Archive for March, 2009

Dandelion Break

Posted: March 31, 2009 in Artsy Fartsy, Photography

That’s it. I’ve officially had enough.  I am hereafter and evermore turning this into a cool, hip, nouveaux-while-still-being-retro art blog.  Edgy, without being pretentious, introspective, without delving too deeply into the maudlin.  Cheeky, irreverant, without being (too) judgemental.   Mostly I’ll be linking OTHER people’s art, but maybe every once in a while, I’ll throw up a photo or drawing of my own.  What’s that, you say?  I have artistic skillz?  I draw?  I photo?  Yes, and you thought I was just one of those low-brow knuckledragging neanderthal conservatives, more interested in securing a fundamentalist theocracy while rounding up transgendereds and forcing all free-thinkers into concentration camps than developing any of the more refined and genteel artistic aspects of what little personality I have?  Sorry, the truth must be known. 

Yes, Virginia, you don’t have to be a liberal to be artistic.  You just have to be a liberal to be accepted in artistic circles.  A subtle, yet important difference.  A pronounced lisp doesn’t hurt either.  Or an excessive and often non-sequitorish use of the word “FABulous!!!”   The wearing of ostentatious and vibrantly colored scarves is, while considered optional, also a mark of the truly artistically avant garde’.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So, in the fist, er, first installment of my new artistic coming out, as it were, I provide you with the following links to some truly FABulous art websites (clicken to embiggen):

Some truly cool graffitti art :

http://www.banksy.co.uk/menu.html

This is one of my favorites:

cctv

If you haven’t discovered “XKCD” yet, you need to.  This one just cries out to me, because I’ve wanted to do it so many times:

parking

3-D Painted Rooms:  Kind of like the sidewalk art guy, only indoor.

Two of the above sites were found via The Mung Pie, which is also a very cool art site, the coolness of which is to what I want to someday aspire to become myself.  At.

I found this photo somewhere, no idea where, and thus the utter and appalling lack of attribution, but oh well, it was in the public domain and wasn’t copyrighted, that I could tell anyway, and I thought is was an excellent photo.  Right-click is your friend.  The detail, the texture, the striking eyes, the muted light.  Excellent composition and color.  Huzzah!

2403114096_9126163529_b

I can’t promise to never come unhinged, and revert momentarily to playing the frothing right-wing fascist nutjob you’ve all come to know and tolerate, like that annoying and slightly creepy uncle at the family reunion that no one will openly disown, but neither will they leave their kids or their wallet unattended in his presence.  So, despite already having a blogroll so long as to be ultimately self-defeating, I will be adding an additional category of “Artsty Crap” or some such, wherein to collect and manage all these FABulous art sites.   If you’ve got any recommendations, and are still reading this post at this point, I’d love to hear them.

I think I lived in Coeur d’Alene long enough to legitimately claim status as an “Idahoan.”  My oldest son spent the first four years of his life there, and I worked and payed taxes and lived there.  Went to the Fourth of July Parade every year for almost eight years running, even after I moved across the border to Spokane.    But more than residency, that place just got into my blood.  It will always be “home” to me, no matter where else I happen to live at the moment.  I WILL move back there someday, even if it’s only to retire.  But this has led me to now, and forever, when people ask where I’m from, to only give the answer “Idaho!”

HOUSE JOINT MEMORIAL NO. 4
BY STATE AFFAIRS COMMITTEE

NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED by the members of the First Regular Session of
the Sixtieth Idaho Legislature, the House of Representatives and the Senate concurring therein, that the state of Idaho hereby claims sovereignty under the Tenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States over all powers not otherwise enumerated and granted to the federal government by the Constitution of the United States.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that this serves as notice and demand to the federal gov2
ernment, as our agent, to cease and desist, effective immediately, mandates that are beyond the scope of these constitutionally delegated powers.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that all compulsory federal legislation that directs states
to comply under threat of civil or criminal penalties or sanctions, or requires states to pass legislation or lose federal funding, be prohibited.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that the Chief Clerk of the House of Representatives be,
and she is hereby authorized and directed to forward a copy of this Memorial to the President of the United States, the President of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives of Congress, and the congressional delegation representing the State of Idaho in the Congress of the United States.

