Wednesday, September 17, 2014

One Cent, Plus Shipping

I was reading a review of Martin Amis's book Zone of Interest and came across a reference to a book titled The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell.  One thing led to another, I slid my electronic canoe into the Big River and found that this thousand pager could be purchased for $.01, plus $3.99 shipping and handling.

This whole one cent, plus shipping business started to annoy me.  Obviously the money to be made is in the shipping and handling, because at a single penny there is no money to be made with the book itself, barring an astounding level of volume.  Eleven would be the This is Spinal Tap joke.

It should also be noted that paying a penny for the book/four bucks for shipping is a common experience on the Amazon used book section.  Amazon, interestingly enough, will also sometime sell you a used book using the Prime member one-click button.  The cost is often $4.00 even.  Which is exactly the same thing.  As a Prime Member -- the Amazon elite, one might suggest -- I think a little transparency is in order here.

In closing, the Amis book is a satire set in a Nazi concentration camp.  The Littell book is about an unrepentant, highly-perverse concentration camp physician.  I don't think I'm going to buy either one.  Not that either can't be a great book (Littell got rave reviews), but I'm saving all my difficult book chips for when Hillary Mantel releases the final volume of her Wolf Hall trilogy.  Now those are some books.

Quick additional note:  Isn't it fun how much Hillary Mantel looks like Hillary Clinton ...

Playing The Drums ...

In keeping with our post-fashion-week exploration of whatever, here's Cara Delevingne -- a supermodel, I suppose -- playing the drums ...

The whole thing is barely a minute and a half long, so just hang in there through all the frou-frou and wait til she hits the skins.  It's not that she's Ginger Baker, which would be a great name for a supermodel, but she obviously has a certain capacity for the task at hand.  And I admire people who multi-task.

And speaking of multi-tasking, here to balance things out is Sammy Davis Jr. on drums.  Plus the vibes because, hey, Frank doesn't hang out with chumps.

I do love this video.  
Obviously, since you've posted it at least twice before this.  
It's an artifact from another time.  Might as well be from Mars.

It should be noted that Ms. Delevingne -- try typing that three times fast -- is actually quite an amusing young woman.  I don't subscribe to her twitter feed, in fact I avoid twitter as much as anyone can who's actually on it, but I did read an article in New York Magazine called The Dao of Cara, comprised of five or ten highly entertaining tweets by her.  It might have been a different magazine, and that might not have been the name of the article, but you get the picture.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

My Hero ...

Rare, I'm told, interview with Francis Bacon.  Who doesn't like bacon?

I'm imbedding this from someplace odd, so I have no idea if it'll work.  Regardless ...

Dirt Changes Everything

Wow.  They're sending the Tony Stewart case to a grand jury.

Me?  I had expected a faster resolution, i.e. calling it a tragic racing accident and moving on.  What the hell was Kevin Ward, now dead so we can't ask him, doing standing five feet away from race cars going 50-75 miles per hour ON A DIRT TRACK?  Doesn't matter how pissed you are, or what happened to you, this seems to me like asking for it.

And maybe Stewart did hit the gas, spin his wheels, unfortunately torque up the track just enough to catch the guy with his wheel, but it couldn't possibly be anything other than an unintentional gesture.
I find the whole thing stupid.  And I don't even particularly care for Tony Stewart -- just so we're clear.  Although I do sometimes shop at Office Depot.

Here's the Number 14 in happier days

Those cars still look stupid compared to the old style.

It's worth noting that Tony Stewart could have driven within five feet -- likely a lot less -- of Kevin Ward at 200 mph in relatively safety had he been on tarmac.  It's the dirt that changes anything.

And I take that back:  I don't think I've ever been in an Office Depot.

Have I Ever Told You How Good It Feels To Hold You?

I refer, of course, to Ronnie Spector.

Big hair.  Satin dress.  No wonder Phil Spector went ga-ga.

