Scientific Sh*t

The world of science has given us so much. The thing I enjoy the most is how science has devised ways of defining things like conditions in both a quantitative and a qualitative fashion. Visually. Like charts, graphs and such. They're just so... analytical.

This is an official chart, devised from decades of experience and unbiased clinical observation, that portrays both the quality of shittiness and its severity. Position 1 is where you're at if you're lucky. This is a best case scenario where you are experiencing a mere hint of shitty. Position 2 is where you don't want to be. This is a worse case scenario, possibly the result of a series of events. Anywhere else on the spectrum of things you are able to say, "Well, things could be worse."

It's easy to get confused because there are different varieties of shit:
Nasty Shit is the type that seems to be out for you. Either because you've been a dick (karma's revenge) or someone has decided to put a kibosh on your life. Examples: getting thrown in jail for something you didn't do, throwing up that Chablis on your shoes, anything to do with the Kardashians, getting the bird flu when you're allergic to feathers.  
Normal Shit is stuff that is basically environmental. It comes with life and is the reason you don't drink the water in Mexico. It's an equal opportunity shit; waiting for you, or the next guy or the one after that; it doesn't care. And you don't have to actually do anything in particular to qualify. Examples: sitting in a highway parking lots, holes in condoms, a booger hanging out of someone's nose, some expert trying to tell you how to run your life uninvited.  
Stupid Shit is just the stuff that you know you shouldn't have done, or stuff that someone else should have known better but is done anyway and you have to deal with it. Examples: speeding tickets for anything less than 5 mph over the limit, saying yes when you know you should have said no the moment it comes out of your mouth, someone being lousy to someone, yet another article about that Zuckerberg guy, having to eat brussels sprouts.
Oops Shit has its basis in plain old human fallibility. Mostly harmless, there's still no escaping this type of shit. If you think you're immune, look up "in denial" in the dictionary (or look for your name in the obituaries). Examples: moving a chair and then 5 minutes later stubbing your toe on it, dissing the boss when he or she is within earshot, wearing white after Labor Day, bed head, mismatched socks, food stuck in your teeth, peeing yourself when laughing.

And, of course, there are different levels of severity for each classification. Where an incident falls on the scale is sometimes dependent on how much you're paying attention. For instance, one can be in deep do-do and not know it.

You'll notice there is no place for the lack of shit on this chart. Let us not fool ourselves into thinking this is a possibility. This is science we're talking about. And science doesn't deal in fantasy.

All to say it's not a complete downer thing. After all, even the hardiest of garden flourishes with a bit of fertilizer.


 

His Wife Wanted Him To Win A Wristwatch...

An interstice is a small opening between things. And if we were to look in the space between funny and unbelievable, we'd see a gentleman named Jonathan standing there...

Very few times in your life you might meet someone whose genius takes your face prisoner and to your delight, you find you just can't turn away. Jonathan Winters was such a person: grandmaster of the improv, inspiration to young comedians like Robin Williams and recipient of the 1999 Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, and sadly gone this week at age 87.

How did it all begin? A few months into his marriage he lost his wristwatch and the couple couldn't afford to get him a new one. His wife, hearing of a local talent show where the first prize was a watch, told him to go down and win it.

He did.

Someone Should Get Working On This ASAP

You love your pants. And rightly so. They not only cover everything from the naval to ankles but the right ones set off our lower body attributes in a godlike fashion. And when we get that perfect pair we just love to wear them. Finally, they get worn in perfectly. And then, the horror. They wear out (or you get really wasted one night and wake up the next morning without your pants and you have absolutely no idea where you left them and you're too embarrassed to go looking for them because asking people "Have you seen my pants?" just sounds so lame). It happens to us all. This needn't be the catastrophe it has been until now.

We need a pant registration and retrieval service. You get your pants scanned, store the data and get issued a handy swatch with a personal PANTone number and if something happens to the pants you just let them know and a 3D print of a perfect duplicate happens and you get another pair exactly the same as your old ones shipped to you the very next day. Call it pant replacement insurance.

We need this. We have the technology. Someone should get on it.

Are you a super Sous-Chef? Save your favorite pan as a PANtone file. If the pan disappears in a kitchen nightmare, they shoot you an exact replica. And you're back cookin' again like nothing happened.

Collect rocks? Digital 3D PanSTONE storage and output would allow for limitless rockin' on.  Those gold nuggets you're sitting on? Never lose them down a toilet again.

Note: The 3D Replacement System would not work with living things or body parts. Inanimate objects only. (Cousin Billy-Bob would not qualify as an inanimate object.)

Okay, so someone get on this okay? I need to retire soon. Call me. We'll work out my end.

Aren't Leaders Supposed To Be Good Examples?

Ah geez. It seems the more us common folk follow world leaders, the more we learn that if we're looking for good examples for our children we should stick to Hollywood fiction.

Take the situation in North Korea. Unreal. Here we have a young, twenty-something leader who just took over the store from his dad.

Kim Jong-un was appointed Great Successor following his father's death in 2011. He can't be called President because his late grandfather will hold that title forever more. And Supreme Leader is reportedly out because his late father has that one sewn up for eternity. Still, you'd think Great Successor would be enough. But according to the Christian Science Monitor, he also got Marshal of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, First Chairman of the National Defense Commission, First secretary of the Worker's Party, Chairman of the party's Central Military Commission, Member of the Presidium of the Party's Political Bureau and Supreme Commander of the Korean People's Army added to his job description. Appears to be over the top with the titles thing, but what do I know? It may be a quaint cultural tradition. If that's all it was, no problem. But he also exhibits several peaks of concern on the weirdness meter.

