Style

By WR Jones

I saw a young black man at a grocery store today with his pants barely hanging on below the hips and 50% of his underwear showing.  He made a small tug on his trousers to hike them up a bit.  It did help keep him from tripping over his pant legs I suppose but that was about all.  The fact that he was black doesn’t really enter into my observation except as a paragraph filler.  This makes it seem I work harder at this writing business.

I looked at him wondering how he chose this particular dress style.  He must have seen someone else with his ass hanging out and said to himself, “Wow, that looks cool.  I want that look.”  This is probably how most of us pick our dress style.  I went to a western hat store last week to have my Stetson “Open Road” hat shaped to fit my head better.  I bought the hat because I saw an old gentleman with the same hat and thought he looked elegant.  I told the woman in the store the reason I had purchased this particular hat and could not understand how I looked like such a buffoon with it on my head.   After all, I and the old gentleman were about the same age.  How could he look elegant and I look like a common shithead?  After reshaping the hat the woman said it looked better.  I asked her if I looked elegant now.  Damn I hate blunt women.  As a business woman you would think she could finesse a little lie.

Another issue:

This painting started out as a still life of a slice of apple pie.   I can’t seem to gain control of my compositions; they run amok.   At one point I had a dump truck and a miniature giraffe in the foreground when my wife suggested flowers.  I followed her suggestion as gospel (a little play on words and illustration) as I was hungry and wanted some dinner.  Are there any drugs that will:

1.  make me feel very good

2.  make it so I don’t have to pee quite so often

3.  clamp down on this ADD that jerks me from one subject to another before I get my paints laid out.

Thicker Is Not Better

By wr jones

You can tell by the expression of this young lady, unless you are an idiot, that she is fed up with plastic packaging.  I am too.

She is missing her left arm which was lopped off in a chain saw accident while trying to open her new toaster.

All this talk about “Green” is a huge pile of whiffledust.  We keep pouring more and more plastic into the environment.   I don’t really care about the coming ecological disaster, I will be gone.  But someone, say around the age of 3, should be near panic.  If they were smart they would write their congress person to complain.  Assuming, of course, the 3 year old could remove the thick damn plastic from the new pen.

I bought some batteries the other day.  Spent 30 minutes trying to get them out of the pack.  Missed the show I was needing the batteries to watch.  I looked high and low thru the house for an implement to cut through the very hard thick plastic package.  Finally used those chicken scissors that are part of a cutlery set.  Even then it was a struggle.  I expect the next step in the package industry vs consumer war they will move toward a steel box welded shut to hold those paper clips you need for the office.

I can understand this vault type packaging would cut down on the shoplifting of small items.  Hard to hide that watch battery entombed in a body size package you can barely get to the counter with a large cart.

Performance Enhancing

By W. R. Jones

I don’t get what the fuss is about performance enhancing drugs.  Those athletes are doomed to train-wreck bodies anyway.  Do you really give a shit what drugs they take?  If you do simply because they may influence your little Johnny or Mary to imitate their heroes, then you should start a parents against ball players chewing tobacco and scratching their nuts on TV group.  I may join that one myself.

If they had painting enhancing drugs I would take them in a pair of seconds.  I’ve Googled every possible combo looking for such a thing.  If fact I’m surprised they don’t have at least a high cost placebo.   Look at all the ads suggesting 98% of men have limp peckers.  We must have an equally high of  percentage of us that don’t paint all that well.  We  need a drug promising excellent painting results in 90 days; accompanied by TV promos showing suck work before and pieces of great beauty hanging in the Louvre with the painter speaking fluent French (when before the drug they spoke a lower form of Eubonics).

I’ve tried alcohol (more than a few times) all with the same result.  It seems the painting is going swimmingly but the next thing I know I’m waking on the bed with paint loaded brush still in my hand now resting on the pillow next to me.  So far I’ve been lucky in that the brush has always landed on my wife’s pillow.  She will have to check her hair in the morning light for undesired highlights.

Profoundly Inefficient

By W.R. Jones

This may be one of my last paintings with any green in it, we are moved to the desert now.   The new house is still a mess of flooring and bath changes, painting, etc.  I do have a prospective painting area with good north light which will expand the hours I can paint.  Not that I expect to use the extra hours.  I’m too attached to my habit of pissing away time of any value.

I’m operating at a estimated 1.7% efficiency.   If it weren’t for my nanosecond attention span I expect I could get a lot of shit done.