Lately I've been playing Ronnie Spector in the radio function of Rdio.  The stuff that comes out -- from what I'd describe as the transition between doo-wop and Motown -- is a hoot.  I'm not going to turn it off until Leslie Gore sings It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

It goes without saying that, if you haven't seen Twenty Feet from Stardom you should do so now.

Although Ronnie made it to actual stardom, I'm sure there's a thing or two she could tell you.

From The Department of Corrections

The lines "Oh God said to Abraham kill me a son/Abe says Man you must be puttin me on" are not from Desolation Row.  Highway 61 Revisited would be the correct answer.

The full text ...

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run"
Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"
God says. "Out on Highway 61".

Well Georgia Sam he had a bloody nose
Welfare Department they wouldn't give him no clothes
He asked poor Howard where can I go
Howard said there's only one place I know
Sam said tell me quick man I got to run
Ol' Howard just pointed with his gun
And said that way down on Highway 61.

Well Mack the finger said to Louie the King
I got forty red white and blue shoe strings
And a thousand telephones that don't ring
Do you know where I can get ride of these things
And Louie the King said let me think for a minute son
And he said yes I think it can be easily done
Just take everything down to Highway 61.

Now the fift daughter on the twelfth night
Told the first father that things weren't right
My complexion she said is much too white
He said come here and step into the light he says hmmm you're right
Let me tell second mother this has been done
But the second mother was with the seventh son
And they were both out on Highway 61.

Now the rowin' gambler he was very bored
He was tryin' to create a next world war
He found a promoter who nearly fell off the floor
He said I never engaged in this kind of thing before
But yes I think it can be very easily done
We'll just put some bleachers out in the sun
And have it on Highway 61.

Pretty good song.

Monday, September 15, 2014

The Problem with Buddhism

The problem with Buddhism, as I see it, is the terminology.

Take Christianity for a moment.  The key people, in chronological order, are God, Abraham ...

[Quick bit from Desolation Row:  God said to Abraham kill me a son/Abe said God you must be puttin' me on]

... Joseph, Mary, Jesus and then the apostle Peter.

The point being that these are all names you can wrap your head around easily.  In Buddhism, the head guy is called Siddhartha Gautama.  The two major schools are Theravada and Mahayana.  The current Dalai Lama's name is Tenzin Gyatso.  And those are the easy ones.

If I came from the sub-continent it all might be easier.


Years ago the Giants fired Dan Reeves.

The very next day I found myself in downtown Waldwick, the quasi-pastoral Bergen County hamlet in which I spent many pleasant years, the town in which my daughters were raised and where my X-Wife still resides, waiting in line at the bagel store.  For you completists, I like an everything with vegetable cream cheese and a slice of tomato.  Salt and pepper.  Not toasted.

Anyway, I looked up and saw that Dan Reeves was standing in line right in front of me.

I chose to say nothing.

Waldwick was a nice enough place to raise some kids.  Alright, in a sort of a limited way for an off night, Paul Simon might say.  Did, in fact.  But one thing Waldwick does have:  an outstanding bagel store.  Way better than most of the bagels you buy in New York, just for the record, since they typically are cooked in massive bakeries in Brooklyn.  And Queens.  And they, like so many things -- Ariana Grande jumps to mind, although she appears to be fighting it -- tend to be too sweet.

Did You Know a Pint of Beer Weighs a Pound?

So, when in an earlier post I suggested that "Twenty years is a lot of paintings and a ton of beer," it is literally true.  A pint of water weighs a pound, so I'm figuring ditto for beer.  Maybe more for dark beer, given the particulate and whatever.  Given this, the consumption of one pint about every three and a half days -- who doesn't drink that much beer? -- will get you to exactly a ton on the last day of the twentieth year.

If I've done the math right. I got a bit confused half way through.

I don't think I'm drinking enough Bass Ale.  I wandered out to The Man of Kent a couple of weeks ago with my boy Scully and had a few.  I'd forgotten how good Bass Ale is.

