Will Barnett, Dead at 101

This is a life worth aspiring to.

At least the part about still painting at 100; getting a medal from Obama for something or other; sitting around the old apartment drinking coffee with the little woman like you were 70 or something.

Click here for a slide show from The Times.

What the hell am I going to be doing when I hit the C-note?  The vision flashing through my mind is that I'll be living in my daughter's basement (the basement that she, as an act of love and generosity, has made her husband, the arbitrageur and weekend handyman, transform into a relatively lovely living space for me so I don't have to go to some home but about which I complain continuously in a mean-spirited manner).  If I close my eyes I can see it as clear as day:  I'm sitting in my favorite chair, banging the tip of my cane against the basement ceiling, shouting My diaper's wet! over and over again until somebody comes downstairs.  Ha!  Half the time it's not even wet -- I just want to see if she still loves me.

Brrrrrr.  God help me.

Anyway, back to Barnett:  I like this one...

I like how the subject is slave to the line, not the reverse.  That is to say, I've got this idea about an oval and some rectangles and some straight lines and, by God, I'm gonna fit a woman combing her hair right in there, regardless.

I also like this one.  A lot ...

Who doesn't like a cat?

Adios, Campagnola.

For you completists, I'm listening to an album by a woman named Sera Cahoone.  The album is titled Deer Creek Canyon.  Moody, introspective folk songs.  Acoustic guitar and, every once in a while, a violin.  A pedal steel guitar.  Other stuff too.  It's really lovely.