First, there's the issue of why everything about him is a big secret. Kim Jong-un's whole life is a mystery – he refuses to tell anyone his age, his date of birth, or the fact he's been married for a while to a bombshell, ex-cheerleader, Ri Sol-ju – like what dude wouldn't let the whole world know about a catch like that? And the couple may have given birth to a little girl, a speculation that followed a sudden loss of weight by Ri Sol-ju. Wouldn't you be proud to let folks know you became a father? Like, okay, maybe it's none of our business. But still, where's the harm in showing a little love? And about the rumors that he underwent plastic surgery look more like his grandfather? Really. Maybe he has a negative body image. He remains plump in a country where a third of its population is suffering chronic malnutrition. But hey, maybe it's a gland thing. Something that can only be helped by the installment of a delux spa (which, when you're into late nights with all-girl '80's disco bands, also helps with hangovers from drinking and partying all night).

So what if he has a propensity for American basketball? What's so wrong with that? What's wrong with growing up like many kids, loving Michael Jordon and Nike sneakers? So what if he hangs out with Dennis Rodman? Lots of people have strange friends. Especially rich kids. He's a young guy educated in Sweden, who was reportedly socially awkward, living off the riches possibly siphoned from aid to his country. And to have Dennis tell Obama to give him a call? For what? Obama's folks must have told him by now he shouldn't play with the kid.

Then, there's the thing about his control issues. Jongie hates not to be in control. Of everything. He appears to get off on intimidating others; traveling around with a gang of generals and officials whenever he leaves the house. Plus, he's bossy: having citizens in the thousands either stand and simultaneously pump their fists in the air at the ugly American Imperialists or face the possibility of being banished to political concentration camps. And if he can't control you he calls you names; recently referring to America as a "boiled pumpkin" unable to withstand the military might of North Korea. Boiled pumpkin? Now that's mature. Our children can take a good lesson from that.
  
But I guess what is most alarming is his obstinate behavior. From what I can see he has quite the temper. His petulance is like a child venting over not being able to fill up the cart with candy in a grocery store. Except his tantrums come with threats of nuclear bombs. Even after being warned by his friends, his armed forces successfully conducted a "high-level" nuclear test. Then he gave orders to restart a reactor apparently to develop nuclear arms. So people will be afraid of him and either he'll get what he wants or he'll hurt someone. Even his best friend, China, has been telling him to chill. Still, this guy seems to think that if he is mean enough and acts tough enough that will guarantee his survival and get his country aid. Handouts that he can call a 'victory' over his enemies and proof of his party's superiority. Seems like a nasty way of going about getting help for his folks. One would be forgiven for constantly wondering how or why he is going to strike out next. Like a schoolyard bully.

This is a guy from which theoretically we are supposed to be able to teach our children about things like decency and maturity. But it seems more like the type of behavior we tell our children "This is a good example of how not to act." My mother would have something to say to this person, as he lies on his back on the floor of the world's supermarket having a tantrum.

"Clean up in the East Asia food aisle."

Finally: A Quotient for Creatives

Intelligence quotient, moral quotient, emotional quotient, adversity quotient, social quotient, quotient quotient – we live with a measurement system for just about everything but until now there has been no reliable tool for creativity and how it measures up in the grand scheme of things. Not that we need to measure up. But sometimes it's nice to know just where we are so we know where we're not.

Several very smart people have tried to devise a method of measuring levels of creativity in people, called the Creative Quotient, with no real success. It may be they were just trying to be too intelligent about it. Certainly not a problem here...

Maybe we can only measure our creativity in relation to other things. The Creative Value Quotient (CVQ), takes into account how we've made our way to wherever we are and to what extent what you are good at overlaps with what the world thinks is good. This overlap, for lack of a better phrase, is called what you are good for. It speaks to the product of your creativity and how that relates to the real world. Everything is variable. What is of value to you and the world today may not be tomorrow. Add in the fact that everyone is different and pitfalls for some are nirvana to others and you'll see why an intelligent system of measurement is bound to fall short. The genius of CVQ measurement is that the value of your measurement is simply what it means to you. Not to others. And if the results are surprising or you don't like where your pin is stuck on the chart, then that gives you the reference metric to change that. Or not. It's very much a zen-like thing.

The results from this tool are interesting and equanimous. Because there is no bad or good. Some are very happy doing what we are good at with absolutely no consideration given to how much it fits in with societal values. Others feel the need to contribute to the extent we end up not doing what we are really good at but something else that is of value to others. Like a music composer who writes website code for a living. Or an artist who teaches children with difficulties to paint. There's no losers here. Just an awareness of stuff no one else would bother thinking about. Because that's what creative people do.

You'll get a more meaningful feedback score if you measure your CVQ well into your second childhood and while contributing on some level. Because chances are everything that will gel will have gelled by then. Attempting to get an accurate measurement while still in your Development Stage will see your attention diverted by dodging bright shiny objects that may be pitfalls. And waiting until you're a puddle may be a tad late. Because by then, where you are in relation to how your creativity overlaps with what society finds of value is something that doesn't really matter anymore. Except retrospectively. Not to say that retrospectively isn't interesting.

So there you go. Devise your own CVQ. Then, if someone asks you what you're good for you can whip out the printout and show them. Then you can serve tea. And eat cookies. And be friends. And write naughty limericks together... or watch cartoons...

