Simon David Winthrop

2008-12-16T15:57:00.000-08:00

It's a beautiful day!

2008-11-05T00:29:00.000-08:00

Caribou Barbie and Pops

2008-09-05T12:45:00.000-07:00

New works

2008-03-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Important new performance pieces by Feline-American artist Catfish.

Left:
Catfish, "High Box Piece", 2008, 2 hours 13 minutes,
the artist tucked in the top box of a 7 foot high stack of boxes.

In this wry commentary on the human trend toward "extreme sports",
the artist forces the viewer to consider the inherent risks found in
some contemporary, supposedly "leisure" activities manifested in modern media by such television programming as "Fear Factor" and "Survivor".

Right:
Catfish, "Rabbit Roadkill Piece", 2008, indeterminate duration.

The artist assumes performance position in mathematical center of gallery floor, requiring visitors to step over or walk around.
This work serves as a powerful reminder of the casual approach humans take to mortality in the animal world, forcing the viewer to carefully consider the role of speciesism in his thinking processes.

Oh, grow up.

2007-12-07T16:56:00.001-08:00

Priorities.

2007-11-07T22:40:00.000-08:00

Happy Halloween to all!

2007-10-31T00:17:00.001-07:00

Art review

2007-09-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

“Spider”, 2007, Metal “butterfly chair” supports, 38” by 38” by 30”.

Post-Modernism brought to us the linkage between the often pedantic formality of Modernism and the decided impiety of Pop, a union some may have found intellectually, if not literally in a physical sense, insalubrious, but one which those whose openness to new experience both visually and ab imo pectore can embrace in all of its impertinent effulgence.

Is there, then, a work which encompasses all we have come to expect to see shot from the Post-Modern Canon? Is there a representative of not only the aforementioned formality, perhaps ironically, in form, but the equally aforementioned impiety, perhaps no less ironically, in materials?

This critic suggests there is such, as the French say, un représentant bearing the flag of this most dynamic and controversial era in Art. It is culminated in the sculpture depicted, “Spider”, a work which blends the lyrical line of a three dimensional Pollock while subtly revealing its origins in Twentieth Century leisure furniture. Another irony, always an inevitable element of Post-Modernism, is found in the hard, rusting metal such that which we experience in a Serra piece many times the size and weight, both literally and figuratively, of “Spider”, with the inverse provided in the resonance of its eponymous l'exemple dans la nature, weaving and looping in an evocation of that creature’s agile and balletic movement.

Functioning as both a simulacrum of Modernist sculpture revering form uber alles and an Anacreontic adumbration of the everyday world, both in Nature and in interior design accessories, “Spider” fuses the two often dichotomous movements into a single statement that cannot help but resonate through the years since the former’s inception as a revolt against the Academy’s tyranny of the literal and bring peace, if not in the world, at least in the galleries, museums and salons, surely a worthwhile endeavor on its own merits.

The President of the United States of America

2007-09-16T14:45:00.000-07:00

Is that pride swelling in your chest or are you just appalled to see him?

Bad dogs!

2007-08-30T17:58:00.001-07:00

It is rumored the now late Leona Helmsley intended to will her money to God, but her attorney was dyslexic.

Chloe's New Hat (of the Ten Gallon variety)

2007-07-12T15:13:00.000-07:00

What on earth, you may be this very minute exclaiming to yourself, perhaps startling either your co-workers, your menagerie of pets or children, or, if you are more fortunate than most, your manservant, as I relate this tale. Well, allow me to assure you the shock was no less thoroughly reverberating through my own psyche when my dear friend Chloe, of whom you may recall I have written several times, presented the fruits of her latest musical exploit. Ever the maîtresse de la multi-task, Chloe has added graphic design to her list of services for the budding musician, including the creation of posters and merchandise as well as compact disc packaging. You may recall from previous posts herein that she excelled not only as vocalist for the punk-jazz ensembles Professional Driver on Closed Road and Cinnamon Sinatra, but publicist as well. Now it seems she has become enamored of a style of music more familiar to backroad honkey-tonks where flung bottled beverages are as likely as cries of “bravissimo!” to be heaped upon the entertainers of the evening. Not quite the “country” music popular among hillbillies and backwoods jackanapes, not quite, either, rock and roll, it is rather a synthesis of the two and, I am told, is identified by the moniker “Americana”. She is also apparently enamored of the bass player in the cacophonous collection of musicians making up the band that presently has her attention, both creatively, financially and physically, if you take my meaning, and has for the moment relocated to the wilds of Texas, her charges' home base.

The appellation of this group is a pluralized version of the lead vocalist’s old schoolfellow’s name, chosen not only because of the general rural connotation it generates, but also the last syllable “calf” suggests a certain youthful exuberance, as well as ranches, rodeos, horse riding, roping, “bulldogging”, campfires, branding, the smell of burning hair and flesh as the logo is applied, roundups and, I must suppose, meatpacking plants and hearty steaks as well.

In any case, Chloe has a new diversion for her ever-mercurial attention span and in the post above you will find the results.

While her new obsessions perfirn no old favorites such as “Ghost Riders in the Sky” or “On the Wings of a Snow White Dove” or “Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life”, they do specialize in tunes I am certain, given Chloe’s infamous persistence, will become the “country-rock”, or if you will, the “rockabillygoat” classics of tomorrow.

