Van Gogh y Yo

By WR Jones

   

   Vincent and I have a couple of things in common.  We both have some small mental issues that need resolving and neither of us can sell a painting.  From that commonality it goes even further downhill for me.

    I can’t give paintings away.  Here is a typical conversation with a friend as I try hard to unload at least one piece:

    Me, “Do you like any of these paintings?”  “Ya.., that one is not bad.”  “Would you like to have it?”  “Nah.., you keep it, we really don’t have any wall space to hang it.” “What do you mean no wall space?  This is a 6″x8″ painting and you have a 6500 sq ft home.”  “Ya, I know.  But, you know, we have the TV and there is that calendar we hang, and the windows take up a lot of space.”  “How about hanging it in that 7 car garage you have?”  “Ok, I suppose that would work.  No, wait, that seems like an empty wall, but that’s where I hang my rake.  I just forgot to bring it in from the yard last fall.  I do like the frame on that piece.  Could I have just the frame?” 

    I sometimes wonder if Vincent’s after death surge in sales was not somehow linked with cutting off his ear then shooting himself.  That seems like a fairly extreme sales technique.  However, I have been giving the concept some consideration, with modern modifications of course.  I feel I have the edge on media savvy over Vincent.  If I cut my own ear off no one will give a shit.  However, if I cut Lisa’s ear off (and what does she need it for, she never listens), and shoot her, not fatally (that would ruin my source of Jordan almonds and boba drinks) maybe in the foot, sales might just pick right on up.

    Look for me and Lisa on the 11 o’clock news, or save Lisa’s ear, buy this painting today!

The Art of the Painting Demonstration

by Lisa

Me doing a demo

I have to do a painting demonstration this morning. I am always a bit on edge for this procedure although I have done it many many times. The key is careful preparation. I like to have on hand:

-  lox, bagels, cream cheese, latkes, souffles, omelet bar, freshly roasted coffee,  grits, country ham, gravy and biscuits, freshly squeezed orange juice, waffles, pancakes, hash browns, and bacon

- more than one canvas in case I suddenly go spastic and blur the first attempt beyond recognition

- drugs

- absinthe

- a TV broadcasting election results (I’m hoping for a rousing mix of extreme liberals, and hard rights)

- tap shoes 

- rosary

- knife for my side, and nail for my coffin

- tape for Ron’s mouth (and DEFINITELY a quaalude for him )

- white flag

- jugglers

- Bill

- dog and pony

- 3-D glasses

- aroma of hydrogen sulfide

- swing music

- flares

It’s a little tricky to gather this all up, but in the end my nerves are thankful for the back-up plan.  The painting demonstration is not for the faint at heart.

I feel a fever coming on.

Not A Job, A Career

By W.R. Jones

    I don’t have a job.   I have a career.  As one of America’s foremost fighter test pilots; just a sec … oh yeah, that’s only what I tell the ladies when I’ve been drinking.  Ok, well I think being a senior janitor at the middle school is also vital to our national defense.  Ok, the senior part is due to my age and not my janitorial skills, still.

    I don’t even know why I bother with that fighter pilot line.  It has never worked.  But I read somewhere it is a matter of numbers; eventually someone will believe me and be impressed.  The last time I used it the woman was apparently some sort of mathematician.  After another failure I mentioned the number theory and asked her how big she thought that number might be.  She asked me if I was at all familiar with the concept of infinity. 

    While painting this landscape a father and his young son came into the area to launch rockets.  His son was much to young to get knowedgeable pleasure out of the process so this was mainly for daddy. 

    I remember my father trying my new red plastic model airplane one Christmas.  They did not have remote control in those days.  You controlled the flight (such as it was) with a handle connected to the airplane through two long strings.  You and the plane would go round and round until you threw up and the plane went into the side of the family Buick.  We never got that far.  After an hour or so of getting his finger whacked by the propeller dad got the little engine started.   Father (Orville) Jones then did the maiden flight.  I watched in awe as the plane ascended in a lovely arc and wrapped the control strings around and around the power lines.  The little red plane looked quite lovely hanging up there out of reach.   I got a train the following Christmas.