Tuesday, December 30, 2008

East Austin Studio Tour

The following images were taken with my camera phone...I'm having lots of fun with it!



Saturday, November 22, 2008

MyPhone

I've been experimenting with taking photographs with my new iPhone. Since it has no zoom lens, no exposure control and no flash, it's been a great exercise in getting back to the basics of photography...seeing and composing.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Felonious Monk

Last night I went out for Thai food with my good buddy Steve. We became friends about a year and a half ago when I signed up for a sculpture class he was teaching. Not only is he a great instructor, but we immediately hit it off and soon became as thick as thieves.

A few weeks later, I had Steve over for dinner and we stayed up 'til 2 in the morning, covering every topic from art to Aristotle, our philosophical fire fueled by a copious quantity of red wine. Steve's one of the smartest guys I've ever met, extremely well-read, a world traveler, constantly curious, and has lots of tall tales to tell.

As I walked him to his car at the end of the evening, I hugged Steve goodnight, and in my somewhat altered state, I wasn't sure if our unshaven faces had simply brushed against each other, or if he had kissed me. I sometimes kiss my guy friends on the cheek, so I instinctively kissed him back.

But as he drove off, I had this sinking feeling that he HADN'T kissed me, and had misinterpreted my spontaneous display of affection. I sent him an e-mail the next day to tell him what a great time I'd had, but received no response, which confirmed my worst fears. Several days went by, and the next time I saw him, I felt kinda sheepish. He was with a mutual friend who asked if we knew each other. In response, Steve came over and gave me a bear hug and a big smooch on the cheek and said "Yeah, we kissed for the first time last week." You gotta love a guy like that.

Last summer, when Steve was relocating his studio from one side of town to the other, he needed a place to stay while he finished out his new digs, so I offered him my spare bedroom. Far from being altruistic, my motives were completely self-serving...underneath my seeming benevolence was a desire to hang out with this fascinating character. I've lived alone for more than 20 years, and Steve ended up staying for several weeks. Unlike most house guests, however, the longer he stayed, the more I didn't want him to leave. We grew really close during that time together, and I now consider Steve one of my dearest friends.

He's an extremely talented and prolific sculptor, constantly reinventing his style and exploring new materials...he's currently creating the most amazing sculptures from discarded car windshields! His prowess as an artist is exceeded only by his humility. He's generous to a fault, a riveting raconteur and an all around good guy.

I was delighted to be invited to a recent surprise party for Steve's 65th birthday. I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when he walked into a room filled with his friends and fans. The walls were covered with several years' worth of self-portraits, secretly stolen from under his bed by his girlfriend, who organized the shindig.

All of the drawings bore the same 7 digit number, Steve's primary form of identification during his 16 year incarceration. Originally sentenced to life without parole, Steve spent most of his time in prison at a federal correctional facility ironically named Terminal Island. Never one to give up hope or his perennial equanimity, Steve continued to read, to learn, to evolve as an artist, and to fight for his eventual release. Last night we celebrated his fourth year of freedom.

I consider it a privilege to call Steve my friend. He recently reprimanded me for failing to call him for help when I had to change a flat tire in the rain. I'd take a bullet for that guy. And I know he would for me.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Your Test Results Are Back...You've Got Sisyphus

In my previous blog entry, I made reference to the Greek legend of Sisyphus. In my search online for an illustration of the intrepid boulder-roller, I ran across a remarkable number of variations on the theme...here are a few of my favorites. You can click on the images to make them larger.




Monday, October 13, 2008

Mini Menace


Finding a parking space in downtown Austin on a Saturday night is about as easy as finding a left-handed, albino, Portuguese, agnostic jockey named "Sven". Which I'm looking for, by the way, if you happen to know anyone. I can offer him the lead role in a one-act play I'm working on, coincidentally entitled Mini Menace. And it would help if he could provide financial underwriting. But I'm willing to compromise on that.

I have a secret parking space in an undisclosed alleyway that is so narrow and lined with dumpsters that nobody thinks it's legal to park there. I feel kinda like Batman not being able to reveal the secret location of the Bat Cave. You tell one person, and next thing you know you got traffic backed up all the way to Gotham City.