2007-06-02T18:24:00.001-07:00

The Visionary Dr. Beaker!

Creator/inventor of the wonder of the early 1960s age, Supercar! A man whose eyes could see things of which we mere mortals could only dream! The enormity of his espial can only now be fully appreciated! Perhaps only The Sage, as is so often the case, comes close to giving this dreamer, this enthusiast, this idealist, this mystic, this prophet, this romancer, this romantic, this seer, this stargazer, this theorist, this utopian, his richly deserved due when he said, "Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes"...Indeed!

Exclusive!

2007-02-01T20:22:00.000-08:00

An Interview with President Bush on the Future of the Internet(s)

Q: Mr. President, what do you see as the future of the Internet?

President Bush: Well, you see, first you gotta look at what the internets are. See, it’s inter, in other words, it’s in somethin’, and it’s a net, like in fishin’. Now, Poppy and me, we don’t use nets, we use $100,000 cigarette boats. But that doesn’t mean they’re made or paid for by cigarette companies, that’s just what they’re called. I always tell Poppy, hell, they oughtta call ‘em Jack Daniels boats, and give us several, as much of that stuff I put away in my “youthful discretion” days…heh heh heh…

Q: What do you see as the future?

President Bush: That’s a good question, the future is important. It’s when things happen that haven’t happened yet. So it’s called the future. Not the past. Now what happens in the future is important. What happened in the past isn’t important. I hope everybody remembers that. It’s like that whole WMDs thing. Water under the bridge. You know, like those bridges over the Tigris. If there are any left. Heh heh…
You’re gonna edit that part out, aren’t you? You better there, Stretch, or else you might just get a little visit from my buddy, “Albeano” Gonzales…
But I digress…See that’s a word like all those egghead know-it-alls at Yale used to use to show how smart they thought they were. Y’see, it’s made up of di, from the root word diversion, meaning to change the subject, and gress, which is from…well, I don’t know what that part comes from…could be a variation of gross. But anyway, diversion is the root word for di, I know that for sure. Diversion is a good root word. Like I was tellin’ Vice the other day…that’s Cheney, I call him Vice. I have nicknames for everybody, like “Albeano”, “Stretch”, “Egghead”, or “ItchyShoulders”, that’s what I call that German lady that is supposed to be in charge of that place.
But there I go digressin’ again! So like I was tellin’ Vice, “Vice” I says, “We got to get us a diversion before we start messin’ with Iran. But we can’t get one that goes haywire, like LBJ did with that Talcum Gulf business, or even like we did with all that talk about Iraq’s WMDeezers. We gotta get our quail in a row, before we start shootin’ lawyers in the face, you know what I mean?” And he says “Yes, Mr. President”. See, everybody has to call me “Mr. President”. Or “Sir”. I like it when they all say “Sir”.
What was your question?

Q: What do you think is the future of the internet?

President Bush: Well, you see, first you gotta get your grammar right. See, it’s internets, like more than one. All you gotta do is use that Goggle thing, or Google or whatever it is…y’know, whenever anybody talked about that, I thought they were talking about something Arnie used to do with his secretaries or something, you know Arnie, the governator of California, or Cal-ee-forn-ee-a as he calls it; foreigners are funny, aren’t they, the way they talk and all? Anyway, do that Google thing and punch in “internet” and you’ll get somethin’ like a million things about it.
So anyway, it’s internets, like more than one. See, the right question should be “What do you think are the future of the internets”. Even I know that. If it was just one internet, then you would use “is”. People say I’m not as smart as Clinton, but one thing’s for sure, I know that “is” means “is”.

Q: Thank you, Mr. President.

President Bush: You got that right.

Baby New Year 2007 contemplates his future...!

2007-01-01T01:06:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays to all!

2006-12-25T11:36:00.000-08:00

Santa lurks...and the night sky smirks!

2006-12-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

A Thanksgiving Memory

2006-11-26T19:29:00.000-08:00

Greetings, salutations and a joyous holiday season to you all! Thanksgiving with the Winthrop clan was, with one small exception, calm and relaxing this year. After the recent unpleasantness, the family consensus was to celebrate the holiday in the welcoming bosom of Uncle Augustus and Auntie Magda's retirement villa in the Catskills. They have only been ensconced there for the past six months or so, since Uncle had installed a large Jacuzzi for long soaks in said cauldron to relieve his increasingly debilitating lumbago. Auntie Magda has also felt more comfortable in that quiet rural location since the arrival of the spa. She says its low rumble reminds her of the sound of city traffic, easing the ache in her heart which is her
homesickness for Manhattan. Late in the eventide she joins Uncle Augustus on the deck, he naked as nature intended, enveloped by massaging bubbles, she in an adirondack, puffing happily on a fat Cuban, regularly, albeit surreptitiously, supplied by Ricardo, her Havana penpal.

But I digress. As I alluded before, this holiday congregation was much subdued until the discombobulating appearance of Cousin Acacia. We were sitting down to feast, when she made her usual promenading entrance accompanied by her j'taime du jour, this time a statuesque Haitian gentleman, tattooed from head to foot (I am told, since mercifully he was dressed the entire time, unusual for some of cousin's associates.) He was a nice enough fellow I suppose (some of the older relations were relieved that, as far as they knew, he was of a different gender than Cousin) but it was hard to know for certain, as he did not speak English, although that mattered little since any one attempting conversation would have been incessantly distracted by a work in progress covering most of his face. It appeared to be a tattoo artist's version of Rockwell's "Freedom from Want", created specially for this very event. However, the work had apparently been interrupted as abruptly as that of the citizens of Pompeii by Vesuvius' eruption, and resembled a partially complete paint by numbers version.

