Touch Me

Last night was ridiculous.  Art party in the gallery on main got entirely out of hand.  I feel as if this video sheds light on the experience, for those of you who weren't there.  Gunther is a prophet.  

More details and stupid stories will be added as I begin to remember them.  

Garden of "I wish I was there right now"

Every once in a while, I will think of a painting that I want to live in. I am a scholar of the Baroque period, (specifically Northern Baroque: Flemish, Dutch and also some French), it happens to be where my tastes are best fulfilled. People say, "Why did you choose Baroque? Why not Renaissance for its clarity, or something more modern, so you can get a job in academia? First off, I scoff at those who speak of "jobs": why the fuck would I be in art history if I were concerned with that? Secondly, I really appreciate modern art, and I have studied philosophy in the past so I am very interested in art theory and aesthetics. But why go to school so long to study something that is SO accessible? Modern art is everywhere, and studying it makes for better leisure, while, in my opinion, Baroque is a far better choice for actual scholarship. But, scholarship does not have shit to do with why I want to live in this painting, so we shall proceed with this discussion.

Peter Paul Rubens' Garden of Love exemplifies all of the attributes of Baroque art that continue to charm and inspire me just to live. Fantastical in nature, this group lounges, dances, and makes music in a garden steeped in classical history. They're moving, but they're not going anywhere. It's frivilous, it's 'just because'. The colors are bright, the people are happy and my number one fantasy is illustrated here: floating cherubs, or Puti figures (I prefer the Italian word, myself).

Can you conceive of how awesome life would be if you had, say, a set of 3 puti at your disposal?! They would listen to whatever you said, admire everything you did, and no matter where you went, you would look angelic and erotically attractive just because you had some naked babies floating around. Personally, I would have them fetch me beers and roll fatties. Whenever you wanted to watch a DVD, you could just take it out of the case and have one of them put it in the player for you. I would also get them to help me do laundry: think of how fast all the clothes would be folded and on hangers! It's almost like your own portable sweatshop, really.

It really sucks that they only exist in art and legend. Maybe we can get together with some scientists, who can genetically engineer babies to be puti for the first 3 years of their life, instead of cryers and shitters. Then I might consider having some! Are Mormon babies puti for the first 3 years of their life, thus explaining their HUGE families? Mormons are mysterious.

Terrorism and the Rise of Depression and Anxiety in Generation Y

Aside from a very long, unproductive lunch break, all day long I have been either helping students write their papers, or trying to figure out how the hell to write my own.  Contained in a miniature study room with no windows to the outside world for hours on end, I drudge through my academic misery only hoping that some sort of anxiety will trigger my 'fight or flight' and help me finish this damn assignment.  Alas, this is unlikely anytime before 11 PM, as I am obviously happily blogging a story about my entrapment, an evocation of some unanticipated anxiety, and finally my release, from that fucking study room.  

In said room, one student and I were discussing feasible arguments for his paper on the prevalent diagnosis of depression and anxiety in young americans.  He was using an article which suggested several possibilities, including sensationalist media, rise in criminal activity and terrorism.  We were discussing the social effects of 9/11, and debating whether or not he felt like it was a good argument.  After all, no one will ever forget 9/11, but is it really something on which we are constantly focused?  Neither of us seemed to think so, and as I was saying something to the effect of, "How often do we actually allow the possibility of a terrorist attack to dictate our actions?" (implying that I thought this idea was bogus), the emergency lights in the building began to pulsate beams of silver light, like a bad remake of 'Saturday Night Fever'.  Frozen by confusion, we sat still in our chairs as over the PA system, a male voice (like that of a pissed-off principle at the end of the day) repeats:

"PLEASE CALMLY, QUIETLY AND QUICKLY EVACUATE THE BUILDING USING THE NEAREST EXIT DOOR.  DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS, AND EVACUATE THE BUILDING, I REPEAT, DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS."  

I (metaphorically) shit myself.  I do not think I have moved that fast since I ran track in college, and definitely not in 3 inch heels.  My heart was beating at an incredible rate, faster than a bunny rabbits, I bet.  (Their hearts beat so freakin' fast, FYI)  It was 22 degrees outside, and I was sweating.  While most people stood near the doors, I walked about thirty feet away from the building and stood by myself, watching the fire trucks drive up on the pedestrian street.  Of course the fat dopey firemen walk in and determine that there is no present danger, probably some bored idiot with a Zippo somewhere.  We all go back inside, and all is well again in the world.  Other than the fact that I needed a bourbon and a xanax.  

This is all after the previously mentioned debate, in which I determined that the idea of terrorism as an influence on anxiety was silliness.  I was obviously wrong.  It is remarkable what you store in your subconscious, and even more so the timing of all the crazy things that happen in our world.

Pontiac Assault

It is never a laughing matter when someone gets hurt in this way.  However I did thoroughly enjoy reading the description of the perp.  See the following message sent via email across campus:  

The University of Cincinnati Police have been advised of an assault that occurred on Calhoun Street near West Clifton.  This incident happened at approximately 3:30 AM on Sunday morning, February 24, 2008.  The complainant states that while he was walking across Calhoun St. a vehicle pulled along side of him and engaged him in conversation.  One occupant of the vehicle suddenly jumped out of the vehicle and punched the complainant in the face.  The suspect did not get a license number but the vehicle is described as a bright orange Pontiac Firebird, believed to be of the 1980's vintage, with 20"wheels.

If you have any information concerning this incident please contact the 

Cincinnati Police at 352-3578, UC Police at 556-1111 or Crime Stoppers

at 352-3040. The UC Police also have a "tip" line to receive information

about criminal activity.