Anyway, I parked in my secret spot, went to meet my friends, and when I returned at midnight, I discovered that my exit was blocked by a yellow Mini Cooper. The driver of this pesky little roller skate had pulled so close to my rear bumper that I had about 6 inches clearance in front of and behind my vehicle.

Unlike the girly Mini Cooper, my manly Isuzu Trooper has about the same turning radius as a Boeing 747...so I found myself on the horns of a dilemma. And just as I was thinking I'd like to impale the driver of that Mini on the horns of a dilemma, I noticed a girl who works at the restaurant next door taking a smoke break, so I asked her if she'd mind looking out for me while I attempted to get out of this tight spot.

She agreed, and about 2 minutes into my exercise in futility I noticed that she had completely lost interest and was gazing off into the distance. Air-traffic controller is probably not a career option for her. Or anything requiring more than 90 seconds of concentration. By this point I realized that even if I could maneuver out of my parking space, driving forward was not an option due to several dumpsters obstructing the way. Incidentally, "maneuver" is the French word for inching back and forth 27 times while some girl with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth who has agreed to help you is distracted by some distant, shiny object.

So I squeeze back into my parking space and decide to wait. The bars don't close 'til 2 a.m., and who knows how long the knuckle head who drives this Mini is gonna keep me cooped up. I'm 49 years old, but I can lift as much weight as a man twice my age. So, like Sisyphus, who was doomed to roll a boulder up a hill for all eternity, I decided I'd try to push that damn car out of the way.

I've since done a little research and discovered that the weight of an empty Mini Cooper "S" (I think the "S" stands for "Sisyphus") is close to 2700 lbs. And that's not taking into account the gear shift being in "P" which stands for "Pushing will get you absolutely nowhere, sissy".

As I'm standing there trying to summon my telekinetic powers, along comes a posse of 8 burly guys who look like they're on their way to a casting call for the sequel to The Gladiator. What are the chances? Better than my chances of getting out of this parking space by myself, that's for certain.


I figured that with nine of us, we could pick up this annoying thing and move it back a coupla feet. Well actually, the way I envisioned it was the eight of them lifting the car, and myself in more of a supervisory capacity. It's a good thing I wasn't trying to convince them to raise the Stars and Stripes over Iwo Jima ...despite my enthusiasm and encouragement I just could not get these guys to rally 'round the flag. "You guys are a bunch of sissies!" I thought quietly to myself as they walked away.


I was rapidly running out of options, when I was approached by a drunk homeless guy who said he'd direct me out of my tight squeeze in return for a small donation. In the movie version of this long-winded anecdote, his part will be played by Eddie Murphy. As much as I appreciated his generous offer, I wasn't sure that enlisting the help of an intoxicated panhandler was my best bet. It was beginning to look like I might need what little cash I had to catch a cab home.

I was about to throw in the towel, when a massive guy in a tight black T-shirt showed up out of nowhere. Reacting with the cat-like reflexes of Bruce Lee, I instinctively clenched my fists as I curled into the fetal position. Turns out this fellow was the bouncer from a nearby bar who happened to be walking down a dark alley hoping to make a deposit in the Bank of Good Karma.

Before I knew it, this Incredible Hulk had shoved 3 fully loaded dumpsters out of the way, directed me out of my parking space and was blocking traffic so I could pull out of the alley. I offered him my last $10.00, but he wouldn't take it, so I gave him my business card and told him if he ever needed free photos to give me a call.


I thought about leaving a note on the windshield of the offending vehicle, but then it occurred to me that I drive a gas-guzzling SUV that's consuming ever-diminishing natural resources while simultaneously burning a hole in the ozone later.

Besides...I figger I can use all the good karma I can get.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Top Ten...