But again I digress! Curse this holiday meal catatonia!

I was speaking of Cousin Acacia's actions. Always the iconoclast, Acacia (Cousin Acid-casualty, the children call her) announced she was converting us all to her new faith of radical veganism. With that pronouncement, she produced a covered dish. With an authoritative snap of her fingers, her tattooed paramour stepped up and removed the lid. There sat a lump, vaguely dome-like in shape, and greyish, brownish, let us say taupeish in color. Speaking for myself I was somewhat amused by this display, at least until Acacia shoved aside my carefully prepared Waldorf salad to make room for her own tray of mystery. Auntie Magda was entering the dining room at that very moment barely visible under the load of roasted avian magnificence that was this year’s turkey. Stopping dead still,
she peered over her burden's still steaming haunches.

"What is that?", she demanded.

"It is tofurkey", haughtily replied Cousin Acacia.

Uncle Augustus rose slowly from his chair, his eyes gloweringly delivering his trademark look of disapproval ("The eye of stink", the children call it). He slammed his cane onto the table, loudly rattling what silver and china was not sent flying.

"There will be no faux turkeys in this house!", he growled.

Foolishly, and alas, typically, Acacia tried to argue her point.

"It is tofu, not meat. It is healthy, good for you. Anyway, I no longer eat anything that once had a face."

Uncle shook and sputtered with rage.

"Get out! And take your circus freak with you, or it may be your own faces being eaten", he shouted.

Cousin turned and stormed out in a huff, her friend scurrying behind her. The tofurkey quickly followed with its own departure. I failed to notice who dispatched it, but I heard its gelatinous impact on the outside lawn. The children later told us even the hounds, which had been released on the retreating cousin and companion, refused to touch it.

Things settled down quickly and we continued what turned out to be a fabulous banquet. Cousin Danforth acted as sommalier, introducing a fine bottle and keeping all glasses brimming. He said he had made his choice after his weekly call to his favorite television psychic.

After dinner we retired to the drawing room for coffee and one of my favorite traditions, the Winthrop String Ensemble performing selections from the Carl Stalling repertoire. For me no family gathering is complete without a rousing rendition of "Putty Tat Trouble Part 6" or "Mouse in the Factory"!

May all of your remaining holidays be as filled!

Do not believe the Borg...!

2006-08-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

Grandmama Agatha's Culturally Costly Cats

2006-07-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

During a weekend rather obscured by a haze of the purple hue, I found myself in reminiscence, at least during such time as I was not engaged in counting the ants traveling along a ledge outside the window of our ensconcement, over my dear departed grandmother, Dame Agatha Winthrop, whose life and budding career (which I will forthwith describe) was cut short by the wheels of a 1954 Metropolitan, hurling her aging but still active body from the Williamsburg Bridge (where she always insisted in taking her nightly walk, into Manhattan and then back to Brooklyn, quite a bit of exercise for anyone, young or old, no less considering her insistence on eschewing the traditional walking escarpment for the actual roadway itself) into the East River.
For some months prior to this tragedy (to the Winthrop family, certainly, but I am sure by the end of my story all will agree, a loss quite possibly to all of Culture itself) Grandmother Agatha had taken to imbibing in the "Sweet Leaf" (as monikored by noted connoisseur of all things consciousness altering, Ozzy Ozbourne, and recorded on the collection of melodies "Master of Reality" by the Black Sabbath musical ensemble) to relieve her considerable difficulty slipping into the arms of Morpheus. This had quite the opposite effect, however, as it seemed to grace her with boundless energy and creativity, as well as a touch of dementia. Her outlet for this newfound "Arte Vida", as well as its rather eccentric side effects, would be considered by some to be a "folk" or "naive" or "outsider" art, ala another genius of a certain age, the great Grandma Moses.
Grandmother Agatha imagined herself to be the maiden of Greek mythology, Arachne. She began an extensive project of weaving enormous and elaborate webs from balls of yarn she had originally collected for the amusement of her growing brood of cats. The walls, ceilings and floor of the largest room in her apartment were covered with these colorful and gossamer creations. The thorough documentation she had prepared left us with the impression that she had intended to submit her work to a number of museums. Then the foul hand of Tragedy reached up from its fetid catacombs and destroyed these smoke filled dreams; she was struck down by the aforementioned assassin. But Tragedy was not yet done with his perfidious labors! Several days passed before Grandmother Agatha's remains were discovered amidst the usual refuse of New York's rivers. During this time her cats, desperately seeking nourishment, came upon a hidden stash of the "herb of enjoyment", ate their fill, and then ripped the through closed door to Grandmama's work room and destroyed the yarn webs in a frenzy of feline frolic!
Thus was lost a treasure both birthed and, ironically, some may suggest, obliterated by "reefer madness".

Regrettably…

2006-05-11T20:30:00.000-07:00

...I do not believe in the CHILDREN OF GOD.

From: Mrs. Monica William

PLEASE ENDEAVOUR TO USED IT FOR THE CHILDREN
OF GOD.

