The Seven Wonders of the World

Junior high school students in Chicago were studying the Seven Wonders of the World. At the end of the lesson, the students were asked to list what they considered to be the Seven Wonders of the World. Though there was some disagreement, the following received the most votes:

1. Egypt’s Great Pyramids
2. The Taj Mahal in India
3. The Grand Canyon in Arizona
4. The Panama Canal
5. The Empire State Building
6. St. Peter’s Basilica
7. China’s Great Wall

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student, a quiet girl, hadn’t turned in her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The quiet girl replied, “Yes, a little. I couldn’t quite make up my mind because there were so many.” The teacher said, “Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help.”

The girl hesitated, then read, “I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:

1. to touch…
2. to taste…
3. to see…
4. to hear… (She hesitated a little, and then added…)
5. to feel…
6. to laugh…
7. and to love.

The room was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.

Then all at once, the students began gagging and vomiting, flooding the floor with a tsunami of lunch meat.

After the regurgitation subsided, the teacher told her, "No, that's wrong. You've entirely omitted the sense of smell" and awarded her an F for the quarter.

And she never spoke up and bothered anyone again.

Mike and I saw Kathy yesterday, and she looks good. Some expected pain, naturally, but while she's not ready to run any marathons, she's able to get up and move around the room. Drop her an e-mail or comment at semibold!

Kathy is fine and in her room. She sounded groggy and said there was pain, of course, but it was bearable. Basically, she feels like she just had surgery. The docs say everything looks good and she looks healthy. She sat up and they're going to try walking down the hall this afternoon.

More info as this develops.

So, I figured I should give one. semibold's mother called us and spoke to Mike. The surgery went well after about two to three hours, and she was put in the recovery room earlier this evening. No new news yet, but she said Kath's doing fine. We'll probably visit her tomorrow or Sunday. Before going in she asked me to bring reading materials, particularly Watchmen. I look forward to bringing them to her.

More updates as I hear them.

(Apologies for the none-too-good photos. No flash photography allowed at the museum.)



I've been meaning to blog about the James Castle exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute. It's been two weeks since I saw it for the first time, but I've been back twice to reassess it (family membership at the museum is worth it if you work down the street). You should see it; really, you should. I wouldn't go with overly high expectations, unless you already have a hard-won appreciation for so-called outsider art. Otherwise you may, justifiably, wonder what all the hubbub is about over strung together scrap paper, scrawled upon and reapportioned by a deaf/quasi-mute/possibly retarded/more likely autistic Idahoan.

James Castle, from the little I've read about him, resides the artistic sphere occupied by Holy Goofs like Henry Darger or Christopher Smart. By Holy Goofs I mean the generally gently inoffensive loons who create art lacking formal training and that seems a little off. Like off the planet. Far, far off. Not mention off regarding most people's ideas of what is and isn't art.

And God bless the Holy Goofs for it.



Outsiderness does not guarantee great or even good art, but it does offer a pure, unhindered differentness, unimpeded (at least until discovery by the aesthetic opinion leaders) by outside opinion. What's the Charles Mingus quote I'm searching for?:

"Do you understand that poem, Dr. Wallach?"

"Well, Charles, it certainly is a very personal expression."

I assume Dr. Wallach avoided commentary since he was Chuck Mingus' therapist. He didn't want to put thoughts into Mingus' head, or notions about whether he approved or disapproved of the great bassist/composer's art, music, ethics, or morality. In general, however, I submit that declaring something a "very personal expression" is a gentle cop-out. "What you did, is what it is," says the uncritical critic, afraid to comment, whether too polite or simply confused. One encourages children this way, but one insults adult artists this way.

Yet, perhaps the two can come together. James Castle's art is a very personal expression. Absolutely withdrawn and uncommunicative as he was, it could be called the ultimate very personal expression. What he did was what it was, and thus resists easy definition. Castle didn't necessarily know better, lending his art more heft than if he was a suburban hausfrau taking Art 101 at night school.