Warnings, Warners and Warnees

The gates are closed tight and triple shackled with (anti-snap, anti-bump, anti-drill, anti-extraction and anti-pick) locks and fortified with around the clock state-of-the-art electronics that are set to alert the long arm of the law at the first sign of trespass. But traditional wisdom holds that warning signs are required; as if they were a critical element in a comprehensive process of keeping the unauthorized at bay.

Warnings are perplexing things. So of course I felt it my duty to do an extensive, detailed, highly scientific investigation in my mind.

Types of Warnings
There are 7 different types of warnings: 1) Needed. There are honest, valid warnings of potential danger and impending doom. These include shouts like "Watch out for that falling piano that you're standing under because you're about to get squashed" (often shortened to "Watch out!") 2) Vain. Some tell only of a sense of self importance meant only to impress – like one posted on a gate or wall that doesn't really hold anything of value but the owner would like people to believe there is. 3) The Bluff. Example: home security protection signs on the front lawn of a premises not actually equipped with home security protection equipment. 4) Granny State. Some warnings are legislated postings, placed in order to inform a seemingly brainless public of common sense advice. 5) Derriere Protection. Warnings meant not for the well being of others but merely to satisfy fears of law suits. 6) Do That and You're Toast! Others are messages delivered in a blowhard fashion – a tough guy message of things to come if certain conditions are not met. A common response to which is often, "Oh yeah? Try it!" or "You and whose army?" And finally, 7) Satirical. There are those postings that are clearly meant as humorous, lighthearted parodies. "Warning! Attack Cat!" and "Danger! This dog has a gun and refuses to take his medication!" signs come to mind.

Types of Warnees
There are three ways people will react to warnings: 1) Adventurers. There are those lurking who would not just ignore warnings but take them as a challenge. They do things just because they're not supposed to. If there hadn't been a warning these lurkers would be happily doing something else. You try to warn them but there they go doing exactly what you warned them not to do. So you stop warning them and then something happens and what do they say? "Why didn't you warn me?"

Some defiers of warnings take out their frustrations on the very wall that blocks their way. This is evident in practically every urban setting. Their writing is in an ancient language called graffiti; one that combines logographic and alphabetic elements – reminiscent of the hieroglyphs of 3500 BCE Egypt. These inscriptions are often symbolic of petulant attitudes, tantamount in nature to a Monty Python taunt and are not, as commonly thought, an expression of their rebellion but perhaps more of a testament to their impotence. 2) Scaredy Cats. Then there are those who are excessively fearful and heed every warning, cringe at every expression of authority. These are the people who need and live for the superfluous posted flotsam of dire comings. Gullible, saucer shaped eyes take in every exclamation mark. Babes; all. Hiding under the covers in fear of life because nothing is without inherent danger. 3) The Indifferent. This describes myself. It's a rare time that I come across a scene and look for warnings that others have left. And when they are there I'll notice but would gladly live without most. I prefer the living in ignorance thing.

Indifference is bliss. It really is. Or not. Then again, who cares?

“Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR
per
G.G., CHIEF OF ORDNANCE”
― Mark Twain

Minimalizing (Not Minimizing) The Classics

"I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am."
― Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

“Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.”
― Margaret Wise Brown, Goodnight Moon

“In front of them was the Square, containing a considerable quantity of inexpensive vegetation, enclosed by a wooden paling, which increased its rural and accessible appearance; and round the corner was the more august precinct of the Fifth Avenue, taking its origin at this point with a spacious and confident air which already marked it for high destinies.”
― Henry James, Washington Square

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I had a dream. All the designers in the world and all the people in the world that look at what designers do woke up one morning and agreed that textures are cheesy, drop shadows are to be dropped, ghosting is dead, fancy borders are too confining, and adding a glow to something is like putting lipstick on a pig – in fact, photoshopping anything is crime against nature. This would be a true nightmare for some, but we may be inching closer to it becoming a reality, or at least recognized as the difference between good and amateur design. With all the talk about minimalism and flat design these days it almost seems like you're an axe murderer who hides their mother's walker if you do anything to tart up a design. (The hate-on folks have for skeuomorphism these days is a taste issue, comparable perhaps to catching someone entering a folk festival with a disco ball.)

In the dream I secretly rejoiced that I would never again get a client requesting a day glow, fun fur background for their ad, or a pink faux leather texture for their logo.

I say secretly because one always wants to please but it's hard doing artwork when you're gnashing your teeth...

Top 3 Classic Comedy Tributes

Ethel Mertz: I refuse to go anywhere with someone who thinks I am a hippopotamus.
Ricky Ricardo: Lucy, is this true?
Lucy Ricardo: No, I just implied that she was a little hippy... though she has got the biggest potamus I've ever seen.

Basil: [Sarcastically] Rosewood, Mahogany, Teak? 
Mr. Leeman: I beg your pardon? 
Basil: What would you like your breakfast tray made out of? 
Mr. Leeman: I don't really mind 
Basil: Are you sure? Fine! Well, you go and and have a really good night's sleep then, I'm hoping to get a couple hours later on myself but I'll be up in good time to serve you your breakfast in bed. In fact if you can remember to sleep with your mouth open you won't even have to wake up. I'll just drop in lightly buttered pieces of kipper when you're breathing in the right direction! if that doesn't put you out!

Ralph: If any of the Racoons ever get sick, it'll be my responsibility to go and visit them.
Alice: Oh, that is a very important responsibility, Ralph. You better start now and find out what the visiting hours are at Bellevue.
Ralph: That did it, Alice - that did it. You have just broken the camel's back with that straw. You have ridiculed my brother Racoons. You have just made fun of something very big that's close to my heart.
Alice: The only thing big that's close to your heart is your stomach.