I am the above named person from Kuwait. I am
married to Dr.Harry William who worked with
Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years
before he died in the year 2004.We were married
for eleven years without a child. He died after
a brief illness that lasted for only four days.
Before his death we were both born again
Christians. Since his death I decided not to
re-marry or get a child outside my matrimonial
home which the Bible is against. When my late
husband was alive he deposited the sum of Ten
Million Dollars (Ten Million United State Dollars)
with one finance/security company in Amsterderm-
Netherlands.

Presently, This money is still with the Security
Company. Recently, my Doctor told me that I would
not last for the next three months due to cancer
problem. Though what disturbs me most is my
stroke sickness. Having known my condition I
decided to donate this Fund to church or better
still a christian individual that will utilize
this money the way I am going to instruct here in.
I want a church that will use this funds to fund
churches,orphanages and widows propagating the
word of God and to ensure that the house of God
is maintained. The Bible made us to understand
that Blessed is the hand that giveth.

I took this decision because I don't have any child
that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not Christians and I don't want my husband's hard
earned money to be misused by unbelievers. I don't
want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner.

Hence the reason for taking this bold decision.
I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am
going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom
of the Lord. Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the lord
will fight my case and I shall hold my peace. I
don't need any telephone communication in this
regard because of my health and because of the
presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.

With God all things are possible. As soon as I
receive your reply I shall give you the contact
of the Finance/Security Company in Amsterderm-
Netherlands. I will also issue you a letter of
authority that will prove you as the original
beneficiary of this Funds. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the lord is my shephard.
My happiness is that I lived a life of a worthy
Christian. Whoever that wants to serve the Lord must serve him in spirit and truth. Please always be
prayerful all through your life.
Any delay in your reply will give me room in
sourcing for a church or christian individual for
this same purpose. Please assure me that you will
act accordingly as I stated herein.
Hoping to hearing from you.

N.B-PLEASE I WILL ADVICE YOU TO GIVE THE LAWYER IN
CHARGE A CALL IN NETHERLANDS IMMEDIATELY, HE DOES
EVERYTHING ON MY BEHALF AND HE'S VERY UNDERSTANDING
AND I BELIEVE HE WILL LEAD YOU TO YOUR SUCCESS IN
JESUS NAME AMEN.

Name: MR.EDWARD SMITH

Remain blessed in the name of the Lord.

Yours in Christ,

Mrs. Monica William

I am a Druid, consequently I can aid only in maintenance of the Great
Oak prior to Midnight Veneration. Join us, Mrs. William, and find true
solace in the Bosom of His Arboreal Majesty instead!

We all understand the heartbreak of A.D.D...

2006-05-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

...but be careful with that coffee!

Alas no, you may not.

2006-05-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

Today my ever impetuous inbox greeted me with this missive, its most important aspect emboldened below:

Dear Friend,
I hope my email meets you well. I am in need of your assistance. My
name is SGT. GERALDINE MARCUS, I am in the Engineering military unit here in Ba'qubah in Iraq, we have about $65 Million US dollars that we want to move out of the country. My partners and I need a good partner someone we can trust. It is oil money and legal.

But we are moving it through diplomatic means, to send it to your house directly or a bank of your choice using diplomatic courier service.The most important thing is that CAN WE TRUST YOU? Once the funds get to you, you will take your 35% out and keep our own 65%. Your own part of this deal is to find a safe place where the funds can be sent to and kept.
Our own part is sending it to your doorstep where the consignment will be delivered to you. If you are interested you will need to give me your full names, an identity, address, telephone and fax number where the diplomat will reacch you as soon as he arrives your country and i will furnish you with more details that will facilitate your immediate access to the fund. But the whole process is simple and we must keep a low profile at all times.

Thanking you and waiting for your urgent and favourable response.

Regards,

SGT GERALDINE MARCUS.

Clearly, SGT MARCUS cannot "trust me". See how I mock this brave servant of our country's freedom, defending us from our president's alcohol induced fantasies, see how I discard with irresponsible contempt her attempt to not only safeguard funds vital to national security, but enrich yours truly in the process, see how I display her faith, her certitude in my trustworthiness on this world wide forum for any malcontent and ne'er-do-well to view and treat with puerile derision!
I hang my wretched head in shame! Damn me. Damn me to hell!

Trivia, High Art and Madness

2006-04-23T20:28:00.000-07:00

It is hard to believe that a mere two weeks ago I found myself lifted, as a phoenix, from a rather tenacious moment of melancholy to a grand and gratifying endeavor of quite possibly history changing consequence! I was feeling a bit dispirited by my dear Auntie Minerva’s recent involuntary commitment to Danvers. She had acquired the habit of locking herself in her gynaeceum for weeks on end, surviving with her peculiar talent of catching cockroaches with a bar of soap, on those rare occasions when her interest waned from the incessant blast of the television’s parade of game and talk shows, played at a volume that would surely have cast an elephant to ground had one been able to share such a minuscule space. Obviously this could not go on, so the family had the most unpleasant task of sending ‘round the boys in white. Seeing dear Minerva dragged from her apartment, screaming about how an all cockroach diet was essential to good nutrition, and that Star Jones was a prophet and veritable overweight Obadiah, who must be heard and comprehended before all was lost, was not a scene I hope to witness again in a hurry, believe me.