...words and phrases I wouldn't mind not hearing again.  Ever.
10. Maverick
9. Hockey Mom
8.   Hemorrhoid
7. Troopergate. Since when is "gate" a synonym for "scandal"?
6. A heartbeat away from the Presidency
5. Freddie Mac & Fannie Mae
4. From Wall Street to Main Street
3. Joe Six-Pack
2. Economic Bailout
1. We're having beet casserole for dinner

Friday, October 3, 2008

Strange Signs and Ominous Omens


I saw this sign outside a hospital today. Seriously.

My thoughts were:
a. Is this a clinic where firemen can be surgically attached at the hip in order to be doubly effective?
b. A dating club for fire fighters who want to “hook up” with conjoined twins?
c. A place where firemen can adopt Siamese cats?
d. A space where members of the Firefighters Association are rehearsing an upcoming production of The King And I?
e. A nursing placement agency operating as a front for a mail-order bride service for firemen who want wives from Thailand (this seems unlikely)
f. A fetish/swingers club
g. A psychological experiment to see how many people would inquire at the front desk
h. The word “connection” is misspelled and should actually read “correction”. It’s a clinic for conjoined firefighters who want to go their separate ways.
g. More data needed.

If you know the answer, please contact me.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys


Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold.
Lonestar belt buckles and old faded levis,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll prob'ly just ride away.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornings,
Little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take him.
He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him,
Do things to make you think he's right.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Music & Lyrics by Ed & Patsy Bruce

Click here to see Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys
performed by Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson & Johnny Cash

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Shake It Up


I received a postcard today from my buddy Henry. He's a financial advisor at my bank, which just made international headlines by going belly up...the all-time, world's record, biggest bank bust in history. Not to mention that the NASDAQ dropped more than 700 points this week. At the moment Henry’s doing about as much business as a chimney sweep in Honolulu.

Henry has a smile that can be seen from outer space. Soon after we met, I'd think of reasons to stop by the bank so I could shoot the breeze with Henry. His favorite book is The Pursuit of Happyness. He has an autographed copy on his desk. Whenever I came in, Henry would stop what he was doing, walk over to me, flash that big grin of his and give me a great big ol’ bear hug. Do you get that kind of service at your bank?

Henry is a terrific dad. He asked me to photograph his 12 year old daughter's "jewelry line" so that he could build a website to sell her hand-made creations online. He had a portfolio of the photographs printed so that she could show off her wares. He made arrangements for her to have a "jewelry kiosk" at the convention center when a women's conference came to town. And he struck a deal with her to "pay" him a commission on each sale.

We talked about a lot of things on the phone today, and I told Henry that one of my hobbies is looking for the mystical moments in life…those all-too-rare times when I feel like I’m “in the flow” instead of swimming across the current.

Like when you see a little kid doing something funny and no one else is watching, or the girl at Home Slice Pizza zaps you with a great big smile for no apparent reason, or you're driving in your car with the windows down and your favorite song comes on the radio right when the sun is setting and the sky is that perfect shade of blue...moments that are poignant or moving or inexplicable and that leave you feeling as if there just might be something more to life than meets the eye.


Henry told me that he'd recently had a fight with his wife. They went to bed mad as hell at each other and didn’t speak for a couple of days. Henry wasn’t about to apologize to her, because he didn’t feel like he'd done anything wrong. And then he had an idea.

He remembered that he'd packed away a copy of his wedding vows with the suit he wore 12 years ago when they got married. So he went and put on his wedding suit and read his vows to his wife. That ended their fight…and I added another mystical moment to my collection.

I noticed on the postcard Henry sent me that he had changed his last name from McDonald to Muhammad. When I asked him why the name change, he said “Because I’m pretty sure I’m not Irish”.  I'm pretty sure too...Henry is African-American.

I asked Henry if his new last name meant that he had converted to Islam.  "No," he replied, “I just like to shake things up every once in a while.”

Shake it up, Henry.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Montessori, Mercurochrome & Mohammed

My niece recently started attending a Montessori pre-school.

According to Wikipedia, "The Montessori method is an educational method for children, based on theories of child development originated by Italian educator Maria Montessori (1870-1952) in the late 19th and early 20th centuries."

It goes on to say that Montessori schools provide a calm and peaceful atmosphere for budding young minds to develop using self-directed activities, and that the ideal classroom would give children unfettered access to nature.


