Art or Not?

Artist Tracey Emin recently turned the scene of personal heartbreak and despair into a windfall.  Her art installation titled, the Unmade Bed just sold for over $4 million.  For that price, the buyer not only gets the rumpled, stained sheets, but an assortment of empty liquor bottles, cigarettes, panties AND a condom.

Un. Fucking. Believable.

I'm amazed by this for a couple of reasons.  First, that someone would have the cajones to put her panty-laden, unmade bed in a gallery and call it art.  Second, that someone would pay that kind of money for an unmade bed with shit strewn on and around it.

Damn.  I'm sitting on a goldmine.  I'm surrounded by "art installments" just waiting to be discovered. When the dogs got into the trash, like a fool, I cleaned it up.  Next time, I'm getting an agent and putting that feast for the senses on the market.  Ca-ching!  Ca-ching!

Y'all get ready because I already have an artistic vision for my first show....  Keep in mind, these are only photographs.  The actual pieces will be life-sized and easily worth millions to people who have far more money than sense.  Hell, just because I want to share my art with the world, I'll go ahead and say right now that I'll sell the entire collection for a cool $1 million.

Total.  Bargain.

This first piece depicts the triumph of procrastination over easy care and clearly shows that labels do not define me.  Bonus!  The jeans can actually be worn when not on display.

"Fluff"

Society places rules and expectations on us.  Some of which I cannot abide.  For example, don't tell me a crisper drawer is for vegetables.  Who needs an entire drawer for lettuce?  No, sir.  Not in this house. Ours is reserved for wheat and barley.

"The Vault"

This piece is a personal one for me.  It depicts my commitment to diet beverages and recycling.  The lone regular drink hidden among the others represents temptation.  Deep.  

"Aspartame Orgy"

It's a cold, hard, fact:  Crime is everywhere.  Never is it more threatening to our existence than when it creeps into even the darkest corners of our home, brought by the ones we love.

"Money Laundering"

My last installment will be an experience for the senses.  You will you see it.  Hear it.  Smell it.    It may take time to rightfully gain access to the Commodores' hit, "Brick House" as it is the essential soundtrack to this piece, but I shall persevere until my vision is realized.

"Shit House"

Whew....  I'm drained.  Journeying deep into my soul to create these one-of-a-kind masterpieces is totally exhausting.  No doubt, it will take time to replenish what I have lost through the creative process.

Time to hit The Vault....

Dixie Panties

I've spent my entire life living in the South.  So, who would've ever guessed that I'd have to travel to a tiny island in Central America to meet the single most Southern woman I have ever encountered?  Imagine if Scarlett O'Hara and Foghorn Leghorn had a love child. 

In our very first conversation, she told me, "No matter where I go, I ALWAYS wear my Dixie panties!"  Let me give you a better idea of how this actually sounded....

No matta wheya I go, I awl ways wheaya my Dixay paantays!

The term "Dixie panties" was a first for me, but I can't help but picture a pair of granny panties with the Confederate flag splayed across the ass and old lace around the leg openings.  Who knows?  Maybe there's even a thong version.  Either way, classy.

The Devil went down on Georgia.

She also told me that she never dreamed she'd be married to a Yankee (and her husband was not a major league baseball player.)  She referred to the Civil War as if it occurred earlier this year.  She told me about a Yankee friend of her husband's whom she despised.  She recounted once telling the man, "You sir, I do not care for.  Your people did not even bury our dead!"  Again, here's how it sounded....

You sir, I do not cay ya forwa.  Yourwa people did not even bury our dea-ud!

She was in her sixties, but I have to give her credit, she looked great.  She'd definitely gone in for some maintenance, but it was extremely well done.  She was the only woman on the island who approached a day on the water with full makeup and lipstick.  (I'm pretty certain they had to throw away the snorkel she used after she left given that shade of lipstick.)

She'd saunter down each morning, her sandals clickety-clacking against the dock. A daringly cut one-piece, a brightly printed pareo around her hips.  An enormous, hot pink straw hat, the likes of which is not typically seen outside the Kentucky Derby.  No doubt it was needed to protect her alabaster skin.  Again, I have to give her credit, she committed to a look and rocked it.  The only thing missing was a parasol.

While I couldn't hear the conversation as she left the dock with a private guide, I can imagine....

Oh, Carlos, I hope we'll see more of those fish with all the pretty colors!

Oh, Carlos, I hope we'll see mowa of those fish with all the pretty cohlas!

Lord, have mercy, surely we won't see any sharks!

Lawad, have mercy, shorely we won't see any shawaks!

 

I love your accent, Carlos! I sure wish I had one.

I luuv yorwa accent, Carlos! I showa wish I had one.

I call bullshit (bullshiyaat) on her accent.  My accent is far from exotic, but hers was over the top.  She sounded like a character from the Colonel Angus skit from Saturday Night Live.  My inclination is that she was a charlatan conducting shenanigans!