In the nick of time my good friend Chloe rang and announced that she had been chosen to aid a most prominent and respected artist of international renown in the realization of his latest project. It was hardly necessary to interrogate her further, as she was most anxious to fill in every detail posthaste.

Chloe told me the brilliant German conceptualist Rudolf Günter had leased a large space in Sag Harbor, and was preparing to build the most physical aspect of this new installation. It is the first part of a massive undertaking, which will, upon fruition, question every presupposition we have held most dear about History, Chance, and the Personality of Evil. To be finally titled “The Eccentric Assassins”, this symphony of sights, sounds, and experience is to be made up of three parts, working backward in history. It will raise important questions about our understanding of the spirits and motives of the three Presidential assassins; Booth, with “The Assassin Who Thought He Could Fly”, Czolgosz, in “The Virtually Vowel-less Assassin”, and Oswald, in this first installation, with which Chloe was to assist in the creation, “The Laziest Assassin”. It will utilize drawings, charts, diagrams, and a scale model of the assassination site, including a supplementary model of the trail from the infamous Schoolbook Depository to Oswald’s apartment. Mr. Günter’s contention is that Oswald was the “laziest” of these killers, since he chose to ride a bus, rather than walk, to his hideout.

Chloe invited me to accompany her and provide whatever help I could to this exciting project. Of course I accepted! The opportunity to bask in the presence of a mind such as that of Mr. Günter is a rare one indeed, and we and the other volunteers spent the weekend in hard and satisfying work, framing diagrams and drawings, assembling and painting pieces of the magnificent and strangely touching model. Monday evening we celebrated our efforts with gusto at a nearby restaurant. The conversation turned, naturally enough, to the media depictions and theorizing about the Kennedy assassination, on to Oliver Stone’s “JFK”, then to film in general. One of our party spoke of his favorite piece of cinema satire and social criticism, “Network” and declared Albert Finney to be a genius in the part of mad newsman Howard Beale. I spoke up immediately, pointing out that Albert Finney did not play Howard Beale, but curse my failing memory, could not bring to mind the name of the thespian, I remembered later to be Peter Finch, who did portray that prophetic character, and in fact won an Academy Award in the process. My new friend stated most obstinately that I was wrong, and until I provided an alternative name at once I could not prove otherwise. At that point our rather harried waitress came by for our desert and after dinner drink orders. I enlisted her in our debate, asking her if she could provide the correct answer. She was not aware of the film, being of a more tender age than the rest of us, but said she would ask the bartender, an expert in trivia. She returned with our dessert selections, but failed to mention our discussion.

“My dear,” Mr. Günter asked her good naturedly, his deep German accent a joy to hear, “have you made any progress on that actor’s name?”

Slightly rattled, she profusely apologized, and took off for the bar. We had dedicated ourselves to consuming our desserts like starving rabbits, when our waitress returned with our drinks. She, with great flourish, presented Mr. Günter with a bottle of beer, which he had not ordered. He looked a bit puzzled, then read the label, breaking into a robust display of laughter. The rest of us decried being in the dark concerning his merriment, so he turned the bottle for us to read its name.

Clearly misunderstanding his earlier request for “that actor’s name”, our flummoxed waitress had brought a cold bottle of the delicious California brew, Anchor Steam!

Three days later...

2006-04-18T16:43:00.000-07:00

In Memoriam

2006-04-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

.....or will it rise again?

A Midsummer Night's Typing

2006-04-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

As many of you are musicians as well as visual artists, perhaps you may find a bit of simpatico with this anecdote. Last summer, after the sister of my dear friend Chloe discovered she was “in a family way”, and, as tradition and natural laws dictate, “brought forth new life” she chased the father to England, DNA results and various writs in hand, leaving Chloe to function not only as lead vocalist for the punk-jazz ensemble Professional Driver On Closed Road but as publicist as well.

She was not completely unprepared for such responsibility for she had served in that dual role as leader of her first melodic assembly, Cinnamon Sinatra. CinSin, as they became known to the cognoscenti, performed, in the same style as Chloe’s current group, cover tunes made famous by the Chairman of the Board and could only be experienced in a live club setting. That encounter could never be considered complete until, after hearing le jazz punque´ groupe’s renditions of “Summer Wind” and “In the Wee Small Hours”, the show was brought to an ovation by “Somethin’ Stupid”, with Chloe singing, such is the range of her voice, both Mr. Sinatra’s and his daughter Nancy’s parts in that pop classic!

Now her current band, PDOCR, is preparing to release its first cd, “Objects D’Art (Are Closer Than They Appear)”. It will include a few standards, “Lush Life”, “Autumn Serenade”, and “Nature Boy” among them, but, like all artists, their preference is for their own originals, so the release party will feature a live performance of their signature tune, “Do Not Attempt”.

It is this soiree that became Chloe’s first publicity project following her sister’s quest to bring paternistic justice to her paramour, as he clearly had no interest in bringing himself to such justice. I accepted Chloe’s Saturday night request for help in formulating the CD release announcement and arrived at her West Village apartment to discover that her computer had given up its ghost in the machine. She had produced an archaic Underwood typewriter, rolled into it a sheet of parchment and was preparing to hunt and peck her way through this document, using all of the weight in her slight frame to push each key, which would rise from its resting place like some great lumbering beast, crash to the paper with a dull, but thunderous KER-THUNK, leaving an inky mark of typography in its path instead of a footprint. This irregular but persistent noise caused her boyfriend, Myron, to storm from the bedroom, rage about how he could not sleep with this racket and figuratively, if not literally, throw us out of the apartment. A stockbroker, Myron has never been one to relax and the time since the Great Unpleasantness has certainly not improved his disinclination to drift easily into the arms of Morpheus.