On the opposite end of the spectrum, my elementary school was enclosed within a barbed-wire fence, the paint on the walls was lead-based, the ceilings made of asbestos tile and the playground was black asphalt surrounded by a 2 foot deep concrete trench. Any time a kid fell down they required stitches, a skin graft or a lengthy hospitalization.  And a child who was unfortunate enough to stumble into the trench had their leg snapped off at the knee.

Back in those days, when you went to the school nurse (translation: janitor) your wound or stump was always treated with a liberal application of Mercurochrome, a mercury-bromine compound which has been outlawed in the U.S. for years.  The dark, orangey-red liquid would stain your skin for days, a literal Red Badge of Courage. It was later realized that this actually made the detection of any inflammation, indicative of infection, more difficult.


The Straight Dope had this to say in response to a reader inquiring about the stuff we called "monkey blood":
"You're dating yourself, Pops. Few under age 30 have ever heard of this stuff. In 1998, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration declared that Mercurochrome, generically known as merbromin, was "not generally recognized as safe and effective" as an over-the-counter antiseptic and forbade its sale across state lines. A few traditionalists complained: Whaddya mean, not generally recognized as safe? Moms have been daubing it on their kids' owies since the Harding administration!"

It's still used in the steel industry as a dye to detect metal fractures...it's good to know all that carcinogenic red stuff didn't go to waste.

I also have a bunch of mercury fillings in my teeth. But we won't get into that.


As it turns out, one of the dads at the Montessori school owns a Hooters franchise. At all the school functions, which are held outdoors so the children can have unfettered access to nature, he provides free beer and wine. These functions are well-attended by the parents.

So...while the moms and dads get tanked and the kids run amok, there's a big Hooters truck in the parking lot of the Episcopal church which runs the school. The slogan on the Hooters website (so I'm told) is "Tacky Yet Unrefined".  Does anyone else besides me notice that there are two "O's" in both "Hooters" and "Montessori"?  I guess no one in their marketing department thought of the slogan "Hooters & Montessori...What a Great Pair!".


My sister e-mailed me the other day to say she had signed up to provide the refreshments for the upcoming Halloween party. As it turns out, one of my niece's classmates is a kid who's gluten intolerant. Gluten is found in wheat, barley, rye, pasta, bread, crackers and just about everything else on the planet except mercurochrome.

There's also a little boy in the class who's Muslim, so he can't eat pork, which is a key ingredient in pigs-in-a- blanket, ham sandwiches, hot dogs, baloney, SPAM® and bacon...all the stuff you'd instinctively serve at a children's Halloween party.

And then there's the child who is vegan, so he can't eat anything.

I suggested to my sister that she check out the Hooters menu...I think they have gluten-free, vegan buffalo wings.


Please note: I did not take any of the photos which accompany this blog post.  But I did eat a fair amount of SPAM® back in the day.  What does not kill you makes you stronger.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Wannabe Triathlete Completes Grueling Grillathon

Last night at a dinner party, I sat next to a friend who mentioned that she's training for a half marathon and was going for a run this morning.  I confessed that I had really fallen off the exercise wagon and asked if I could join her.

I got home at 11:30 p.m. having consumed several celebratory libations, slept fitfully, then got up at 6:30 a.m. to meet her at sunrise at Town Lake.  We ran a little over 3 miles at a pretty brisk clip...she's 20 years younger than I am and my tongue was hanging out by the time we finished.

Town Lake at Sunrise

Then, on a whim, I drove over to Barton Springs, which is a chilly 68 degrees year round and will make you squeal like you're in the Vienna Boys Choir.  I felt so invigorated that I swam about 1/2 a mile.  At one point I almost bumped into an old guy swimming the opposite direction who shouted at me and splashed water in my face.  My fantasy of competing in the Iron Man suddenly dissolved into a sinking feeling that I was the Tin Man. 