This from 1884 ...

It is no extravagant assertion to say that throughout the world there is no name more familiar than that of Bass. A household word amongst Englishmen, it is one of the first words in the vocabulary of foreigners whose knowledge of the English language is of the most rudimentary description. And while the cognomen of the great Burton brewer is of cosmopolitan celebrity, there is no geometrical figure so well known as the vermilion triangle which is the trademark on his bottles. It is as familiar to the eye as Her Majesty’s visage on the postage stamps. It would, indeed, be a difficult task to say in what part of the earth that vivid triangle does not gladden the heart of man. Thackeray contended with great humour that far as the meteor flag of England may have carried the glory of this country, the fame of her bitter beer has gone farther still. The word “Bass” is known in places where such names to conjure with as Beaconsfield, Gladstone, Bright, Tennyson and Dickens would be unintelligible sounds. To what corner of the habitable world has not Bass penetrated? He has circumnavigated the world more completely than Captain Cook. The sign of the vermilion triangle is sure evidence of civilisation. That trade mark has travelled from “China to Peru”, from “Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strand”. There it is in Paris or St Petersburg, Madrid or Moscow, Berlin or Bombay, Brussels or Baalbec, New York or Yokohama, San Francisco or San Stefano, Teheran or Trichinopoly. You meet the refreshing label up among Alpine glaciers. and down in the cafes of the Bosphorus; among the gondolas of the Grand Canal at Venice, the dahabeahs at the first cataract on the Nile, and the junks of China. It has reached the “Great Lone Land”. It has refreshed the mighty hunter camping out in Wyoming, Montana or Dakotah. It sparkles before the camp fire of the Anglo-Saxon adventurer out in the wilds of the Far West, and its happy aroma is grateful to the settler in the Australian bush. When the North Pole is discovered, Bass will be found there, cool and delicious.
I love that last line.  The North Pole was discovered, in the flesh, by Robert Peary in 1909, although some guy named Frederick Cook said he was there in 1908.

Regardless, the whole article -- a screed about how AB-InBev is screwing up one of the oldest and finest beers in history, is here.

The Best Office I Ever Had ...

... was in a townhouse on East 64th, half a block from Madison, directly across from the Plaza Athénée.  Let me tell you, it was a swell neighborhood.

My office was on the second floor and had two very tall windows looking out at 64th St, twelve foot ceilings, crown molding, and a fireplace.  Every once in a while, the upstairs tenants would clump past my window on their way up the wrought iron stairs to their front door.  Sometimes they would look in and stare at me.  I'd stare back.

It looked something like this...

That's me in the window.  That was back when people wore ties to work, and slicked their hair back like Pat Riley.  I ate at the Post House, a high-end steak house on 63rd next to Mike Bloomberg's house, so many times they gave me (as they did all their regulars at some point) a plaque with my name on it.  Plus some really nice steak knives every Christmas.  Those were the days when pharma-dollars flowed like Prosecco at an Italian wedding.

Carolina Herrara, the famous designer, was the upstairs tenant.  She, actually, was quite pleasant.  Her husband -- Renaldo, maybe -- was a douche-bag.  Which, honestly, is such an unpleasant word.  But he was.  He used to come downstairs and argue with Dawn and Eve, the two secretaries, about the thermostat.  You would think rich people would have their own thermostats.  Very odd.

Anyway, Ms. Herrera has always fascinated me.  So I got a kick out of watching a video about her in The Times today.  An artifact no doubt related to the now-finished Fashion Week.  We should all look as good, at 76, as Carolina does.  And I don't care how many facials and whatever she gets.  Plus, I love that Warhol of her.

My favorite part is when, in the build-up to the show, the model walks into the room and everybody starts yakking about the dress and don't even pay the slightest attention to her.  I bet, as a runway model, as you stand there, which is part of the job, you get, during the course of your career, a ringside seat to some of the best knock-down, drag-out screaming matches ever.  The gnashing of teeth, the throwing of shoes, the sobbing, the mascara running ... and that's just the men.