The very personal expression is often dismissed because it is unidentified, unknown, uncommon, and thus unloved because it carries no identifying marks, it lacks a familiar and comfortable scent. It does not meet with the prescriptions of what is "art," and is easily, often justifiably, ignored. But when you encounter a holy goof, especially a prolific one, we give pause and ponder the worth of their output with more charity and patience. It is, after all, a very personal expression, with the extra grace of being unpowered by ego. Also, while it may not be "good" there's usually an awful lot of it, and many, little things—even badly rendered pieces— can come together to create an awesome and overwhelming effect. One of the most interesting observations on Warhol's work I've heard is that is you multiply the ordinary, it becomes out of the ordinary, even bizarre. James Castle's work is hardly ordinary, so what happens when you mass it together in a few galleries at the Art Institute of Chicago? Oddness abounds.

I can't say I think much of Castle's constructions. A few work. His dolls are winsome and charming, and weird and creepy by turns. It's interesting that such a thing isn't "art" if it's created by a little girl, but it is if a child-man creates it. The freestanding cardboard whatsit that greets you as you enter the gallery, on the other hand, simply looks like trash, or bad hobo art. From what I gather, however, this is the sort of stark, spare piece that makes the critics and aficionados ooh and ah.



I mean, really.

What appealed to me were the many mini-books Castle cranked out, and the man's obsession with typography. He painstakingly reproduced letters and combinations of letters through his favorite, if distasteful, medium, soot and saliva, with no apparent interest in or knowledge about what they meant. We could pretend that Castle pictured himself as a latter-day necromancer, inscribing little spellbooks with mysterious glyphs meaning... what?





Castle's work reminds me of a English -as-a-third-language version of the Voynich Manuscript. Some have suggested that the Voynich Manuscript may be nothing more than a work of outsider art—spontaneous bibble-babble created by a fool or a prankster. Even so, at the time of transcription, for Castle and the Voynich Manuscript's creator, there was a moment of decision to render this character or that glyph. Castle may not have known what the words on a page said, but that didn't mean they didn't hold power for him, however transiently. Spellbook/spelling book, Castle's books carry multitudes of beautifully meaningless un-words. Exploded telephone books and Ouija boards shaken like Etch-a-Sketches, until the mystifying oracle within became too addled to keep its letters and numbers in order.

Good-bye?

Yes?

No?

JE J& JZ JX JH JK P!D?

Reply hazy, try again.





Lastly, we have Castle the cartoonist. I don't think the world lost another Winsor McCay or Dan Clowes, but it's interesting stuff. Like a mishmosh of Ben Katchor, Edward Hopper, and Buck Rogers. Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot, but not before being greatly confused. When we see panels of illustration we seek a storyline even though, in Castle's case, we know this is quite impossible. Behold my pitiful attempt.



A man and his son(?) view the sea from the rail of a pier or a ship. Cut to a scene of a house, followed by a close-up on individuals chatting away on the front porch. Behold a witch comes. it is at this moment that Castle's Crazy Cartoons attempt to outdo Finnegans Wake for purest mindfuckery. How the cyclopean robot comes into play, I know not. Best to leave it alone, especially since, you will recall, Castle's main media were carbon and enzymes.

Spitting images, as it were.

More here.

Cincinnati Five-Way Chili

A tasty if mild chili with some interesting variations on the southwestern style. First time I ever used baker's chocolate in a chili recipe, and I'm shocked I never considered barbecue sauce before. But dammit, it works. Plenty of interesting seasonings, like coriander, cardamom, and allspice; and laid on a bed of spaghetti, and covered with red beans, raw onions, and cheese. God DAMN it was good.

From Chili Nation, which I recommend for any culinary library.

Browning the meat with the onions. Always a good idea.



Adding the spice mix to the meat, onions, and barbecue sauce. What an aroma.



The final dish. Oyster crackers on the side. Went down smoothly.

Paying homage to Mike Sterling's Progressive Ruin Presents... The End of Civilization series (Mike reviews and roundly mocks the most fanboyish of fanboy trinkets and devices from Previews The Comic Shop Catalog), I felt obligated to create the following when the Creative Irish Gifts catalog showed up in our mailbox. Some might call this plastic Paddyism. I suggest that there may be a more fake material than plastic that better symbolizes this crap. And don't get me started on the nonsensical inclusion of several "Scottish" items. Irish, Scottish... who can tell the difference, right? Ah, you Celts all look the same.



