthetical jail, baby

Where did I fail

I was Ms Parenthetical, it was irrevocable;

And all I got to do in jail was wail,wail, wail.

Then I summoned up the power of language and made an ally of it. I thought for a long time and finally realized there is only one thing worse than being parenthesized. And that was being deleted. Do I detect a third verse for my song in the making?

So I did what I had to do, baby
I deleted them with haste
I deleted them, baby–both of them–dragged them to the waste
I blocked them on my computer and then . . .
purged them from my mind . . .
That took a little longer, baby
But I was not to be left behind.
They call me Ms. Deletion,baby. I got a new name
I'm Ms. Deletion now, baby, I'm at the top of my game!

Paint on,
Depingo ... er ... um ... that's Ms. Deletion to some.

* Thanks to the late, great Otis Redding for his lyrics to Mr. Pitiful and inspiration for Ms. Parenthetical. The song can be heard ***here.***

Paradise Regained

GREAT TO BE BACK HOME with trowel in one hand, palette knife in the other, tending and painting the birds and beasts of Foxglove. It is so beautiful here, the first time I saw my mythical home I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. And now, I return from a brief visit to Hell–one always appreciates Heaven more after a stay in Hell.

A fabulous iMovie by the famous and ubiquitous videographer Amy Youngs captures my return to Heaven.

Postcard from the Sea of Life -Las Vegas

CHEERS DEARS FROM LAS VEGAS!

Miss you all, but having a perfectly decadent time on my own. I am the Queen of Hearts in Vegas. I even drink beer here, I fear. We are staying at the Hotel California, which I highly recommend because there are

Mirrors on the ceiling and pink champagne on ice.
We are all just prisoners here, of our own device
And in the master's chambers,
We gathered for the feast
We stabbed it with our steely knives,
But could not kill the beast. *

LV is the most salacious place in the Sea of Life that I've ever visited and I just love its gross indecency. You might as well throw away your watch. Eternity is the same as a moment here. There is no night or day, or even any timekeeping whatsoever–unless you think of the neon and fluorescent lights as the sun and the twinkling of the slot machines and the darkness when you pass out as night. Time both stands still and flies. You can be as self- indulgent and morally reprehensible as you want to be around the clock because there is no clock and nobody can watch you. Remember, you threw away your watch!

I know how Las Vegas came to be. It is not the way you think and probably saw in the movies, with some lame gangsters like Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky developing it. That's strictly Hollywood. It was the Boss! No, not Bruce Springstein, but the Fallen Angel himself–Beelzebub!

Yes, the Prince of Darkness broke out of Hell and designed Las Vegas in his own image. It is his own little piece of real estate hell; he named it Las Vegas. After all, he couldn't very well call it Hell or mini-Hell or something like that, could he? No one would want to visit if he did. Besides, you are not tortured here as you would be in the original Hell. Rather, it serves as a training ground for all of us who are good candidates for Hell. The Great Tempter was thoughtful enough to provide every activity which appeals to our basest instincts, including drinking, gambling, lust, gluttony and avarice. The Devil wants you to enjoy your stay.

Oh hell, it's not that bad.

Paint on,
Depingo

*Credit: Thanks to The Eagles for the lyrics.

Postcard from the Sea of Life - France

OOOH LA LAA! I'M IN FRANCE. . . .
in a trance.

Now don't look askance
but I lost my underpants.
. . . Yeah, at a dance.

Still . . .

there's nothing I could do to enhance
my trip to France.

Avec toute mon affection,
Depingo

P.S. Touched an escargot–
it was not that bad!

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Sky

HAVING A GREAT TIME! Wish you were here. I'm high in the sky today. It's 25 per cent cobalt/ 25 per cent manganese/ and 50 per cent white.

I tasted a cloud and it was delicious. It started out on the palate with a bouquet of marshmallow fluff, evidenced subtle undertones of cotton candy and had a very light finish.

It holds together well enough, though, so I made a soft sculpture from some unformed cloud that floated by.

I'm astonished looking around because there are so many sculptures up here.

God, I wonder who made them all!

Paint on,
Depingo

Postcard from the Sea of Life -Butterflies

HI!

WOKE UP WITH BUTTERFLIES in my stomach this morning. Must have fallen in love with life. Always get butterflies when I fall in love. Does that ever happen to you? I didn't want them to stay in there–they were too fluttery and I wanted to see them, so I spread my bellybutton open and let them out.

They were so beautiful, I decided to wear them instead of my usual attire–jeans and t-shirt. I thought I looked very colorful.

When I went out, a couple of lepidopterists tried to catch them in their nets. This made me a little uneasy because the butterflies were my clothes. Then I got really nervous about it and got more butterflies in my stomach. I let them out and was once again well dressed.

Always get butterflies when I'm nervous. You?

Paint on,
Depingo

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