For Fashion Week I once painted that woman from Vogue -- Anna Wintour -- and set it up near the tents for annotation.  It was a terrible painting, honestly.  So bad, in fact, that I'm not even going to post it here.  Nonetheless, a couple of weeks later New York Magazine called me up and wanted to know how many annotations were on it.  Exactly.  They were doing some spread that might have been titled "Fashion by the numbers" and wanted to put the painting in it.

I told the person that I would send her a high-res image of the painting and that if she wanted to know exactly how many there were she could count them herself.  Maybe I should have counted them for her because I ended up on the cutting room floor.

Probably all for the best.  The painting was horrible.

Things Fall Apart

I refer, of course, not to the famous novel by Chinua Achebe but rather to the New York Jets Football Team.  Up by 18 in the first half, lose by seven.  The line was, I believe, six and a half.  Gaaaah!  I am particularly cross with Muhammad Wilkerson, some might argue the Jets best defensive player, for getting ejected from the game for fighting.  Stupid, annoying and counterproductive.

I am certainly not referring to the New York Giants Football Team.  Because for things to fall apart they must first be together in some sense of the word.  And although there were glimmers of togetherness in the Giants game, to call them together would be an overestimation of the team.

I like Tom Coughlin, and I am deeply grateful for two Super Bowl wins (over, no less, the Patriots), but slowly and steadily I'll be working on the obituary of his coaching tenure with the Giants so that it's ready when I need it.  Given the nature of Blue Management it seems unlikely it will come in the middle of the season, so I have time.

The Giants, at 0-2, have less time if they're going to make themselves relevant this year.  Which, of course, they are not.  So really they have all the time in the world.

Which is a luxury.  I'm going to be 61 soon, and I figure I've got fifteen or, at most, twenty solid years left in me, then some degree of sitting around waiting for Godot, possibly drooling while doing so.

But let's think positive thoughts, friends.  Twenty years is a lot of paintings and a ton of beer.  So with that in mind I decided to open up my canned pickles and eat one or more of them, depending on taste and texture, before they develop botulism.  Or before I develop botulism -- I don't think the pickles get the disease; I think they breed the bacteria.

Anyway, the pickle I ate was terrible.  So yesterday I purged my refrigerator of any pickles not named Vlasic.  In my zeal I almost threw Mr. Pickles out but then thought better of it.

This is the summer's cache of pickles, cat free, on the way to the garbage.  Very sad ...

Sunday, September 14, 2014

The Artist Formerly Known as Colin Kaepernick ...

I'm in love with taking pictures from my television screen and slapping them up on The Year of Magical Painting.  Exhibit A:  Check out my girl Erin Burnett interviewing Colin Kaepernick, the 49ers quarterback ...

You could do this back in the old days, but the images would be crappy.  Hi-def television is really quite amazing.  But that's not the point.  The point is how about that little dipsy-doodle carved in the side of Kaepernick's hair?

Outstanding.  Totally channelling Prince.  I wish the man well.

If I don't blow my own horn, who will?

You may remember this line from the post titled Weed In The Workplace ...

There are so many things in the world that are fucked up.  My job, as I see it, is to help fix them by mentioning them on The Year of Magical Painting.  It is in this way that I make the world a better place.

And this bit of business from I Gather All The News I Need On The Weather Reports ...

Me?  I gather all the news I need on ESPN.  Which, let me tell you, is a slippery slope.  Nonetheless, Exhibit A ...

This, my friends, is a scary dude.  Turn that black paint into white and he's Uruk-hai.  Which, as noted moments earlier, is some scary shit.  Buttressing my point, his nickname is The Kraken, which actually sounds kind of Orc-y.