Temporarily relieved of a space in which to work, we agreed there was only one alternative: treat ourselves to a bit of imbibitions! The Cubbyhole is Chloe’s favorite neighborhood landing, so off to West 12th we sauntered, trading an occasional example of soft shoe along the way. Upon arrival we ordered our
favorite choices of cocktail and sat down to enjoy the parade humaine. Presently a young man stepped up to our table, introduced himself as Gerard and announced that he was offering free cigarette samples in exchange for answering a few brief survey questions.

He was promoting a new brand, “Ocean Mist Lights”. The prizes were a form fitting, flask-like pack for the back pocket, a regular package, and a cd rom of cigarette commercials. I passed, but Chloe said, “Certainly, ask away”, and after a couple of minutes filling out a brief form (something she does in other ways as well, might I add) she was presented with her nicotine laced booty, and off went Gerard seeking other quarry.

“Why”, I asked, “did you accept such an offer as this is not a vice to which I was aware you were disposed?”

“I don’t smoke tobacco, as you know”, she replied with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve got a part time summer gig teaching English to French exchange students. I’ll give these as prizes to the top three students in next week’s essay test. They all smoke like oil refineries.”

She then tapped her purse with a finger.

“But speaking of smoking I have in here a small leftover of what Myron and I were enjoying before you came over. He was trying to get some help sleeping and I needed a little hype inspiration for the
press release. Want to finish it off?”

“In here?” I asked with a bit of feigned concern.

“Of course not, outside!” she replied.

“Ahh, in that case, after you.”

We stepped outside and onto a nearby dark side street. Chloe fished in her purse and produced the remains. She lifted it to her lips and fired her lighter. It suddenly appeared to me to resemble a small white moth flying too close to the flame as loose bit of paper flared with a bright red and yellow light. After a long draw she passed it to me, and I was reminded of my dear Grandmama’s affection for the Weed With Roots In Hell, as some ancient film described it. My reverie was broken by the distant sound of footsteps. I looked furtively to my left and saw two forms approaching us some fifty or so yards away.

“Cops!” hissed Chloe, and I realized it was indeed two of New York’s Finest coming toward us with some deliberation. “They must have seen the flame! Toss it and let’s go.”

I cast aside what little had survived our joint endeavor, and we walked back around to the bar entrance and went inside. Quickly ordering two more cocktails we tried to take on the manifestation of newborn innocence.

After a few moments two police officers walked past the windows, peered into the door, entered and walked directly up to Chloe and me.

One of them, a rather bulky African American fellow, stated more ascommand than question, “Would the two of you join us outside please?”

No sooner had we followed these authoritarian figures onto the sidewalk just outside the bar, than they turned us around and proceeded to bind our hands behind our respective backs with plastic restraints!

“Is there a problem, officers? We would never intentionally displease Heroes of New York!” I said, respectfully.

“The problem is what you two were up to around the corner”, the second policeman answered, with no small amount of intimidation adding gravity to his already gravelly voice.

“We’ve got you dead to rights”, said the other, quoting, I assume, some bit of obscure crime film dialog, as he brandished the evidence he had scraped from the nearby street.

Having no wish to disturb Myron further, arousing him from whatever pitiful respite he may have found from the plunging Dow in order to relieve us from the confines of the local hoosegow, Chloe at once launched into a long explanation of how we came to be on that side street enjoying a full flavored smoke. Her elucidation included a claim to have not engaged in such activity since University, how she had acquired the questionable material from an old chum visiting from Hawaii, how he was long gone, and she had discovered the remains of that adventure in her purse, what a shame it was to let it go to waste, what a, of course, simply TERRIBLE and STUPID mistake it all was, and it would certainly would absolutely without question never ever happen again under any circumstances whatever and that I had nothing to do with any of it, I was just keeping her company. I simply lent silent moral support, although I did attempt to send her a psychic message of “You go, girl!”

The Bobbies looked at each other, then at us, then again at each other.

“Well all right”, said the gravelly one, “See that you behave the rest of the weekend at least.”

Being peppered by our profuse thanks, both walked on to other, hopefully more pressing duties. Chloe and I, in unison, performed a most dramatic wiping of our brows, then walked back into the Cubbyhole. We immediately discovered the entire scene had been witnessed by the whole of the patrons who greeted us with a standing ovation worthy of one of Chloe’s “Somethin’ Stupid” performances!

Opportunity knocks! Like a bull in a china shop!

2006-04-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

As a struggling purveyor of the visual medium one can never pooh pooh the opportunity to expand one's horizons, as it were, even beyond that point at which ships sail bow first off the edge into the eternal abyss. So one can imagine my excitement when I was approached by this fine firm for consideration of their no doubt valuable services!
Here I present, in its true, actual and satisfactual form the offer as it appeared in my inbox this very Ante Meridiem:

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am glad to introduce ourselves as Arts & Crafts Department of Fujian Putian Promising Trading Co., Ltd. I am the general manager Tan weigang.

With over 30% of oil painting reproduction export from Putian City where we are staying in, Putian is not able to compete Xiamen in term of painting trade.