That’s what we call silk-lined ass-whuppin.  Or, in more genteel terms, “Reminding the Federal Government Just Who Exactly It Is They Work For.”

We The People are not pleased, and will be heard.  Bitches.

Found Via Four Right Wing Wackos.

On ’60 Minutes,’ Obama rebukes Cheney criticism

To me, this title is misleading.  It suggests at first glance that Obama was actually sticking up for Cheney, defending him from his critics.  He’s rebuking the criticisms OF Cheney.

However, read the story, and you find that what he’s really doing is rebuking Cheney‘s criticism.  Don’t they send journalists to journalism school anymore?  How about editors?  Oh wait, this was a blog.  We all KNOW they’re just a bunch uv illiterut hax, right?

You could even suggest that a person name Cheney H. Criticism, from Lubbuck, Texas was in the next chair over on the set of 60 Minutes, and Obama soundly rebuked him, probably for bad table manners or making jokes about the Special Olympics. Who knows?

All in all, a journalistic FAIL.

If the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, then abortions would be illegal.

True or False?

UPDATE:

Too good not to post.  From one of those “Might Be Related” links below, comes this cogent, erudite, well-reasoned defense of Roe V. Wade:

Roe v Wade is a Surpreme Court of US case on abortion rights. Roe (not her real identity, though you could wiki her and discover she’s now a pro-life lady. The idiot)

Yeah. Nice.  Go prof-life.  Want to preserve unborn children.  It means you’re an idiot.  Pot meet kettle.

was raped (ed. – no she wasn’t – that part was completely fabricated, as in a big fat stinkin’ LIE.

and wanted to get an abortion but the state she lived in (I can’t remember what and I’m to lazy to wiki it) forbid abortion. They brought the case in the Supreme Court and the Court decided that there should be a right to choose or something along that line,

No, you ignorant douche.  They mythicalled up a never-before-seen-or-heard-of, “Right to Privacy” inherent in the 4th Amendment, which essentially meant that under the protections of the Fourth Amendment, the government was specifically prohibited from preventing what was essentially a “private” action, at least without a search warrant.  Come on, chica.  I don’t even SUPPORT abortion, and I know that much.

and if a State makes a law contrary to that, it would be unconstitutional. To be honest, I can’t remember the judgment, really; we were studying the 14th Amendment more than the right to privacy (even though all the cases were on right to privacy; a right that is not guaranteed in the US Constitution)

Uh, mkay.  Soooo then, uhm, tell me again how the decision in Roe V. Wade IS Constitutional, if the foundational premise supporting it IS NOT?!

 14th Amendment is how the Supreme Court make up their own bunch of Bill of Rights that weren’t guaranteed by the people of the 1700s (since the US Constitution is really the will of the people of the 1700s; it is not at all the will of the people who are currently living in the US. The last amendment was in 1992. It’s horrible; though not as bad as Australian’s, I suppose…).

Ah yes.  The “living document” defense.  Yes, yes.  Standard Lefty talking point:  Our Constitution is an archaic throwback reminiscent of the besotted musings of a bunch of old elitist white guys in wigs.  No application to our modern life whatsover.  Except, you know, for that whole right-to-privacy thing, which of course is so, like TODAY, you know?  And needs to be defended to the last breath. Provided you ever get a chance to TAKE a breath, that is.

One would suppose that for this individual to open her ignorant suck and expound on the virtues of a certain piece of legislation (ed.- No, that wasn’t a typo), one would hope she would at least know what the bloody freakin’ hell she is talking about!  But it’s more along the lines of, “Yeah, there was this case, by these guys, about this stuff, for this one girl, from this place.  And, uh, ABORTION ROCKS, DUDE!  GO OBAMA!”