(11" X 17" poster format...)

Have been working on minimalistic formatting, type character selection and personality graphics in Illustrator. What better way to do that than to pick three of my fav sitcoms from my youth? Okay, John came in a bit later than Lucy and Jackie, but that wasn't his fault. Happy to have grown up with these three around. They don't make 'em like that anymore...

Talent: Energy + Direction = Vitality

Talent is energy. Brainpower fueling industry. It allows progress. You won't find talent on the stock market. But you'll find evidence of its work there. In success stories.

Talent is direction. It travels as steam, heating up things along the way you wouldn't think it would. But it does. Tap into it. You'll go places.

Talent: Energy + Direction = Vitality

Personifying The Unpersonable*

Some smoldering innuendo for your day: an assumption that matches only get to do it once and then instantly get dumped...

Of course this isn't true. Matches do not have sex lives. Maybe it is proof of a demented mind but I have cursed out the microwave when it didn't operate as wanted or happily proclaimed a certain pen a champion when it allowed me to do something I didn't think I could do; as if it could understand and correct or celebrate its behavior. But actually this personification of non-human objects, animals or other phenomena (weather, governments and other abstract concepts) is an ancient phenomena, if not art.

And they have a name for it. It's actually a form of anthropomorphism...

Anthropomorphism is any attribution of human characteristics to non-humans and began being used by humans as early as the Upper Paleolithic era, about 40,000 years ago, when hunters would empathetically identify with hunted animals to better predict their movements. Folk stories and fables, including the famous ones by Aesop, used this technique "by announcing a story which everyone knows not to be true, told the truth by the very fact that he did not claim to be relating real events". In the 19th century Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) by Lewis Carroll employed anthropomorphic elements. Why, without this personification of the unpersonable (*new word) we wouldn't have Mickey Mouse or the great Far Side cartoons. How terrible that would be.

So the next time you call a chair stupid for stubbing your toe, relax. You are actually syncing up with an ancient art and just may be on the verge of understanding that matches could have sex lives... or the Higgs boson particle may just be playing hide and seek... or how furniture may not want to be moved...

Those Spires Amongst Us

So. Cardinals are meeting in Rome to begin the process of choosing a new Pope today. This is an ancient procedure precious to so many.

My thoughts go to the art and architecture the religious world has given to us throughout the ages; the attention to detail, and speaking of that, especially the symbolic nature of spires – structures that point up to the sky. The sky. Up. A wonderful direction in so many conceptual ways.

The sketch above depicts (roughly) a spire that has all these mini spires surrounding the big one, all topped with these metal finials. I like this spire in particular because it's like a whole bunch of 'ups' gathered together. With exclamation marks.

Spires originated in the 12th century as a simple, four-sided pyramidal roof and provide the same message as the pyramids. Pyramids weren't originally meant as just burial places for pharaohs. In fact, I have it on reliable authority that some Egyptians were sitting around one day and one guy said, "Hey why don't we leave a message for people in the future and build these things so big they can't help but notice. Something that no matter what language they speak, it says; "Up!" And they all went "Brilliant," got their chisels out and set to work. Then some pharaoh came around and said "Hey, I'd like to be buried in there, make me a room in the middle and seal me up in one when I die." Of course then the pharaohs took over the copyright and claimed it was all their idea. True story.

But what I really wanted to say is that people can be spires too. Not necessarily by standing on top of buildings with their hands together over their heads but by how their actions remind you there is an 'up'. And not by being bossy about it but simply by how what they do raises your spirits. When we recognize that is indeed what they're doing, we're never without folks who show you an upside. Like Italian actor Roberto Bellini. The lovely wacky energy of Bette Midler and fellow Canadian the late Leslie Nielsen, who once said, "Doing nothing is very hard to do... you never know when you're finished." And about the first person in my life that cheered me up was Lucille Ball, in black and white, no less. All these folks could be one of the mini-spires on the sketch above. You can probably name many mini-spires from your life who 'up' your days. Artists, musicians, actors, writers, thinkers... Michelangelo, daVinci, Mozart, Charlie Chaplin, Emmet Kelly, Barbra Streisand, Charles Schulz, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., maybe even the blackboard writings of Bart Simpson. What a wonderful gift these people all have. They remind us to see the upside. Like those ancient Egyptians with their chisels.

Maybe that's why they say people who do that inspire you. 

This Dusty Trail We Travel Upon

It is both fair gift and common curse; these steps we take. Our uncertainty itself fuels our most serious attentions. The surety of failure should we remain stagnant creates the determination to proceed. One step. And another. Footsteps echo our progress and reflect the vibrancy of our intentions. Our hearts are lightened by the heroics of our fellows, for we are not alone. We watch for each other. Tales are told along the way to allay our fears and wisdom is shown in what is spoken and, more importantly, what is not.

And when the sun breaks through every now and then, we enjoy a brief respite of a pleasure born of our pained ploddings.

Then we finally arrive: emerging scarred but not broken. Changed. Better. And we find that after spending all those years looking down the trail for the riches of our destination; that the journey itself was perhaps our reward all along.