It's Greg Hardy of the Carolina Panthers.  What makes him newsworthy is that he's been convicted of assaulting his pregnant fiancee.  And threatening to kill her.  Convicted.  I'm all good with the innocent until proven guilty business, but this guy's been proven guilty.  Just because you're appealing a case doesn't mean you are considered not-guilty anymore.  Just the opposite, in fact.

Yet Carolina's suiting the guy up because, hey, quality defensive ends don't grow on trees.

I thought the Uruk-hai reference was pretty strong.  But that's not the point.  The point is that the news out of Panther headquarters is that Mr. Hardy won't be suiting up this week.  You, my dear friends, the Magical Painting Nation, have spoken!  Plus some other people, I'm guessing.

For that I am both proud and humbled.

Proud, certainly.

Update:  This from the Department of Corrections -- which sounds like jail but Here at the Year, we being euphemism-free, is merely the Department of Corrections.  I don't think Greg Hardy's fiancee is pregnant.  That is some other NFL guy currently awaiting trial.

If you have an extra hundred bucks or so ...

Here's what I would like you to do with it:

First, take about fifteen bucks and buy James Dolan's band's new album.  The band is called JD & the Straight Shot.  The album is called "Where I've Been."  It's not out yet, but it's coming sometime this month.

Next, take the rest of the money and if the band is appearing anywhere near you in the next six months or so, please buy a ticket.

Why do all this, you're asking?

Well, anything that will keep James Dolan out of Phil Jackson's hair is nothing but good.  Just ask Donnie Walsh.  Second thought, don't, because he'll tell you Dolan promised to stay out of his hair and next thing Walsh knew, Dolan was up in it like Brylcreem.

Just to fire you up, here's the link to a New York Times podcast of their new song "Under the hood."  Which, I can honestly tell you, is horrible.

You say that, but Dolan's band must be pretty good.  They're opening for the Eagles at Madison Square Garden.
You realize that Dolan owns the Garden?  Actually owns it?
Hmmm.  So you're saying it's easier to open for the Eagles if you own the building?
Considerably.  Have you listened to that song yet?
Just did.
It made me weep.  It made me want to push sharp objects into my ears.  
That's what I'm saying.  If the guy can't even play a serviceable white-guy's version of the Delta blues, how's he supposed to run the Knicks?
Roy Buchanan he's not.
No he isn't.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

The Search for the Snow Leopard

I saw the cat named JohnConnor for the first time the other night.  Hopped up on the bed, let me scratch his little belly.  In the darkness he looked a little like this ...

Less hair, but still.

But now I haven't seen him for going on two days.  I thought the hopping on the bed thing was the start of a real relationship.

Maybe it's all a dream.

Maybe he's just not that into you.
Oh God.  I've turned into a self-help book.

Weed in the Workplace

There are so many things in the world that are fucked up.  My job, as I see it, is to help fix them by mentioning them on The Year of Magical Painting.  It is in this way that I make the world a better place.

You're welcome.

Exhibit A for today is journalism.  The New York Times, in its majesty, writes this about the newly revised drug agreement between the NFL and its players' union ...

Players will now have to be found with 35 nanograms of tetrahydrocannabinol per milliliter in their urine for a positive test, compared with the previous limit of 15 nanograms of THC per milliliter. 

Honestly, what does that even mean?  Did nobody at the editor's desk, the way they surely would have back in the day my Grandfather was a Timesman, say something like, "Honestly, what does that even mean?"?

Two question marks?
I wasn't sure what to do.

The point being, in addition to telling its readers about limits of THC in urine, a better journalist would have explained what that means in layman's terms.  Send the Times stringer in Colorado out to buy a joint of moderately powerful dope, smoke it, then have his urine tested.  Then have his urine tested three days later.  Then tell us about it.

Honestly.  Were I an NFL player I'd like to know exactly how much weed I can smoke before the game.

Exhibit B would of course be the motherfuckers who run companies like Verizon or Time Warner and expect us to make financial decisions based on how many megabytes of data we plan to use every month.  As if that's meaningful to the average person on any level.

Friday, September 12, 2014

And finally, this ...