Barton Springs

Afterwards, I met my buddy Jonathan for breakfast.  He's a psychologist by day and a trumpet player by night. His band, The Greatest American Heroes, plays only T.V. theme songs.  It's a vastly under-rated niche.  Jonathan foolishly agreed to help me move a barbecue grill, and in keeping with the fundamental principle of the universe that Nothing is Simple, it got kinda complicated...


You see, I inherited a grill from a friend's boss who died recently, so I decided to give mine to Jonathan in exchange for helping me move it.  A few days earlier, I had called ahead to the U-Haul place that's 2 minutes from my house to make sure they would have a 4' x 8' trailer in stock, which they assured me they would.

You guessed it...they were fresh out.  In fact, the guy behind the counter said they NEVER have them. And when I inquired about renting their one inexpensive truck, he told me it was full of stuff and that the tail lights didn't work.  I'm pretty sure he lives in that truck.  So we drove to another U-Haul place, where we encountered a humorless, scowling woman who spoke in mono-syllables, and her male colleague who had a shaved head covered in tribal tattoos.  From behind, his neck looked like a package of hot dogs.  He should be called U-Scarey!

With trailer in tow, off we went.  Once we picked up my new grill, Jonathan decided to pass his grill along to our mutual friend Tom, who is getting his master's degree in Russian.  Any time you see Tom, he offers you a shot of vodka...a "Stoli moment" as he calls it.  By this point I was feeling invincible, so I had 3 shots...one for each of the grills we were relocating.  And Tom is gonna donate his grill to the Top Drawer Thrift store to complete the "4 grill hand-me-down Circle of Love".  See diagram below. 


My pleasant midday buzz soon turned to nausea and a feeling of general malaise, so I ate some lunch then came home and took a 2 hour nap.  I woke up feeling sore from stem to stern...but it's nice to know at age 49, without having exercised in months, I can still jump out of bed after a late night and do 2/3 of a triathlon and toss back the potato juice like a member of the Politburo.



Friday, September 5, 2008

Inside Abe Lincoln's Nose

Please note: I did NOT take any of the photos which accompany this blog post. I DID, however, paint the portrait of George Washington which is used on the one dollar bill. And the idea for Mount Rushmore was stolen from me. Except it was gonna be the Monkees.
I just received a note in the mail from my college buddy and former room mate Dr. Mark Guy, who is originally from Rapid City, South Dakota...home of Mount Rushmore. As if that weren't enough claim to fame, Mark was also featured in the August 1971 issue of Sports Illustrated as the state wrestling champ in his age group.Typically, Sport Illustrated runs a photo of an athlete on its cover, but this particular issue featured actor Steve McQueen, star of The Great Escape, which includes one of the best movie stunts of all time, in which a U.S. prisoner of war jumps a motorcycle over a 60ft. fence!

Speaking of motorcycles, and claims to fame, here's a photo of Mark's brother Dave at Sturgis Bike Week with Aerosmith lead singer Steven Tyler. That's Dave on the right. But I digress.
He suggested that when I die (Dr. Guy that is, not Steven Tyler) instead of having my ashes scattered at San Solomon Springs in West Texas, I should consider having them snorted up President Lincoln's nose. Incidentally, Dr. Guy is an otorhinolaryngologist, so I feel it's imperative to pay close attention to his recommendations regarding matters of the ears, nose and disposal of human remains.

More importantly, how is it that I'm just now finding out about the suction tubes inside Abe's nostrils? I logged on to the interweb and found this photo of theom in Teddy Roosevelt's forehead. Too bad they didn't include Ben Franklin. Think of the seating capacity inside that massive cranium!
 Or maybe the bills are covered by the admission fee to see "An Evening at Ford's Theater" inside Lincoln's head. Don't miss the "Entry Wound" exhibit in the rear.

It dawned on me that George Washington's head must be where they print the $1 bills. Ever notice how his eyes follow you no matter where you go in South Dakota? Creepy.

 
And Thomas Jefferson's head is where all the $10 bills are printed, as well as those fake copies of the Declaration of Independence you can buy in the gift shop at Independence Hall or on any street corner in Philadelphia.

I wonder if the people who work at Mt. Rushmore get paid in ones or tens.