Our American Problem

Trying to contemplate this from a respectful distance.

In 1990, I worked and lived in the Netherlands during a summer internship, and something interesting struck me. The strange polarities of European thought and opinions of America and Americans. On one hand, Americans were bourgeois boors without healthcare or grace. On the other hand, American chutzpah, military might, and knowhow not only helped defeat Fascism but also helped rebuild and reimagine Europe through the post-war period. Hollywood was denigrated while American moviemaking was venerated. American politics were reviled, but American authors and artists were revered. The idea of America’s self-important exceptionalism was something to be mocked while Americans as individuals were well thought of. It was totally fine pretending to be a cowboy wearing American blue jeans, while listening to American rock ‘n’ roll and jazz while crapping on American kitsch. Initially, I thought it was hypocritical but later appreciated that you can enjoy some aspects of a culture while recognizing the stuff that isn’t so good. American jazz, Wayfarer sunglasses: good. American flag speedos: bad. America’s Jim Crow South: bad. Americans landing on the moon: good. American military might to destabilize geopolitical norms: not so good.  American military might used to secure peace: good. America is not the best. Not in rates of literacy, child mortality, health care, income inequality, personal safety, freedom of speech, democracy, or life expectancy. Yet the idea of America is a pretty good one. Then I read this from Robert Reich:

“Dear allies of America, please don’t confuse our president with us.”
—Robert Reich

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The Good Old Stone Age Days

This is the life I imagined.

Did someone say they wanted to bomb us back to the Stone Age?

Oh, I can only hope to go back to the Stone Age. Simpler times, you know? No working for the man! No work at all. No mortgages, no bills to pay, no escalating gas prices and food lines. No social media! No screens! No tech at all. The only tech we need is fire and pointy sticks. Just you, on your own, against the world. You want a drink? Stick your face in some water and slurp up as much as you want. Hungry? I'm sure there are some berries on some bush somewhere. Lonely? Follow another group of similar-looking sapiens, roll around in their poop until you smell like them and they accept you as one of their own. Want a relationship? Fight someone until they tire out and take advantage of their limp body. Oh, not "woke enough" for you? Don't worry, you probably had to fight a bunch of people before you found the one right for you. By the way, no one cares about "wokeness", that's another thing in the Stone Age: no stupid politics. In fact, no ideas at all. We're all out here trying to survive, man! No one's got time for pollsters and door-to-door canvassers. No doors at all. No lawns for lawn signs. No signs! No lawns! Great! No lawns to mow. That just means more time for me to lie around (maybe in a cave or up in a tree) avoiding being eaten by large cats.

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Art Therapy

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1 / 12

Serpent got your tongue.

2 / 12

Nothing to smile about.

3 / 12

Dozy Don

4 / 12

Best ballroom evah! Now on hold.

5 / 12

Many people are saying he has a "huge" serve.

6 / 12

Fired AG says "What?"

7 / 12

Chairman of the Bored

8 / 12

Oblivious/Oblivion

9 / 12

Big boys get big toys.

10 / 12

No really, where is Europe?

11 / 12

Fake it 'til you make it!

12 / 12

The one and only FIFA Peace Prize Winner!

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Use the arrows or dots to go forward or back

I’m not a therapy kind of guy. Not because I believe a long bike ride is better than therapy, but because a long bike ride is more fun than therapy. Also, I do this thing where I write my feelings down in a private journal that I then post on the Internet for everyone to see but for no one to find. While my mind is full of ideas and things to try and stuff to make, I haven’t ever really expressed myself fully through art the way, say, professional artists do (presumably).

My very first day at design school, our professor said, “I wanted to be an artist, but it turns out I was too tidy.” I knew then I’d found my people. I’m not only too tidy to be an artist, but, I feel, how to put this kindly, I’m too happy. When I’m not being happy, I’m mostly OK. Of course, I get sad, perhaps depressed, frustrated, and an all-round sour puss. But not enough of a sour puss to want to make a painting about it and tell everyone it’s a picture of flowers when, in fact, it’s a symbolic representation of my unresolved grief over the loss of my parents.

Trust me. I’ve tried to be that kind of artist. There was bad poetry and some truly terrible paintings. Instead of projecting my real feelings, these terrible paintings looked an awful lot like the covers of bad sci-fi paperbacks. “The tiger represents my desire, but the chain around the tiger’s neck is the repression of my freedom. The comely woman in the fur bikini holding the chain represents an attractive woman I saw in a movie poster once.” You know what I mean.