The only plus is apparently, this abortion survivor can’t vote.  So, yeah, we got that going for us.

Though decidedly ill-considered, the new “concept car” did have a certain appeal.  It’s swept back windshield, resembling nothing so much as a pair of Bolero sunglasses folded in half after being crushed repeatedly beneath the expansive posterior of a Jenny Craig dropout, the rakish cut of the front suspension, all pulleys and gears and animatronic furniture pieces, coupled with the innovative, dare I say cutting edge(?) approach to the passenger compartment, forgoing bucket seats for a loose weave of hemp and lycra hung like a cargo net and worn like a corset, combined to give it a certain distinctive air of quality, as though to suggest, “Try me…you’ll like me.  Or if you don’t, at least the scars will always remind you of me.”

Harrison knew right away that it was the car for him.  No, they insisted, it wasn’t for sale.  It wasn’t quite “ready” yet…they weren’t even sure if it was street legal.  Harrison was undissuaded. Undeterred.  The more he gazed at the gleaming chrome and polyvinyl exterior, the more he drank in the smooth lines and sudden, unexpected angles, the more he pondered the mismatched tires and madman’s pastiche of disharmonic quarterpanels, the more convinced he became that his life would never be complete without it.  They insisted, he persisted.  They demurred, he adjured.  For hours they danced their convoluted, sweaty dance of irritation, enervation, attack, parry, stall, withdrawal, flank, infiltrate, deny, cajole and preen.

At some point, Security was called.  The confrontation was sudden, intense, and incredibly brief.   The tazer and the pepper spray worked their wily magiks, and Harrison soon found himself hogtied face down in the back seat of an aging Chrysler LeBaron, one retooled for Convention center security after having been reclaimed from the auction block where it had languished after being seized in a drug deal gone bad.

He panted breathlessly, snorfling in quick, sharp gasps of fetid, stale upholstery fumes, vapors resplendent with ghostly hints of unwashed mulatto hispanic gang-bangers plying their crystalline trade while eating cheap street-corner chalupas with the resulting aromatic effluvia.

All this was but a shadow, though, a half-remembered reality before which swam visions of the car. His Car.  HIS LIFE!  He would have it, possess it, infuse it and consume its very essence into his own.   The LeBaron’s door slammed shut with a rusty clunk, and the pathologically nonchalant security team began to ply its laconic way towards the nearby police station, accompanied by the ear-splitting shriek of a fan belt slipping across an air-conditioning compressor pulley long-ago seized-up tighter than the rectum of a falsely accused effeminate-yet-heterosexual tax cheat on his first night in prison.

Years later, after three failed attempts to infiltrate the high-security garage facility storing the art-deco tribute to automotive performance art, and two stints in work-release at a halfway house resulting from same, Harrison found himself sitting on a street corner outside the now abandoned convention center, spooning with a half-empty fifth of Early Times, wrapped in castoff bubble wrap he’d found out behind Mailboxes, Etc., rocking gently to that tune from The Shirleys that he’d heard once in the Public Defender’s office and had never quite been able to get out of his head since.

He’d never given up his dream.  Never.  Even though it had cost him everything, he’d never forgotten her.  Never forgotten their one night together, all those years ago.  They’d never actually spoken words, but he knew, yes he KNEW their hearts had spoken, and that somewhere, out there, she was probably thinking about him, too.  That one day they’d find each other, yeah, that’s right, they’d find each other, and it’d be okay, all okay, and they’d laugh about it all, and everything would be all right.  Yeah, everything would be all right.

As he pulled down another mouthful of the burning sweetness still left in his bottle, felt it angrily fight its way down his much abused esophageal tract to splash with corrosive abandon across the frayed remnants of his stomach lining, he nodded to himself.  Yeah, everything would be all right.   Alllllll right.

Someday.