I also call bullshit on her matrimonial partner.  No woman as devoutly Southern as she portrayed herself would ever let a Yankee anywhere near the shady thicket of her delicate poonanny.  

I can't help but wonder if her car horn sounds like that of the General Lee.... At the very least, I'm sure it doesn't go, "Beep! Beep!" but rather......

Hoewonk! Hoewonk!



As we say in the South, she was definitely a character.  Bless her heart.

Bad Ink

Exhibit A

There's a guy on trial for murder in Kansas with an unfortunate neck tattoo.  Out of all the things in the world he could have chosen to have permanently imprinted on his skin, he chose MURDER spelled backward.  As shitty as this tattoo is, I'm surprised the spelling is correct.  Okay, so what could make this an even worse choice for a tattoo?  Ending up on trial for murder.  Yeah.  Now he's trying to get it covered up real quick and in a hurry.

Since he's in jail, he can't get it covered with another tattoo or removed.  Jail really harshes your mellow.  Looks like Mr. Personality will be sporting a turtleneck during his summer trial.  (My guess is that this will be the first turtleneck this guy has ever worn.)

I don't think he should be able to cover up his tat for the trial.  It should be "Exhibit A" to establish that he has a history of poor decision making. Not allowing the jurors to see it would be like opening your door to a blind date with MICRO DICK or HERPES tattooed on his neck and not being able to see it.  That is need-to-know information!

I don't have any tats, but I have no objection to them -- especially if they are chosen well and well done.  The only thing that totally baffles me regarding tattoos is the apparent whimsy with which some folks choose them. 

You are really committing to a look when you get a tattoo where everyone can see it -- especially on your neck.   Let's be honest.  MURDER tattooed on your neck vastly restricts your upward mobility.  Hell, I wouldn't even want to look out and see my garbage collector fondling my Hefty's with such a menacing tat.

Since some folks don't seem to give a lot of thought when choosing their tats, I decided to provide some points to ponder when making such an important decision.  I consider it a public service for both those getting tattoos and the rest of us who will look at them.

So, you want to get a tattoo on your bicep....  Stand in front of the mirror and make a muscle.  See anything?  If not, think twice about calling attention to that area.  If you are a man wearing a sleeveless shirt when you do this, take it off and THROW. IT. AWAY.  There's no good reason for a grown ass man to be wearing a sleeveless shirt unless he is pumping iron.  Period.

You are a woman thinking about getting a "tramp stamp" tattoo on the small of your back.... 
Okay.  That can at least be covered up when needed.  However, if you are indeed a tramp, you might want to make that tat serve a purpose.  Maybe have it read, "My name is <INSERT NAME>" so that your "suitor" knows what to call you should your "relationship" progress so rapidly that basic personal information is not shared.

How about a tattoo on your face....  No.

But what if it's really meaningful and done very well....  No.

You are a woman considering a tattoo on your stomach....  Imagine that same image stretched across a beach ball.  Is it still cute?

You are a frat guy thinking about getting your Greek letters on your ankle....  Think how this will look one day when you are driving a minivan. Hanging on to your youth too hard makes you look sad later. As Elsa would say, "Let it go."

Maybe one?

How about a tattoo designed around an orifice of your body.... A little guy riding a lawnmower toward your lady grass might sound cute after a few drinks, but, try to control yourself.  One day you might decide to be classy.

And finally, I have to mention that if you consider having words of any kind permanently printed on your body, take at least one proofreader with you to the tattoo parlor.  You don't want to have any regrets in your choice of tattoo, but ending up with REGERTS would be even worse.

My Good Ol' Boy

My Hubs is without a doubt, the smartest, most tenacious person I know.  Whereas I'm easily distracted and don't suffer the least bit of angst at failing to solve a problem, he's the opposite.  He NEVER gives up.  If he goes to bed thinking about a problem, more often than not, the solution will awaken him before dawn.

Where I read fiction to relax, he delves into highly technical articles for kicks.  This man solves differential equations in his head.   Ask him about thermodynamics or fluid dynamics.  He'll tell you more than you ever wanted to know.

But, there is one thing he does that totally contradicts his intelligence....

Something that drives.  Me.  Crazy.

Does he channel surf?  Sure.  But, that's no biggee.  The problem is that no matter how fast he flips, if he catches a glimpse of one particular show, he ALWAYS stops.  No sometimes about it.  ALWAYS.  Surely with all those smarts it's a documentary or program on the science or history channel, right?

Nope.  My brainiac husband stops at the....Dukes of Hazard.  The.  Dukes. Of. Fucking. Hazard.

Just'a good ol' boys

Never meanin' no harm.

The opening lines of the theme song call to him like the Sirens' song.  Snaring his attention, causing his thumb to freeze over the remote.  Everything comes to a halt.  It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen.  As he watches, he snickers and laughs like a five-year-old boy.

Blows.  My.  Mind.

If I'm being totally honest, I'll admit that I'd be less disturbed if I walked in on him watching clown porn than Bo and Luke battling Boss Hogg for the umpteenth time. 