In truth, the thing is, I am pretty repressed. It’s a condition most commonly called, “Normal”. Being too Normal can really hold you back in creative endeavours. We on the Normal Spectrum can often be found to be pleasant but unexceptional in any way. But our Normality is just a mask. Not a creepy Venice Carnival kind of mask, but the shield we put up to get by in this crazy world.

The only thing I’ve found to drop my shield, my force field of normality, is sketching. Even then, it takes quite a lot of sketching before a flow state is reached, and something comes loose like a cat that jumps to life and runs wildly around the house in a state of unknown euphoria. It may not last long, and then it fades away. That phase is outside of time. It is its own country. It has its own weather and phases of the moon. That, for me, is even better than a bike ride, which, as I’ve said, is a good bit of fun.

Like any rational person, I’m feeling a lot of stress from the cacophony of crises we find ourselves bombarded with this year. Many of these crises stem from or are embodied by one man. A single idiot has caused more harm in a year than a half dozen caused in fifty. I will not name him, as the existence of his name on yet another page only perpetuates his presence. How do you gain power over the powerful? You make them small and silly. That’s what cartoons are for. So here is my closure. My control. My anger. My spite. My spit. My venom. Some silly drawings of an unserious “short-fingered vulgarian”. These drawings are my art. They are my therapy.

Seen in March

Taking it to the streets in One Battle Afer Another.

I don't think that much of the Academy Awards… or at least I didn't think I did. Then I discovered exactly how few people even think about the Academy Awards at all. I certainly wouldn't say it was a hallmark of cinematic excellence, as the focus is very much on the American film industry. Yet, with the expanded "Best Film" category to ten nominees, it does make me realize how few films I've seen in recent years. At the very least, it's a list of stuff to check out. Here's what I checked out.

Michael B. Jordan and Michael B. Jordan in both his roles as Smoke and Stack.

Sinners
Crave
A Ryan Coogler joint that continues a string of films by Black Americans that use the horror genre to explore themes of race in America. This film, on its surface, is about twin brothers in the 1930s who have decided to take their ill-gotten gains from their time in Chicago to open a juke joint back in their Mississippi home. They cut deals with locals, including a clansman sheriff, to get their enterprise off the ground, only to have their business beset by vampires on opening night. But you know, it is the Jim Crow South, so it's really about more than just vamps. It's an extraordinarily looking film, and in one much-talked-about sequence, also illustrates the spirit and lineage that make up American music. It's a wild time with great performances from a charismatic cast, such as Michael B. Jordan, who plays both twin brothers in his Academy Award-winning turn.

Love on the Spectrum S01-02 (Australia)
Netflix
Someone said that what the Great British Bake Off was during the pandemic, this show is the feel-good lift we need during the current news cycle. The premise of this reality-documentary series is simple: follow people who are on the neurodiversity spectrum as they look for love. Yet, it is handled so warmly and respectfully, you'll not only learn about their lives but also about yourself as we all have to navigate a world of sometimes confusing social norms. You'll find yourself rooting for these folks as they face the challenges ahead of them.

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Not now, never or shall be

All the tea that's fit to spill.

Thank you for coming here today to hear my announcement. For the record, I want you all to know that I am not now, nor ever have been, nor ever was, nor ever shall be in a relationship with a now deceased sex-trafficking pedophile or his criminal accomplice.

Certainly, we may have moved in the same circles, ellipses, tangential lines, parallel paths, adjacencies, intersecting lines, x-axis, y-axis, or vanishing lines, but we were not in what you might refer to as a relationship. Of course, we were relational in the sense of different celestial bodies that have some kind of gravitational effect on each other and had seen each other across a room and may have, in what is considered societal common courtesy, approached one another and greeted each other in a non-committal arm hug (definitely no bodily contact). Perhaps our cheeks brushed against each other’s, causing a small electrical spark that merely reflected opposing charges, which in turn may have caused a sensation in the skin that stimulated a natural response in the limbic system. That response, combined with other senses inherently triggered, a tingling throughout the rest of my body in what some people may refer to as a domino effect of the nervous system that set off a sort of avalanche of hormones and burning desire, but that is a normal and a common response to meeting someone dangerous, intoxicatingly charismatic, and powerful. It's the type of contact you might have in a multi-coupling orgy with dozens of strangers in a darkened, poorly decorated room on a tropical island. I'm not talking about a weird "Eyes Wide Shut" kind of deal, but more of a bacchanalian, Roman affair where bystanders and servants kept a record of your number of orgasms throughout the evening (how else would you know who deserved tickets to the 50-50 door prize?).

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