Stirrer-Uppers

Dedicated to all the Stirrer-Uppers in the world. And we're all Stirrer-Uppers. Peace out, Rand

Two Dogs Barking At The Moon

Two men passed each other in the street one day. One mistook the look in the eye of the other as something of an insult and was instantly filled with rage. For perhaps he had grown up in a family that had taught such sensitivities, or he or someone he was related to had been hurt in the past by someone else who had the same look. Or his community, even society itself, had placed blame on these looks for the reason behind the hardships of their own kind. Who knows? Possibly his friends, through lack of understanding, had condemned these looks as those given by freaks or deviants and in fearfulness had labelled them unworthy. Whatever the reason he felt so outraged at this person and the look in his eye that he lashed out against him there in the street; abusing, hissing, spitting, demeaning, and cursing.

The other man raised his head to the sky and laughed and threw his arm around the angry one's shoulder and said, "You are RIGHT! I am all those things. Come now lad, I will buy you a refreshment and then another and we will share tales of our travels and families and we will eat and drink some more and laugh and find fair company and then, when it has grown dark, we will come back outside and you can tell me again what I am and we will both laugh and bark like dogs at the moon. Because what are these words? They are not you or I. These words are mere expressions of the outrage we both share at the unfairness of life: a common view we will have found in the ensuing hours. For there is no gain nor profit in either of us thinking the other is evil because of our looks, customs, beliefs or heritage. I may be different than you and you from me but by the end of this evening...

...we will be just two dogs barking at the moon!"  

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"Anger and intolerance are the enemies of correct understanding." ~ Mahatma Gandhi

Boiling Canadian Saps

It is commonly accepted around the world that we Canucks are a docile bunch who suffer our fools lightly (to a fault some would say). So you may be shocked to hear that once a year we take great glee in boiling our saps. But take relief. We're not actually gathering all our foolish together and sticking them into big pots set over open fires.

The saps we like to boil come from trees. Sugar maples in particular, although other varieties have their saps as well.

Each year at this time, as temperatures begin to get warmer during the day and dip below freezing at night; the sap begins to run, carrying the nutrients that have been stored in roots for the winter up into the limbs to prepare for spring. (You can usually time it by watching as ice fishing huts begin sinking into the lakes.) And taking a lesson from Native Americans who developed the technique long before written history, when the sap runs we tap into the trunks, collect and boil it down, thickening it into syrup roughly at a rate of 40 gallons of sap to 1 gallon of maple syrup. 40/1: much better than the odds of many lotteries or having a pleasant evening at your boss's house for dinner.

Sugarbush, 1958

Of course, I've tasted the sticky treat a number of times, even right in the sugarbush as a child. (I'm the little guy beside my mother on the right.) Culinary experts have tried to classify its taste and can only agree that there is no other taste quite like it. Scientists have tried to detail the formula but have been unable to break the code.

While there are cheaper syrups (mainly made from corn syrup) there is no comparison. Francophones refer to imitation maple syrup as sirop de poteau ("pole syrup"), joking that the fake syrup comes from tapping telephone poles.

So you can relax about the Canadians boiling their fools thing.

Not that I haven't, at times, thought about what we should do about our silly citizens.

But it saps the energy right out of me... :o)

Bootie Break

Drudgerius interruptus at the grocery store today as my eye caught a shelf of colorful kiddy's galoshes.

Man, boots like this make me wish I was a little kid again. Or my feet were a lot smaller...

On this first Day of March. As the encroaching warmer weather brings the rain that makes the puddles remember to take a moment and splash around a bit. Or a lot. But don't jump too high or too deep.

You might get a soaker.

How Not To Be An Idiot

Maybe it's just me. Or to be more specific, maybe it's just my particular form of neuroticism. But is it not true that if you know someone thinks you're an idiot that everything that comes out of your mouth while you're in their company is going to support that assumption? It's sort of a Fulfillment Theory Issue (FTI). What people expect from you is exactly what one does. It's only polite. And besides, people are going to think what they like and you're much too busy babbling what they're hearing as incomprehensible idioticracies (new word) to change their minds.

And you know intuitively within the first few seconds of meeting someone if they think you're an idiot (or worse a complete jerk). It's in the way they look at you and then look away the instant you look at them. It's in the way they spell out certain "w-o-r-d-s" for you or begin overly en-un-ci-a-ting every syllable of every word and how they keep defining words for you ("that means telling what a word means") and how they hold up fingers in front of your face when they're talking about something to do with numbers. "I'd like two (holds up two fingers) of those logo doodads to choose from please."

If this goes on for some time, it's obviously going to begin to bother you that someone believes you're an idiot because you're a person of the twenty-first century; fully in touch with your sensitive, caring side. So you're obviously not going to choose to spend much time with these people, otherwise you might begin believing that you are indeed an idiot yourself and that won't do at all. Then you'll have real problems. That is DEFCON 1 territory. Because you can't not hang out with yourself. So you must do something about it before it gets to that stage. As well as leaving their company, there are a few other options.

If you're not really an idiot (and of course you're not, only non-idiots read Rand's Place) it stands to reason you're far better off and have much more of a chance of getting somewhere in life if you only hang out with people who believe you're fairly intelligent. Then the Fulfillment Theory Issue (FTI) will have you only uttering intelligent things. But how does one go about finding someone like that? Well, you could put an ad in the classifieds, something along the line of "WANTED: People to hang out with that won't automatically think I'm dumber than a sack of cucumbers." That's all you'd have to say because you need people with a relatively high Emotional Intelligence Quotient (EQ) and people who can figure out the reasoning behind your ad and respond to it should therefore be reasonably high on the Emotional Intelligence Quotient (EQ) scale.

Or, you could do the old comparison thing and hang out with people who are real idiots so you look obviously intelligent by comparison. Smart people will look at you and go, "Isn't that a nice guy, hanging out with that obviously inferior person." Then they'll nominate you for sainthood and you'll get to then hang out with all the other people who used to hang out with idiots just to appear smart.