We are now thinking about reduce the chains from studios to the wholesalers overseas, so as to decrease the cost. We take the products directly from the studios and communicate between the buyers and painters directly, on one hand, it is more efficient, on the other hand, it is very beneficial to the elevation of product quality, e.g. I always emphasize the quality of photo that is sent by the clients, in order to anticipate the satisfying outcome from the studios, however this simple principle is now and then ignored should there be no link between the buyer and the painter.

I hope we both are wise enough to choose each other and we both are the right men that we are searching so hard.

You can also take a look of our website, that you know, we have two business can provide to you, one is oil paintings reproduction, the other one is photograph to oil portrait. I think you are interested about it, because I can save your cost.

Hope to receive your response very soon!

And receive my response they shall! Indeed, my YiXing ZiSha cup runneth over!

Persnickety indeed!

2006-04-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

Elsewhere it has been suggested that your humble host may on occasion be a bit "persnickety". Let us then examine the definition of this term, to wit:

per·snick·e·ty P Pronunciation Key (pr-snk-t)
adj.

1. Overparticular about trivial details; fastidious.
2. Snobbish; pretentious.
Requiring strict attention to detail; demanding: a persnickety job.

It is only in the unfortunate, and one hopes temporary, situation of one having taken leave of one's senses could one seriously apply such a denotation to yours truly. Certainly a desire to alphabetize one's neckties by brand (for example, Dolce & Gabbana precedes Forzieri which precedes Villa Bolgheri in any civilized closet), or a wish to arrange one's soups by label color (the aggressive reds of any Campbell's forming a gentle gradation into the warm saffron of Healthy Choice Split Pea and Carrot) on the shelves of a pantry that wished to be worthy of the appellation pantry instead of, say, pigsty, or a simple request of the postal carrier to have one's personal letters dropped into the box first, then the bills, then the magazines, then whatever advertising material he/she insists on including (a discussion in which has been engaged numerous times with more than one local postperson, often at decibels of sufficient level to awaken sleeping babies in apartments many floors above...all to no avail, might I add. Your tax dollars at work, my friends), or any other desire to maintain a level of decorous order should hardly bring such a nomenclature as "persnickety" raining down on one's carefully manicured psyche.
The very idea.

Venus DeNifera

2006-04-03T19:07:00.000-07:00

Alas, I am sure all of you will share my heartache in learning the saga of my dear friend Chloe’s passionate romance has come to a most unfortunate, if inevitable, denouement. Her young paramour, you will recall, had a bit of a stipend from the family fortune “earned”, if such a word is applicable, in an enterprise whose despicability is not lessened by the revelation that it was, in fact, a fraud. Of course I refer to the notorious “Bonsai Kitten” venture which enabled this fellow’s progenitors to scam a considerable sum from what must have been a clientele unpleasant enough to have deserved such a bamboozle.
In any case, it happens that no less a policing entity than the FBI itself was on the trail of the handsome young grifter, and, incredibly, my posting in this forum of the story relating what I erroneously believed to be Chloe’s good fortune gave the Federales the lead they sought. Who knew the this blog was being monitored by such important personages as our federal boys (and women as well, I assume, although my own experience with the Bureau has never gone beyond viewing Efram Zimbalist, Jr. at work, as well as the X-Files, which of course had Ms. Scully at the helm) in blue? But then, we do live in the age of Gonzales & Co., and we are supposed to “watch what we say”.
But I digress.
Chloe came to realize her heart was to be broken when she went to her dearest’s apartment and found the place ransacked and her rooster having flown the coop, as it were. A query to a passing neighbor revealed that when word leaked out as to the nature of the gentleman’s transgressions, the entire apartment complex formed a torch and pitchfork posse, which stormed the apartment and threw the scalawag into the street! Word has it he immediately snatched the first available taxi and sped to JFK, boarding the next flight to France!
Not being one to take being duped in a prone position, Chloe contacted yours truly and inquired about acquiring the services of a graphic designer and a printing company, for she plans to distribute throughout France a deck of playing cards adorned with her collection of photographs, some of them quite compromising, I must say, even as a connoisseur of the erotic arts, of her outlaw inamorato, in hopes of having him located. Should that come to fruition I believe she plans to travel to that fair land and relieve the fellow of a cherished bit of his anatomy. This may be heart wrenched hyperbole on her part, however.
Regardless, we have already made plans to pay a visit to one of the area’s finer pawnshops and prodigalize the proceeds with an afternoon at Tavern on the Green!

No Cubic Zirconium for Chloe!