If I was walking down the street, stopped to chitty chat, and randomly got the shit knocked out of my face, I would also certainly make note of those 20" rims on a tricked-out firebird. Does this situation sound odd to you? That's what I thought, and I'll tell you why:  It's highly improbable that this person was a victim of a mere punch in the face. Rather, the extreme color and wicked flair of this ballin' Pontiac was a source of distraction so fierce that the victim was not actually struck in the face, but instead robbed, sodomized and given a mushroom stamp, simultaneously at an unquantifiable speed.  The brut force he experienced to his face which he called a "punch" was in reality a ruthless physical manifestation of the Pontiac's sheer visual power, which completely erased from his memory a physical description of any other persons involved.  This poor, courageous soul was left with only traces of information, in which he has productively used to identify the size of rims to the inch (not 19 but 20 inch rims), and less notably date the model year of this mean machine within a decade.  Yet another example of a classic and ongoing struggle:   In Man versus Pontiac, Pontiac always wins.   

Like I mentioned previously, it is never a joke when someone is seriously injured or attacked, but I felt obliged to convey these truths, as I am a do-gooder, and I do much good, alot, mostly.  

So who wants to be on speakerphone when I dial this in to Crimestoppers?!  

Sexy Chihuahuas

I think we can all agree here that this is one sexy fuckin' dog:  those pouty puppy lips and that sultry stare.  Frankly, I'm a bit jealous.  We're all a bit jealous, really...

Before I met Waffles, I thought Chihuahuas were pretty lame.  Of course I've grown to love her and have even googled chihuahuas a couple times just to coo at their cute pictures.  In the midst of one of these searches, I stumbled upon a sizable piece of chihuahua home decor, that I would only gift to someone that I truly did not like.  

Wait, don't tell me:  You've got one hanging in your family room right now, don't you?!

ABC's "Raisin in the Sun"

I heard this morning that everyone is hyped about Puffy's performance in "Raisin in the Sun" airing February 25th.  My reaction was a little different, as I was slightly offended that they did not even consider Flava Flav for the role.  With a name like "Raisin in the Sun", Flav would be considered a type cast.  Don't forget my girl Lisa's closing line of the Flava Flav roast on Comedy Central.  PDiddy needs to get his ass outta the way and make room from the real raisin... YEAH BOiiii!

"Still Life with Maximus"

Two weeks ago, opportunity came knocking at my door. He was dressed as a geriatric volunteer firefighter, soliciting donations in exchange for a photo shoot and a free 10 X 13 glossy family portrait. As inticing as it was, his timing was pretty horrible. This was early on a friday evening, and I was participating in my end-of-the-week, beginning of friday ritual, which includes smokin' one, getting chinkie-eyed, and ranting about how americans are stupid and Ron Paul is awesome while my ferret, Maximus hops around and makes me laugh. In mid-rant, there was a rapping on my chamber door from the previously mentioned "old dude", which triggered my wig out response. My first thought: DPS. Oh wait, I own property now, shit. Then who is it? I nervously scramble to the door, give the firefighter 20 bucks only because I didn't know what else to do, thank him and bid him farewell. I sit down on my sofa to examine the certificate he gave me for my photo shoot. How was I to use this? I have no family of my own, nor did I really want my pictures taken. I decided that this was obviously a sign of fate, who wanted me to succumb to her and have my ferret's photo taken professional, in a way that would pay homage to such an awkward situation. 

I thought to myself: This could be performance art. I will capture my state-of-being in this portrait, without actually having my picture included at all. What was I doing? Chiefing and talking about the world. Who likes to chief in this world? The Dutch and the Mexicans, of course! Thus, my "Still Life with Maximus" reflects two of the most prominent icons in Dutch and Mexican culture: The 17th century Dutch still life tradition, and the vivid Catholic shrines found in Mexico. 

So today, I took Maximus, along with a bag of objects which would be assembled together in the shot, to our photography session. These objects included: 

2 Florida Navel Oranges
A Virgin Mary Prayer Candle, 
One pack of Marlboro lights
Dead Pink roses from Valentine's day
The Bible
a banana
one bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey
An olive branch from Mt. Olympus in Turkey
3 rosaries: one of St. Mark's in Venince, one from the Vatican and another from Assisi
a bottle of holy water from the House of the Virgin Mary in Ephesus
A copy of "The Great Dialogues of Plato", Richard Dawkins' "The God Delusion" and of course, Tucker Max's "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell"

So it's sunday, and I take all of these things to the photo session and wait for mine to begin. It's always an adventure when you take a ferret out in pubic, because most people are curious and pretty brave. When they ask, "Is that a cat?" I say, "No it's a ferret and he only attacks sometimes," but what I'm really thinking is, "It's a fuckin ferret, you dumb ass. Take your cat to the Chinese restaurant where it belongs and go get yourself an education." But in reality I just smile. At any rate, my appointment was just after church dismissed, and everyone dressed in their sunday best with grandma and grandpa, reeking of Cracker Barrel, sees me with a ferret, a bottle of whiskey and some rosaries. You can imagine the confusion in their minds at this point. Some questions that were asked by these onlookers included:

"So where are you from?"
"Are you Catholic?"
"Does the ferret drink the whiskey?"

Luckily, the photographer was a pretty cool guy, who seemed equally annoyed by all the stinky, dressed up old people. There are some great shots (as you can imagine) that will be posted on here in T-minus one week. I am elated, and only wish I had a video camera so that you could really understand and appreciate this experience. C'est la vie, n'est pas?

These photos served as inspiration for my project.  

Yay!

I have so long wanted a blog of my own!  Voila!  You are damn lucky.  Okay, now I'm going to post some random shit.  Love you!