Whatever option you choose, just remember this: you don't have to be very intelligent and wise all the time. People who do that are so very odd.

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(Dedicated as a first life lesson to newly born Dakota Rose, from her somewhat wacky but always very intelligent and wise great uncle.)

The One With No Name

Inside the artist lives a ronin – an unconventional being known only as the one with no name. An eccentric stranger with an unorthodox sense of justice; this stranger comes to town with an extraordinary proficiency – with an image, a word, a rhythm, a look or a sound. People know of the stranger only by reputation, and they speak of the arrival only in whispers. In the dusty saddlebags lay the stranger's weapons.... a pen, a thought, a worn paint brush, a lens, a pencil or two, an instrument, a voice, a chisel, or some pixels.

It is not for the stranger to mingle with others. It keeps company only with the artist. The one with no name will not bother others. They are incidental. If they don't interfere there will be no trouble. Most know to step back and give this consummate pro plenty of room.

Once triggered, years of training spring into action... and justice is dealt out swiftly and without mercy. Sometimes for no other reason but because it needs to be done.

Marisol: Why are you doing this for us?
The One With No Name: Because I knew someone like you once and there was no one there to help. ~ A Fistful of Dollars

When the job is done, the stranger leaves town as quietly as it came. And the townspeople stand in the middle of the dusty road and watch as this enigma rides into the sunset. To right the next wrong. To bring justice to an unjust world. One work of art at a time...

Who's The Guy Who Rolls The Toilet Paper?

Hope you'll forgive me for a quick one today because, honestly, I've been talking much too much lately.

These days toilet paper comes wrapped around a cardboard tube that allows you to hang it on a special holder on the wall beside you and unroll the appropriate amount needed.

I'd hate to be the guy who has to roll it all up. I can't imagine people asking me what I do and me saying "I'm the guy that wraps toilet paper around those cardboard tubes." But it's one of those necessary jobs and I'm glad someone does it. And they've probably got great job security there because there's always a demand. I'd like to shake that guy's hand but I probably shouldn't because his hands are most likely insured for quite a lot because, really, that's a rare skill they've got there. 

For more information than you'd ever want to know, including alternative names for the tissue, visit Wikipedia.

For a free 18" X 18" print-ready PDF of the "Sweet Rolls" art drop me a line with your email address.

Gotta go.

Dear Prime Minister Harper: A Note

Dear Honourable Prime Minister of Canada, Mr. Stephen Harper:

Forgive me for intruding on your busy day. It's not for me to get all political by any means, that's your job. We have a great country with a splendid record and we've weathered the economic crisis better than most and for that I thank you and the agencies responsible. But since I was a teen and aware of world events, I've longed for world peace.

Lester B. Person

Canadians have a grand history in the establishment of world peace initiatives. When a ceasefire was declared in 1957 in the Suez Crisis of 1956, (a war between the alliance of the United Kingdom, France and Israel, and Egypt, which was supported by other Arab nations), Canadian diplomat (and future Prime Minister) Lester Bowles Pearson suggested that the United Nations station a peacekeeping force in the Suez in order to ensure that the ceasefire was honored by both sides. Pearson would win the 1957 Nobel Peace Prize for this, and he is today considered a father of modern peacekeeping.

In more recent years, the role of Canadians in peace support operations has expanded to include the delivery of humanitarian aid, the supervision of elections, the repatriation of refugees, the disarming of warring factions and the restoration of shattered landscapes through the clearing of mines, helping nurture human rights and the training of police forces and the judiciary. This is a diplomatic expertise to be profoundly proud of.

Canada is one of only a handful of countries to which the international community has regularly turned to obtain expert advice on peace support issues. Tens of thousands of Canadians have served in more than 40 international peace support operations around the world.

A Canadian led the way in promoting peacekeeping as a tool to help end conflicts and Canadians have long had an international reputation for putting themselves out to support peace. Now, we're in a new age of discord. And we've slipped in the world's recognition of our traditional role as leaders in the peace movement. We've gotten caught up in other things. We've taken sides over matters to appease other countries. And peacemakers don't pick sides. Maybe it's a good time to revisit this aspect of being Canadian and step it up. Listening Mr. Prime Minister? There is an economic aspect to this. People and nations getting along, sharing expertise and resources. Sounds good, doesn't it? How can it not?

But because of alliances and various reasons, we've slipped in world opinion as peacekeepers. Now, with conflict raging in countries all over the world, some think it time to get back to concentrating on earning back the respect that our country has historically garnered throughout the world to be leaders in bringing more peace and harmony to our world.

"Given the escalation of violent conflict, the increased threat of nuclear annihilation and lawlessness across our world today, there has never been greater urgency or a better window of opportunity to promote this initiative in Canada. ... advance an agenda for a new architecture of peace by supporting and establishing activities that promote a culture of peace and assertive non-violence in Canada and the world... In pursuing this initiative, we recognize that the crisis facing humanity is not only social, political, economic and environmental, but also spiritual in nature. We believe that creating a culture of peace is an ongoing and long term process but it is our intention to turn the tide in our generation working closely with Canadian youth." ~ Campaign to establish a Canadian Department of Peace

The time seems to be right to move from an image of past-tense peacekeeper to a world leading, non-violent peacemaker.

Just a thought. Let me know what you think.