My theory is that Hubs' love of this moronic show is simply a release.  A time when he's able to give all of his brain cells a rest.  No deep plot to follow.  No complicated dialog to consider.  A reminder of the carefree days of childhood.

Back when he was single with no crazy wife to blog about him!

I guess you have to laugh!

Bigfoot BS

Have you heard?  Bigfoot's corpse is on tour.  Yep.  When it comes to a location near you, you can take a gander at the remains for $20.  Here's a photo of the anatomically correct corpse that was released from the exhibit:

Used car salesman and self-proclaimed Master Bigfoot Tracker, Rick Dyer, says he lured the creature in by nailing a rack of ribs to a tree.  Where can you get ribs tasty enough to tempt a sasquatch?  According to Dyer, Wal-Mart's the place.  I wonder if he'll add "Master Baiter" to his resume for this feat....

No footage of the legendary beast tearing into those ribs though.  Sounds fishy to me.  I don't know any hunter who would lure a trophy beast without setting up a game camera to capture it.

Any pictures of Dyer posed with his bounty after the kill?  Nope.  I have lived in the South my entire life, so I can say this with absolute certainty:  No redneck worth his Skoal would kill Bigfoot and not have a photo of himself smiling from ear-to-ear beside the carcass. That hairy son of a bitch would be thrown in a truck and driven around town until everybody and his brother had a picture of themselves posing next to it.

No mention of all the meat that would have been harvested from the beast either.  It's a rare hunter who will let a harvested animal of any kind go to waste.  My pal Skeeter would've had that thing processed and in her freezers in no time.  In addition to being an avid hunter, Skeeter is the Crock-Pot Queen.  (She has at least four that I know of and I wouldn't be surprised if she had backups.)  I can assure you, she'd have all her crocks working overtime on some squatch roast.

I call bullshit on this Bigfoot claim all the way around.  But, I have to ask....  Am I the only one who assumed even a fake Bigfoot would have a dwanger bigger than a cocktail wienie?  I would've thought it would be more in the Polska Kielbasa range.  At the very least, a BallPark Frank....

Weighing In

More power to you if dropping a few pounds is on your to do list for 2014.  I'm no expert, but I suggest steering clear of radical or celebrity hyped plans.

On Gwyneth Paltrow's lifestyle blog, Goop, she lists menus for a 300 calorie per day Winter detox. Here's Day One:

Glass of room temperature lemon water
Herbal tea
Chai Gingerbread Shake
Mug of hot lemon water or herbal tea
Chickpea Soup
Walnut Lentil Pâté
Quinoa Stuffed Kabocha

Wow.  I'm starving just reading that.  About the only thing I have on that list is the water.  Gwynnie no doubt has "people" to hunt down oddball dietary implements like kabocha and lentil pâté.  I've got better shit to do than go on a scavenger hunt for an Asian variety of winter squash and snack on seeds.

No doubt Gwynnie's innards are squeaky clean and you could bounce a quarter off her abs, but life is too fucking short to drink hot water and munch on dandelion roots.  But, hey, if that turns you on, go for it.  Just don't try to sell me on that pathetic bandwagon of self-depravation.  I'm no health guru, but personally, I'm fond of moderation.  (I drink with it all the time.)  I watch what I eat and exercise, but I also enjoy myself.

Any bulimic starlet who says that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels has obviously never had salted caramel gelato or a Krispy Kreme while the neon light is on.  I once indulged in an éclair in a small patisserie outside of Paris that was worthy of a post coital cigarette.  I wouldn't trade that culinary experience for any amount of quinoa or celery juice.

Besides, celebrities get paid very well to maintain their svelte figures.  They have personal chefs, trainers, nutritionists, plastic surgeons, etc. to help with the job -- and Photoshop if all that doesn't work -- so they really don't have much excuse not to look fantastic.  I bet their dinner parties aren't all that much fun, though....  I imagine Gwynnie inviting friends over for wheatgrass martinis then standing around munching on edamame and doing ass clenches to help burn off the calories.  I'd love to sneak a tray of bacon wrapped cocktail wienees into one of her soirees and watch what happens....

Weight loss product endorsements provide valuable incentives for celebs to shed the pounds.  Jessica Simpson reportedly made over $4 million for her original deal with Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers is a solid plan, but I wouldn't do it based on seeing Jess having a grand time frolicking in a meadow now that she can get her ass back into her jeans.  Hell, if someone paid me $4 million to follow a cat-turd-a-day diet, I'd dance around, give a fist bump and proclaim, "That shit's delicious!" I guaran-damn-tee you I could out-frolic good ol' Jess for way less money.

Thankfully, I've never been even close to the precipice of fame so I don't have to worry about anyone speculating when my tummy pokes out as to whether it is a baby bump or if I indulged in a Milk Dud.

Rest assured, it ain't no damn baby bump....  I Ain't Nobody's Mama!