Huh? What’d You Say?

By W. R. Jones

    Mother used a thimble like this to thump me on the head.  She was always specific about the reason.  She never used acronyms.  “That’s for nothing, shithooks, now do something and see what you get.”  She believed in clear communication.

    Acronyms have, of course, been around since the first caveman wrote LDM (Lost Damn Mammoth) in the snow with his pee.  Today they are everywhere; they are not always so clear.  You think the other person understands, you think everyone knows the meaning.  You must keep in mind, some of us came from a little outside of Chickencrotch, Iowa.  We have not been exposed to such hacking of the language.

    I took an exercise class with Erin.  The class looked so tough I thought I might collapse so I told her I thought she should give me prophylactic CPR before we started.   I guess she thought CPR stood for Clobber the Prick, now I don’t hear so well out of my left ear.

    I am the master of the single entendre but today I used a double for the title of this post.  It stands for not being able to understand acronyms and not being able to hear out of the ear Erin slapped.  Christ I’m clever sometimes.

    LOL – the first email I got with this I thought it meant lots of love, I sent the woman flowers.  She sent back her husband; big bastard, he was.  Now I r not so gud.

    ROFL, ROFLMAO, TTFN, etc., etc.   I got this the other day - ”c u @ SBX aftr”.   It was unfortunate  that I read it without my glasses and took it to mean “see you for the sex affair”.  She sent her husband; big bastard, he was.  Now I r wrse.

    I want a pen pal who writes complete words, sentenances sentences (OK, Kev, I buckled – my OCD would not let me leave it alone – I also added the word “and” to the right of the right parenthesis.  I think it reads better now.  Thanks for the editing.) and, thoughts.  I want her to write in flowing script with a pen dipped in ink then carefully blotted.  Bring back the old days before the cell phone.  Of course, I want her to include a self addressed stamped envelope for my reply, the cost of stamps being what it is.

    Here is one for you – BMA (Bite My Ass) – wait, wait, I think I hear Erin, what’s that?  “Point out the spot, you look like all ass to me.”

Every Artist Needs a Studio Dog

by Lisa

       My drawing is progressing though it can be likened to watching paint dry since every leaf in that tree outside the window has to be figured out. Here you see my dog Peach, who accompanies me sometimes for inspiration and to hurry me along. She will start pulling a “Toby” for instance (I am referring to a carpet cleaning commercial where the dog does something vulgar and the mother screams at him.)  That gets me drawing faster in favor of returning her home to the natural setting of our backyard where dogs with itchy butts belong. Of course, I can leave Peach outside all day, and the minute I bring her in, she will head straight for my favorite rug. Mais, j’aime ma chienne. (But, I love my dog). My french is coming along too.  

       In the above picture, you see all of the studies I had to do to figure out the “tree”. PAINT DRY I tell you. What you don’t even see are the studies for these studies. And I haven’t even started to figure out the other window yet. This drawing will be worth $100,000 by the time I am done.

Wine Tasting

By W. R. Jones

    This past weekend I painted with a watercolor sketchbooking class of Susan Cornelis given at Lynmar Estate winery in Sebastopol, CA.  It was a delightful combination of learning and fun.  If you get the opportunity to study with this facinating teacher in a beautiful landscape I strongly recommend it.

    On Friday evening I attended “Pinot and Pizza” at the winery with Susan and her husband, Bob.  They are like children when it comes to drinking, but I think I straightened them out.  This wine tasting business is a study in making up the most fanciful words your little brain can conjure to describe some grape juice gone bad.

    They do have an excellent business plan at this place as it cost $45 for what I think may have been wine and what I would call “palm” pizza.    The entire pizza would fit in the palm of your hand.  But you don’t get the whole pizza – it is shared between 12 tables.  You have to run your ass off to get enough for your tastebuds to figure out what exactly was on those little tidbits.

    When I walked in and saw a table of two filled with empty wineglasses I thought those two were power drinkers who had got their $45 worth.  I couldn’t imagine how they could still speak so clearly.  When I drink that much I’m face down on the table muttering to myself in a pool of drool.  Then I heard a few of their words – utter nonsense – “fruity, an oak aftertaste, winter plums, etc.” 

    A waiter brought wine to our table and tipped the bottle over my large glass.  Now I get why those people stick their nose down the glass then hold it up to the light to look for color.  They want to see if that slick ass waiter actually put ANY wine in there.  I’m thinking a bottle poured by that waiter may last a semester.  I ran my tongue around the inside of the glass to see if I could pickup a hint of anything.  Here is where I fell into “The Emperor’s New Clothes” trap.  I started making up whiffledust about what I was tasting even though all I really got was some air and dishsoap residue.

   After that tightfisted waiter tried this on me for the 5th time I put my foot down.  “Look here young fellow, why don’t you just fill the glass and save yourself all this shuffling back and forth?  Perhaps you came from a poor family?  That would explain the parsimonious pour.  There, that’s better, now I can taste it. ”

   Surprisingly, Bob and Susan seemed embarrassed to be sitting with me.  I was expecting them to be impressed with my negotiating skills.

   I’d like to point out that you don’t get any better (read bigger) buzz from a $100 bottle of wine than you do from a $2 bottle.  So why on earth would you spend more?  Here is an earthy lesson for all those bright homebuyers and Wall Street gurus.   And, also, you can get jeans at Wal Mart for $15.

   God, I’ve got a headache this morning.