Fresh from walking the streets of Bannockburn, Scuttish/sluttish Barbie brings all the lads to the moors with her bagpipes, wee plaid skirt, and CFM tam-o-shanter.





Bring out the tangy, smoke-flavored soul of your lamb and potatoes, just like they do in Donegal, Ireland. Yeah, sure. Some use mesquite, others use charcoal, and still others hardwood. I've always barbecued with peat myself. Mmmmm, peat-meat.





Speaking of peat. I don't really know what the stuff smells like, but I'm trying to imagine the wisdom of filling your living space with the scent of smoldering rotted and compressed vegetation. I mean, what could be stupider?





Oh.





Hang it on the wall near your Mammy cookie jar.





And somewhere in a small country village, an Irishman is shoveling dirt from his compost pile into little bags, and laughing himself sick.





Because nothing says Irish pride like a stoned hippie jam band. I guess Garcia was part-Irish, so.. Nah... I can't see it.





"It will also be a hit at parties and parades."

I think we go to different parties and parades.





I seem to remember hearing a similar phrase somewhere. Where was it...?



Oh, right...







He: "But, honey... They're smaller and quieter than a full-sized bagpipe."

She: "I want a divorce. Now."



Finally, BEHOLD THE TRUE END OF IRISH CIVILIZATION:



Then again, maybe she's a druid high priestess. A snuggly-warm druid high priestess.

I'm watching a friend's apartment while she's out of town (I'm not mentioning her name because I don't feel like advertising "Hey! Crooks! She's not there!"). Last night, after checking to make sure her kitties had food and water and had failed to poop on the furniture in protest (non-cat owners, this really happens), I came across a photo album she'd left out in the open (so, it's not snooping, so, shut up, you) and decided to flip through it. As expected, there were photos from the early 90s, showing my friend, me, and the circle of folks we hung out with back then.

I have plenty of photos of myself from all stages of my life, but familiarity has made them seem unremarkable. I see the flaws: the extra chin fat, the droopy eye, the pock mark left over from a childhood bout with chicken pox, the poor grooming, the uninspired wardrobe, the far-too-large genitals. The usual.

But at 42 there's something about seeing a squirreled-away photo of the twenty-something you you don't remember being taken. A moment of "Who the hell is that?" and the shivering suggestion there's a young clone of yourself wandering about, wearing dated clothing, hanging out in strange places, and glomming onto girls who aren't your wife. Dude's got some nerve.

Especially funny is when you find yourself hating young you a little bit. When I see younger pictures of myself, I quickly judge the guy as a skinny dork who used too much hair product and was obviously, painfully concerned about how people perceived him. He had unimaginative taste in clothes, and a shifty, hunted look in his eye. That's hunted not haunted, by the way. Like he was always afraid someone was about to hit him over the head with a club. Stark, staring, but not mad--just wary. Sometimes he had good reason; mostly he didn't.

On the other hand, he seems to be enjoying himself. He appears comfortable with the people around him. Hard to believe so many of them dropped away in the coming years. The shows, apartments, stores, and restaurants he's in are zeitgeists for their era, stirring up nostalgic squishiness or roiling revulsion inside my heart's heart. The lad is easing into adulthood without giving up too much control—and that's fine by him. Sort of. Sometimes he looks like he wants to bolt. Find some weirdness. Get dirty. Squirm. Yet, he knows he's content. He can't complain.

A part of old me wants to pull up a chair beside him; ignore the pop-eyed looks his friends give me when a fatty, wrinkly, greyer old shoe version of him sits down beside him; and start pointing. "See that guy? Total asshole. Dump him NOW. Her? She's cool. She'll be your son's godmother. That woman? She'll shred your heart." Then I poke him in the chest, hard. "But don't think you're so special or blameless, chum. Behind the scenes you were occasionally the perfect shit. You were more than a little nuts too. I'm just telling you to be a little more aware of your surroundings. Maybe consider that your actions/his actions/her actions are already mingling to make a poison soup of your life for a few years. But, hey, don't think your life is so awful. You had it better than a lot of folks. Always have. That's not just the Catholicism talking either, sonny. Okay, calm down. You'll meet an adorable little Danish chick and make a terrific kid. Feel better? Okay, I gotta go. No more spoilers."