Ventriloquistic Cheerios

Few sounds in life have the power to make you drop anything you're doing, can wake you from a deep sleep or immediately stop you from having the greatest sex you've had in a hundred years than the sound of a pet getting ready to upchuck. You know the sound, it's sorta like "Huuagh. Huaaahhh. Whooowauahhghhh!" Instantly, visions of a favorite chair that you'll never ever want to sit in again fill your mind. You can clean the icky stuff all you want and spray with all the cleansers in the world to get the smell out but you know in your mind that deep down in the tiny holes in that foam cushion somewhere lies the potential that you are sitting on pet barf.

You can't blame the pet. It's a natural physical response to stuff they eat that their stomach says "Nope, this ain't allowed. Back out you go."

This morning I thought I heard the cat getting ready to bring up a hairball and I stopped the open heart surgery I was mentally performing and went flying into the bedroom where, it turns out, he was lying completely relaxed on the bed, innocently looking up at me saying, "What?" Turns out the sound I thought was the cat getting ready to hurl was coming from inside me. Evidently the Cheerios I ate for breakfast had one hidden in there that had a ventriloquistic ability that allowed it to throw it's voice from somewhere in my lower intestines sitting in the living room clear through to the bedroom.

Somewhere in the Cheerios factory is a guy with a smirk on his face who's throwing the odd special cheerio every now and then into the batch going, "Ha, this'll get him." Which would be cool if you wanted to impress a date and make her think the cat was hoarking up in another room and you could laugh and go, "Ha, fooled you, didn't I? It's actually a special Cheerio I ate that you're hearing. Neat eh?" Then again, that would probably signal an early evening for some dates...

Only thing is, these special ventriloquistic Cheerios look and taste just like all the others. This makes it sort of the luck of the draw if you get one. And I get the taste thing because you want to keep the quality of the Cheerio eating experience. But maybe they could make the special ones a different color. So if you were having a night out with the guys or something you could pick out the special ones and your intestines could be the floor show. Or you could avoid them if you were having a night out with folks who just wouldn't get the humor. Like the Queen. Or other people that don't have bodily functions.

Which is silly really. Because where's the humor in not having bodily functions?

February 14, 1983

This is a stick. It has no monetary value. It's about 26 inches long with a bit of a knot at one end, which makes it easy to hold. It was found weather-beaten on a beach. At the time it proved to be a handy accessory; useful for prying up shells, urging along critters with claws, inspecting icky things in the sand, poking at embers in sunset bonfires and swiping at tall grass. A cord was added to allow it to swing freely or hang on a wall when its services were not required.

It's a historical fact that guys need sticks like this. It's a symbol of something or another and a testimony to the stylishness of leisurely pokes and the grandness of swings of the arm.

It's funny what we keep, given the number of times we move and each time we do we discard stuff that we've accumulated to lighten the load. But this small piece of wood was always sort of special. It holds memories.

And this year marks its 30 year anniversary. The date inscribed at the time with a pocketknife proves its age as a manly stick. And it has a bit more significance because there are two names carved above the date. They are the names of two people in love; who married the previous February. On Valentines Day. And the stick was inscribed that summer perhaps as an expression of hope and happiness. So while it may not be worth anything to anyone else, it reminds this guy that once upon a time he was loved by the most wonderful woman.

So today marks the day they married thirty years ago. Even though the relationship is long over, perhaps it still matters somehow. Even though they haven't met or talked in decades and even though they both went on with their lives and found happiness with others, it doesn't mean that something special didn't happen and it doesn't necessarily mean that the time spent together as one back then can't be remembered and perhaps even quietly celebrated now.

Events that happen when we were younger, when we share a deep love, help shape the fullness of our lives today. These experiences are rare and can never, ever be replaced. Never should past love be buried in the bitterness or angst of love lost, nor used cruelly as a shield to fend off new love from our hearts, because our hearts have no full gauge. They are meant to overflow. This kind of love knows no time limit, even if it visits us for only a brief period of time. It stays in our souls as pure as it was when it was unselfishly given and enriches us even now. In memories of joys we shared, in how our chests felt buoyant at the mere thought of each other, in kisses kissed, hugs given for no reason and secret smiles shared across crowded rooms. And more. Much, much more.

So, a message to a woman from a guy who had the honor of being your love so long ago might go something like this: even though time has passed and our lives are entirely different now, he treasures the gift you so freely gave back then. And there aren't words to tell you how much that meant to him and how precious those memories are today.

Happy Valentines Day. Happy Anniversary.

Love, Rand

Blundering Through Life's Side Effects

You're sick. You get something to take for it. Prescription drugs. The whole point of taking them is to get better. You know, from evil little bugs and illnesses your good friends give you or your kids kindly bring home from school or you get from doorknobs (and then make sure you lick your hands). In a perfect world, what these drugs really aren't supposed to do is add to your suffering. But you know that really tiny 3 point type at the bottom of pharma ads and the speed read rushed in at the end of their TV commercials? Disclaimers. They outline the possible side effects of taking the medications that are going to make you better.

The disclaimers generally go something like this: "Common side effects include headlessness, dizzy gillespie, tsunami, passing wind, sand pits, rage at the machine, and decreased karma, a side of fries, sore bussoms, banning from public swimming, onion rings, prostratigations (new word), ingrown toe nails, not being able to sleep or even insomnia. Some patients feel the urge to write love letters to Don Rickles, yell at microwaves, hype their playlist, play with bed bugs, or imagine their feet are six feet long. This medication should not be taken if you are pregnant or may be pregnant, planning on getting pregnant sometime in your future, have painted extremities, or have ever dropped Mentos into Coke bottles." And then comes my favorite ending: "In some cases patients have been known to suffer from loss of life and even death." Death. They sneak that in there.