2006-04-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

After a recent, all to brief, respite away and upon my return to the more familiar environs of home, and following the surgical procedure to alleviate the rather embarrassing situation necessitating the need for removal of a bit of door-opening hardware from my nether regions, and after the somewhat equally less than pleasant chore of removing and disposing of the various power-blackout-melted cartons of Rocky Road and congealed-lobster-bisque-coated Tupperware left by my portly apartment sitter, I was informed by my dear friend Chloe that she had important news which must be imparted to me at once. We met at her favorite Chelsea restaurant, where, after receiving the kind assistance of our waiter in acquiring some extra cushioning in my chair seat, I immediately ascertained the reason for her excitement, and the purpose of our convocation, to wit, a small band of paler-than-the-rest skin color on her left hand’s third finger.
“I see in my absence you have acquired a bit of a tan line on your finger”, I said, impressing her as always with my superior powers of observation and perception.
“You are right, as you so often are”, she replied.
She produced from her handbag a small box, which she opened with considerable flourish, declaring, “and this is what caused it!”
She removed the box’s sparkling ornament, placing it onto the comfortable residence of her finger. Now her entire left hand seemed to glow with the refracted light of a diamond weighted with carats of a number that even I dared not to guess!
“How long have you been engaged?” I asked, attempting as best I could manage to hide my incredulity, for Chloe had always made clear her rather demanding criteria for any potential manhood to enter her sphere of interest.
Her requirements were simple enough; he must be:
1. “Cute”
2. Of some considerable means
3. Witty
4. Taller than her own 5 ft 7 in frame
5. Not a follower of the Sporting interests
6. “Just this side of gay”
This last condition, and its enunciation, was of the greatest interest and amusement to her friends, as its meaning could be considered ambiguous by some. I understood it clearly, of course. No admirer of the Frat Boy species, she expected any man on whose arm she may present herself to be an avid follower of culture and to have impeccable taste in cuisine and couture. No time or patience for “projects” has Chloe, to be sure! Potential suitors, and here is where the uninitiated may find the most confusion in item number 6, must be aggressively heterosexual only in matters of the concupiscent nature, understandable given Chloe’s own proclivities.
I immediately insisted on meeting this remarkable creature at once! But of course Chloe, being no amateur in the theater of everyday drama, had anticipated such a demand, and declared her young paramour would very shortly be joining us at this very table!
Chloe’s young man entered the restaurant and strolled directly to our table without the slightest hesitation or searching look, as if he was drawn to Chloe’s presence by some unseen magnetic pulse. At first glance he certainly met the first of her requirements, and only time would tell if he came within olfactory’s function of the others.
After the obligatory introductions and niceties, I began to probe the fellow’s personality, discovering a few interesting nuggets of information. He did indeed come from a background of some wealth, nouveau riche though it may have been, since his family had profited from the rise of the “Bonsai Kitten” craze in Europe. They had not originated the interest in this practice, only exploited its rising popularity on the Continent, selling Bonsai paraphernalia from an underground warehouse in France. Whether or not they provided the kitties themselves I could not ascertain. More information about the subject may be found here:
http://www.bonsaikitten.com/
The oddity of this connection was reinforced by the young man’s recitation of some rather bizarre theories on human behavior. One thesis proposed that it was possible to conclude Adolph Hitler was at heart an unhappy man, based on the downward sloping line formed on his forehead by his hair. I would suggest that his activities were evidence enough of a lack of cheer, but who can say for sure? Perhaps hairstyles are an outward indication of the heart’s inclination. Since that wicked fellow is said to have had an exceptionally strong will, we may suppose his notorious mustache functioned as an emphatic period to the exclamation point formed by his nose. What this theory says about others of the dictatorial persuasion lacking such hirsuteful blessings, the late Uday Hussein, for example, I will leave to its practitioners.
The young man also practiced a strange argot which, in answer to Chloe’s inquiry as to the quality of her inamorato’s day, included this phrase:
“Everything is hunky midori ito!”
These sorts of eccentricities are to be expected, I suppose, so I joined Chloe’s other friends in wishing the best for this liaison. However, the dinner’s end brought yet another of this suitor’s somewhat alarming personality quirks to the fore. For dessert he had ordered the restaurant’s specialty, a flaming chocolate sorbet. The waiter returned to our table expressing his deepest regret, for the last example of that delicacy just moments before had been ordered by another diner. Our guest’s disappointment was handled with aplomb, at least until that very dessert item was presented with considerable fanfare to an imperious older woman seated alone at the table next to our own. As we rose to leave, Chloe was greatly amused, and I was somewhat nonplussed, to hear the young man say to the dessert-devouring dowager,
“Enjoy the last sorbet, Bee-yotch!”

Porchance to Dream!

2006-04-02T01:33:00.000-08:00

Greetings and salutations! I am once again alive and well on the cyber frontier and look forward to sharing many interesting tidbits as they present themselves for consideration.
For example, just this very morning I was enjoying a bit of the frijol colombina with my good friend and confidante Chloe as she began to relate a most amusing anecdote, regarding a dream into which she had wandered during a brief but productive embrace in the arms of Morpheus. She found herself in the audience of a rather large gathering of pigs (she being the only human among them, a not so unusual, if perhaps less literal occurrence in her waking life as la fille occupée autour de la ville, if you acquire my meaning) being addressed by a healthy porcine fellow behind a dais which failed to completely obscure his corpulence. His dialogue was quite indecipherable for our sleeping heroine, as it consisted entirely of a series of guttural grunts, none too senatorial snorts and a phlegmatic collection of fiats more akin to flatulence than facundity. Even more disconcerting was the call and response nature of the affair, with the audience of swine answering these grandiloquent grunts with equally disgusting expectorations of their own. The master of ceremonies would spew his choked elocution to be followed with a gag reflexing ritornelle in unison from his congregation. Just as the dreaming Chloe was deciding she had endured enough of this cacophony she was awakened with a start by the true source of the choking, spitting, growling racket, lying alongside her: her roommate's English Bulldog, Diogenes, still engaged in a sound, if not soundless, afternoon snooze of his own!