Example:

Got milk from fridge for coffee.  Pick up scrap of paper on floor on way to coffee cup.  Start for garbage can in garage to toss scrap.  Open garage door and see golf cart.  This reminds me to connect it for a charge.  Then I look out the door and see mail box across street.  Reminds me to pick up mail.  Go in house to get key.  I get key then have to pee.  Go to bathroom, leave both key and scrap.  Did remember to pee so not all of my memory has been damaged.   Walk across street to mailbox.  Damn where is the key?  Oh ya, left it by the coffee cup.  Nope, DAMN IT, my wife has put the keys in some obscure spot AGAIN.  I’ve told her a thousand times to put it in the drawer by the door but nooo she can’t remember that simple act.  If she weren’t visiting the neighbor I’d kick the slats out of her.   Now what was I doing?  Oh ya I left that scrap of paper by the toilet.  I will get that taken care of right now.   Hmmn that’s strange what are the mail box keys doing here?  Oh well, I’ll get the mail.  Well nuts, there is too much mail for me to carry with this milk carton in my hand.  I better return it to the frig before it goes bad……

Thirty minutes later … phooey my coffee’s cold, I’ll heat it in the microwave and while it’s heating I’ll get some milk from the frig.  Don’t understand why my wife doesn’t think I can multitask.

Water and Oil

By wr jones

We are in limbo in a move to AZ.  Most of belongings and all furniture are gone.  Only us left, sleeping on floor feeling age every time we creak up.   I decided to do some small studies for future larger pieces.   Most of my oil paints were packed and shipped so I would do watercolors.   Christ!! I forgot how unforgiving watercolor is.  You must think and plan for a successful watercolor; neither of which I do well.  I don’t know where I’m going during a painting much less beforehand.  And when I’m done I  don’t know where I’ve been thus preventing me from learning for future work.

I had a new plastic palette which I didn’t prepare.  The water would bead up so tightly I couldn’t get it to mix.  The brush would soak up all the color at once and palette would be stark white.  I remembered having this problem years ago but could not remember why.  Screw it, I went back to oil.   Painted directly over the watercolor.  Paper is not my favorite painting surface but it was all I had not counting the walls of the sold house.

Ok, enough about painting let’s get to my real rant:

I called Shell to give them a change of address.  Then I thought why not do paperless via email,  where a change of address would not matter.   A male service rep told me they did not have my full social security or my birth date.  Note that I did give him the last 4 of social, address, and card number to verify identity at start of call.  He took my new info and said he had to verify it.  15 minutes go by on hold, then phone call drops.   I call back and get a female rep.  Repeat the info and she say she has to verify and leaves me hanging for 10 minutes.  When she came back I ask what the devil took so long.  She said she was talking to her supervisor and they need for me to send a photocopy of my social security card and my driver’s license via land mail.   I responded – Fuck you close the account!  (on the inside) What came out was, “please close the account now, and do you realize I have had that card and used and paid it every month for 40 YEARS.”    I’m astounded at the greed for information that is not relevant for a business agreement.   I’ve never had any company ask for photocopy of social and driver’s license. What the hell is wrong with these people?  I felt like I was on a phishing call.

Waiting For Rain

By W.R. Jones

Whoa, I have not posted in a long time!  I must paint faster in the future.

Thank you all for your supportive words.  They are appreciated.

This country woman looks sort of lonely to me.  She is waiting for rain, her lawn is a little scruffy and she has a radish patch out back that is dry.  I probably would be lonely too. painting all by myself, but I have my companion, Mango.

While I paint Mango surfs the net – “Looking for fine bitches”, he tells me.  When I told him to watch his language, he replied, “Get a dictionary grandpa.  Oh, never mind, you are too old and I’m busy skyping this little beauty.”

I’ve got to get back to painting now.  If I can finish another one this year that will be two, and in a row mind you.

Chicken Drover

By W.R. Jones

Given the infantile musings of my mind, I know exactly the thoughts racing through this toddler’s head.  He is calculating the odds that he will have to let go his beloved doll to throttle that chicken.

On another note, did you ever try to back out of the garage without first opening the door?  Doesn’t work well.  Outside of perusing the Merck Manual to stoke my raging hypochondria, I don’t have any formal medical training, but my “man on the street” gut feel is this lapse does not speak well for my mental health.

The good news is the remaining brain cells are still capable of working as a team to scheme our way out of the expected coming spousal brow beating in the offering.

Possibilities:

1.  Vandals – most likely those kids I strong armed to get their Halloween candy bags last year.

2.  A self healing gas line explosion from inside the garage that blew the door out.

3.  An international ring of car thieves wanting my van with 260,000 miles to sell in Mexico.  They forgot to open door first, panicked, and ran.

If you have any more plausible explanations stories lies, we could perhaps discuss a fee structure agreeable to us both.