From the Attention-Must-Be-Paid category, today is the 30th anniversary of the Chicago Bulls signing of Michael Jordan.  I never thought he was going to be that good.

I gather all the news I need on the weather report.

I was going to title this something like "Could the NFL be any more fucked up?"  But I didn't because I wanted to throw a little attention to Simon & Garfunkel, since nobody buys their albums anymore.  Besides, who doesn't like that famous line by Paul Simon in a song he wrote about him breaking up with Artie?

Me?  I gather all the news I need on ESPN.  Which, let me tell you, is a slippery slope.  Nonetheless, Exhibit A ...

This, my friends, is a scary dude.  Turn that black paint into white and he's Uruk-hai.  Which, as noted moments earlier, is some scary shit.  Buttressing my point, his nickname is The Kraken, which actually sounds kind of Orc-y.

It's Greg Hardy of the Carolina Panthers.  What makes him newsworthy is that he's been convicted of assaulting his pregnant fiancee.  And threatening to kill her.  Convicted.  I'm all good with the innocent until proven guilty business, but this guy's been proven guilty.  Just because you're appealing a case doesn't mean you are considered not-guilty anymore.  Just the opposite, in fact.

Yet Carolina's suiting the guy up because, hey, quality defensive ends don't grow on trees.

But in addition to it being terrible for all the correct reasons, I'd also ask doesn't anybody at the Panthers front office turn on the television?  Read a newspaper?  Because in addition to being terrible, it also looks terrible.

I only mention this by way of saying that sometimes things can actually be terrible but look pretty good.  Rick Perry's a nice looking man.  There was a time I was drawn to Michelle Bachman in ways I'm not comfortably admitting on a public blog.  Likewise the Grizzly Mama.

Is there any way to delete that last paragraph?

No.  Here At The Year, once it's down on paper, it's down.

Here are the full lyrics ...

Tom, get your plane right on time.
I know your part'll go fine.
Fly down to Mexico.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-n-da-da and here I am,
The only living boy in New York.

I get the news I need on the weather report.
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da here I am
The only living boy in New York

Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,
And we don't know where.

Here I am..........

Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,
And we don't know where.

Tom, get your plane right on time.
I know you've been eager to fly now.
Hey let your honesty shine, shine, shine now 
Like it shines on me
The only living boy in New York,
The only living boy in New York.

Michele Malkin actually used to be kind of hot until anger, spleen, bile, venom and what one can only describe as a general malevolence actually consumed her from within.  Actually consumed her from within.  I haven't seen her lately but I'm guessing that after you've been consumed from within you look like a dried plum.

Oh Jesus, let's not get started on the dried plums.
Okay.   We'll save it for another day.

Day For Night

Who doesn't like Francois Trufaut?

Anyway, life at my house now exists in two phases:  the daytime, and adjacent portions of the night in which I'm awake, and the nighttime when JohnConnor, the Mousassin, roams the halls on tiny feet.

We never see eachother, but every morning I wake up, go down, spoon out the little bits of shit and clumped kitty litter that he leaves for me, refill the food and water dishes and that's that.  Cat ownership.  Very satisfying.   I'm reminded of the war in Vietnam.

I see what you did there.
The reference to French New Wave cinema.
What about it?
My theory is that you always follow a post about video games with something obscure, but not too obscure because, let's be frank, these people are Philistines, in order to show that yours is, in fact, a first-rate mind.  As opposed to, say, that of an arrested adolescent.
Interesting.  Two thoughts:  First, what makes you think I give a shit about what people reading this blog think about me?  Second, I'm going to push publish now because Axl's singing Paradise City and I don't want to miss it.
A classic.
Totally.  Take me down where the girls are pretty and all that.

Mass Effect

A funny thing happened the other day.  I was reading something about something and Guns 'n' Roses came up.  You may remember my chronological review of the time I went to see Mr. Brownstone, the GnR cover band at the Bowery Ballroom and came away thinking it was one of the best concerts of the year.  Top twenty of my life.