The grief rests in the fact that I would have listened to myself, without surprise or doubts. Most of my life I've had an agreement with all my future selves to—should time travel become possible—zoom back and tip off the rest of us. Maybe, just maybe, 99-year-old Dan has been working behind the scenes to keep our life interesting, but not boring. Certainly, I have few complaints about this life of mine, and I'd never trade it in.

"A book contract would be nice though. Get to it, 99-Year-Old Dan."

"You have to finish a book first, you lazy shit," 99-year-old Dan wheeze-whispers in my ear. "Just for that. No stock tips."


* Please do not reassure me about my attractiveness. I know that I am actually as beautiful as a young blond ballerina twirling about in a sun-dappled field with gardenias in my hair. It's true. Also, I have the firmest ass this side of Bruce Lee. With gardenias in its hair.

Found this again while cleaning the basement. In short, it's an early (1940s/50s) vibrator, though I'm pretty sure I'd never want this steampunk monster near my boys. I'll be scanning the other manual very soon.

( What especially makes this for me is that the box model looks like Race Bannon )

"And then Christopher Robin found Pooh, engorged on honey and trapped--enTOMBED really--in the hole to Rabbit's hutch. Heavens, whatever will Rabbit do when his carrots run out? Meanwhile Eeyore remains enSORcelled in the depths of desPAIR, slowly pricked by the thistle bushes and left ALL ALONE. Oh look! Tigger has pounced upon Roo with a wild look in his eye! Is there no escape from this frighteningly positive creature of the jungle? Wait, why are you crying, little one?"

(Inspired by a Facebook post by Kerry R.!)

Through my friendships, I'm glad Nate has a circle of men to look up to who balance creativity with traditional masculinity. Seriously. Dave edits an arts and culture mag and spends the odd weekend mending fences, toting bales, and such at a farm up in Wisconsin. Eric is an assemblage artist who has a knack for the industrial/shop arts. Grandpa Dan (Mike's dad), plays jazz piano and composes, but he's also good around the garden, a great handyman, and a helluva barbecuer. Uncle Seth is a schoolmarm... I mean teacher, but the man's got street smarts—he boxes and dances salsa, and can tell you the best place to get Cuban food at 3 a.m. Pat draws and plays guitar, but is an outdoorsy sort of guy from Maine, where they're born in the woodlands wearing flannel and field jackets. And dear old Dad (me)? Why, I'm a writer and a self-taught (soon to be taught) carpenter with a voracious appetite for how stuff works. Also, I shot a man in Toronto just to see him cry.

Now, when I say masculinity, I don't mean machismo. I mean being a guy who you can rely on to get shit done. And by "get shit done" I don't mean strictly being able to wield a socket wrench. I mean being tough and dependable, yet not afraid of a little self-expression via the creative arts. My friends are good men to a man. I like that my son can look up to guys with a hammer in one hand and a vial of glitter in the other.

My main quibbles with this are (1) what on my Facebook page made this ad appear? I infrequently write about super-bulletproof, ball-producing paper, and (2) what exactly do you use this stuff for and how is it made? Is it created by the husband of the teeth-whitening housewife in their basement? And what are their kids cobbling together in R&D?

My poor Epiphone Strat copy (I think), which semibold gave to me, had a small accident while we cleaned the basement. Sigh. Thank God it wasn't my Martin. On the plus side... New guitar restoration project!

( When I was John Linnell )

Kathy! Don't tell! You are allowed to comment with an "AGGGGH!" if you wish.

I really don't think I'm doing the Horrorshow again this year. I don't feel comfortable sticking Mike with Nate for 24 hours. Next year though for sure.

And the flicks on this soundtrack should probably be on the schedule.



I imagine a Kinski horror flick proceeding this way: A monster comes to a small village. But then Klaus Kinski falls from the sky, naked and masturbating, and screams at the beast until it dies in the unrelenting heat of the German actor's intensity.

Boy, I remember when you couldn't tear me away from my LJ.