Then they say, "Consult your doctor." So I go to my doc and tell her I want the stuff that I'm not supposed to take if I'm pregnant, or may be pregnant but definitely don't want the stuff that may make it impossible for me to become pregnant in the future. Because someday when medical science allows guys to do this I may want kids (born conveniently at 4 years of age) who can bring home more illnesses for me to catch. Death? Ha! Death doesn't worry me. I laugh in the face of death!

Now, to be fair, any medicine that is out on the common market has been tested and is relatively safe but depending on your metabolism, what you're taking, what else you're taking and how much of it and for how long, there can be issues; just as there can with practically any foreign substance (legal, not-so-legal and just plain scandalous) that you put into your body.

My favorite conversations with my doctor is when she says, here take this and hands me a prescription. Then she prints out another three prescriptions and I ask what they are for. She says, "Oh, to counteract the side effects of the first one." I'm afraid to ask about the possible side effects of the drugs I'm taking to counteract the side effects of the first medicine. Besides, by then she's usually out of the room.

These other side effect meds seem to work. I suffer from very few side effects. Maybe the times I find myself belting out "My eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord," while talking on the phone to clients is one. Plus, I'm convinced the mustaches growing just under my kneecaps will fade. And what about those horns, you ask?

What horns?

News Flash Big Guy: Laughing Is A Good Thing

Sorry about being late with this post. I was busy last night.

I thought this guy at the gas bar was going to write me a ticket or something.

Oh, my klutziness got the better of me again. I started laughing. The clerk at the cash did then as well. There we were laughing and the guy behind me in line took exception. I reminded myself that some folks love to be miserable. It's almost like an entitlement. You'd think this guy'd got a degree in miserable or something and was so much of an expert at miserability (new word) that he'd go out looking for happy people and offer to teach them how to be unhappy. He probably had a big tub of cranky in his trunk ready to deliver to my house for me to wallow in. (Wallow, love that word. It relates mainly to large mammals, to "roll about in mud or water, esp. to keep cool, avoid biting insects, or spread scent.") He probably thought he was doing me a favor showing me the error of my laughing ways and I left before he could get around to offering me a wallow.

He probably needed a hug. But I wasn't the one to give it to him. Rule number one with miserable people: no physical contact. Rule number two with people with wallowing tubs in their trunk: stop laughing. On the outside. Laughing on the inside is fine. Rule number three with wallowing people: agree with them profusely and walk away as soon as possible.

I laugh at myself all the time. Maybe it's in my DNA or something because I'm continuously finding new ways to break myself up. And sometimes I share.

An article on the healing powers of laughter, states "when laughter is shared, it increases happiness and intimacy. Laughter also triggers healthy physical changes in the body. Humor and laughter strengthen your immune system, boost your energy, diminish pain, and protect you from the damaging effects of stress." Then there was a quote from a doctor that I was going to include but it sounded like a preachy public service announcement. And we all know these can cause crankiness. You can look it up for yourself, but be forewarned.

I can't remember where I heard this but there was a motel owner who used humor to good effect. When half of his motel burned to the ground in a fire he changed his promo sign out front to read, "Great rates on non-smoking rooms." 

If we can laugh at our foibles it signals to others a self confidence that wallowing pool misery lovers will never project...

...so you might want to visit your own Happy Place yourself, Mr. Gas Bar Grump. (phhhhfffft)

Art, The Pleasure Center and Becoming Very Sexy

It seems we are surrounded with definitions of proper art. Not of the Garfunkel variety. Of the aesthetic kind. Not that Garfunkel isn't proper. Nor isn't he not an Art. Just not the art that can be defined. Perhaps even by Art himself.

"Aesthetic" describes a philosophical theory that defines what is beautiful. Those who think more than most would say art is a unique presentation of interpretation, technique, form, tone, texture, use of color and shape – one that hits the pleasure center in the brain (ie: nuclear accumenitos or NAcapow) via neurotransmongers. Said neurotransmongers, dopahumahuma and serotestical in turn punch out tiny pheromones via quicky messenger. Pheromones are chemical signals first discovered as a sex attractant in insects which make you very sexy. All add to the drama the eye beholds, the ear hears or the fingers touch. So if you hear someone exclaim, "Better than sex!" after taking in a piece of art, or you find them suddenly very, very attractive and want to jump their bones, you'll now know there is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon.

Other, less excitable affectionatoes tell of a conversation that happens between the objet d'art and the viewer. If something speaks to you, draws you in, creates an emotional response; it must be either art, you are off your meds, or you need to take a break from whatever you're imbibing.

Beauty, or the lack thereof, is indeed so subjective that no one can tell you what you should like and what you shouldn't. Most of us unless we're excessively boring, doing an academic paper or detailed gallery review don't consciously make a laundry list of why we like something. We just look at, listen to or nudge it in some way and go "Give me a cold shower!" or at the least, "Ahhhhhhhhhh. Cigarette?"

In marketing communications there is an occasional lack of understanding about the value of art in the design of business material. To draw the eye, create an impression and begin a relationship with the viewer even before a single word is read is a highly misunderstood and feared magic. While creatives yearn to give beauty and substance, marketers sometimes view this as a form of witchcraft; one that conjures the devil and makes one want to shed their clothing, slap paint on their torsos and dance around a fire. Therefore they feel it only prudent to request slapdashery and the mundane.

Artists have a phrase for when this happens.

"Oh well."