So I started thinking about the band -- which, truth be told, I didn't really care for -- then went on Rdio, my music streaming service, and took a look at their albums.  Use Your Illusion, One and Two, Appetite for Destruction, etc.  And I said to myself maybe I should just listen to every original Guns 'n' Roses album ever -- there aren't that many -- just to kind of fill in the experiential hole.

Then I decided that was a stupid idea.  I mean, if I'm gonna do something like that I'd probably be better off aiming a little higher and listening to every Metallica album instead.  So I shelved the whole idea, went Down to the River and purchased, for barely more than an afternoon of Bud Lights and Jack Daniels at my favorite bar might cost me, namely twenty bucks, the Mass Effect trilogy.  Which, if you're not in the loop, is a trio of video games.

IGN, the gaming website, writes ...

It is ... perhaps the most interesting and engaging story ever told in gaming.

I don't usually skew towards space opera, but how do you say no to that?  I am boldly going where no man has gone before (except, of course, the several million teenagers and slackers that have played Mass Effect before me).  Plus, I got used to shooting things with massive weapons playing Wolfenstein.  So I'm good to go.

The UPS guy dropped it off today.  To get myself fired up I'm listening to Welcome to the Jungle.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Green Rims, Very Nice

I want you to tune into ESPN2 tomorrow at 5pm, or any weekday at that same time, and check out my boy Keith Olbermann's glasses.  Very nice ...

Here's the man in full rant, which I think is his best quality.  One hears repeated suggestions that he's an annoying, frustrating man to work with.  A maniac some might say.  Others might use the word asshole.  Regardless, I'm of the opinion that when he takes the bit in his teeth and runs with it, he's one of the most compelling broadcasters on television.

Of course, if you've met a sampling of my friends you'd know I have a high tolerance for rascals, jerks and knuckleheads.  But hey, I'm a Buddhist.  That's how we roll.

No you're not.
A Buddhist.
No.  But I'd like to be.
Well you're not.  Stop telling people you are.
Maybe it's like my boy Marcel Duchamp who famously said that art is whatever the artist says it is.
So if I say I'm a Buddhist then I am.
Let me get back to you on that.

Regardless, the point of the post is the man's eyeglasses.  I poked through a number of photos but couldn't find one that adequately illustrated what is going on.  That being that the inside rims of his glasses, plus the nose pieces, plus perhaps some trim across the top are a beautiful Coke-bottle green.  The effect is subtly dazzling, not unlike myself, but you have to watch it on TV for the magic to really work.

Honestly, the more I look at them the more I want to buy a pair.

Here's another beautiful thing that features green trim, although here it's more of a mint green ...

I mean, the car is basically silver.  But it's the green, which is so minty it's almost blue, that makes it really pop.

[Truth in blogging:  This is not the current version of a Silver Arrow.  It's actually a 2011 car, but that's not important in this situation]

Twin Towers

A photo of the Twin Towers by my friend Steve Lindner ...

It's easy to forget, isn't it?  I always thought the ground level environment around the World Trade Center was sterile and unpleasant.  But they really did something for the skyline.


It should be noted that today is September 11th.  And attention should be paid.

The Legal System as per Johnny Cochran

How about that Oscar Pistorius getting acquitted?

Okay, it's the middle of the night.  You wake up and notice your girlfriend is not in the bed.  You hear some noise in the bathroom, immediately decide that it's burglars, pull out your Glock and start blazing away through the door.  Once your magazine is spent you shout, "Honey, I got 'em," assuming she's downstairs either having a glass of orange juice or talking to the other burglars.  Turns out, not so much.

Me?  I might have shouted something like "Honey, is that you in the bathroom?" before I started busting caps.

Furthermore, what kind of burglar hides in the bathroom?

All that aside, one can't ignore one of the most basic tenets of the Rule of Law:  if the glove don't fit, acquit.