Monday, May 25, 2020

Governors' Names On Highway Signs Update

Over the past decade, I've commented several times on a pet peeve of mine, which is politicians sticking their names on highway and other road signs paid by taxpayers (see the following posts:  2014A, 2014B, 2014C, 2014D, 2014E, 2018A, 2018B, and 2018C).  Basically, the politicians are trying to get free political advertising at taxpayer expense.  I suspect no motorist really cares whom the mayor of a city is or the governor of a state is, and if any of them do care, it certainly isn't worth the expense of the sign (for states, sticking a governor's name on a sign can run to thousands of dollars).  This should be an easy fix, right?

Nope.  Politicians keep doing this.  And if they don't, some gal or guy in the highway department or whatnot who wishes to suck up to her or his new boss does.  I had a small hope that Ohio USA would take the opportunity to not to do so when a new governor took office in 2019, but, nope, they did it again.  This time, they just made new highway signs overall at greater expense (possibly to camouflage the costs of putting on the new governor's and lieutenant governor's names since they didn't make new overlay signs just for that).  Unfortunately, at some point, someone will have to paint over those names when the officeholders change or they'll be back to the overlay signs, so nothing really changed.  Also, unfortunately, though Pennsylvania still has a good I-80 sign at the spot I typically pass, I did spot a turnpike sign with the governor's name on it last year.

All these politicians obsessed with quarantines ought to quarantine these type of highway signs.  A plain welcome to wherever sign will suffice.  We don't need to know whom the governor is.  Of course, given the disastrous decisions many of these governors have made overreacting to COVID-19, they may regret having their names up on these signs.

After all, some irate folks who have had their lives destroyed by the lockdowns may follow Elon Musk's advice about tarring and feathering the politicians who panicked about the virus and use the signs as a reminder of whom exactly to boil the oil for.

If the continued existence of these highway signs depress you as well, cheer up with my latest novel!

Sunday, May 17, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "The Secret Of Great Art" by Victor Schwartzman

Melvin loved re-watching movies, rereading books, looking again at paintings.  Every time he revisited certain works he found something new.  It was not the pleasure of experiencing favorites again, but there was, in a select few artworks, something always new.   

How could he always see something new?  Was he stupid?  This did not happen elsewhere.  He thought of his colleagues, family and friends:  although there were surprises; it was nothing new.

Art was complex, full of details and rhythms and inner meanings even the artist did not always understand.  That explained why he always saw something new, because it was so complex.

Or did it?

Melvin figured that the artists themselves should be able to say why some of their work always seeing something new.  So he did research, reading about artists throughout the ages.  The standard response was, “I don’t have a clue.”

Some said they wished they knew what they’d pulled off in certain works--so they could do it again.  But for both artist and audience it was a mystery.

Eventually, Melvin concluded that certain unique works were alive.

He saw something new each time because there was something new each time.  The art was alive and, like any living thing, regularly changing.

He approached paintings in museums (he needed originals; copies were useless) and talked to them.  They never responded and the guards would take him away.  It was the same with movies or books.

Melvin could only observe.  Once, Bogart winked at him.

Eventually he was forced to accept that the communication was one way.  A select few pieces of art were alive, perfect examples of their kind, unique, and therefore were constantly changing.

They existed for themselves.

It was then Melvin had a final realization:  for true art, audience was irrelevant.

He wondered in what other ways he was irrelevant.

Turned out, most everything.

Victor Schwartzman is a Canadian writer with whom I used to be in the Underground Literary Alliance.  I am quite happy that he is still writing and willing to share some of his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

Sunday, May 10, 2020

Going Weekly Again

It's been fun posting daily for the past few weeks, but my free time is winding up, and I need to use what remains to make hay while the sun shines on the Underground Literary Alliance anthology.  It was fun to relive the days of 2008-2010 when I was serializing Blog Love Omega Glee (most of which I had to delete when the novel was published as a whole because of a short-lived exclusivity agreement with Amazon) and 2012-2013 when I tried post daily for a few months for a lark, but the blog is settling back into its usual more or less weekly rhythm.  I hope the more frequent posts helped amuse you during this strange period when many people were marooned at home.  With luck, things will continue to get better, and we won't be having our tax dollars sent on stupid signs like the one in the picture ever again.  See you in a week or so!

If you need something to read in the meantime, then my latest novel is available here.

Saturday, May 9, 2020

Let's Not Use Herbicides In City Parks, Eh?

The other day I was in the city park in Westlake, Ohio USA, and I noticed that the grass was a little too green.  Where were the dandelions?  Then the smell hit.  It was that awful lawn chemicals smell.  I found confirmation a few minutes later when I found one of those signs warning kids and animals to keep off (kids and animals, of course, being very dedicated sign readers).  I really wish cities would stop putting these herbicides on parks.  It's certainly not healthy.  Fortunately, a number of cities have made positive steps and done away with pesticides such as these lawn chemicals.  It makes me appreciate University Heights, Ohio USA, where I used to live, quite a bit because in their parks wildflowers grew, and it was quite pretty.  I also knew it was quite safe for my child to play there since children are especially vulnerable to the hazardous effects of these chemicals.  Obviously, I am going to have to contact the city and hope that I can persuade them that dandelions are preferable to pediatric cancer.

If you need something more cheerful to read than a report on how pesticides harm human health, then please read my latest novel.

Friday, May 8, 2020

What Wred's Reading: Don Quixote

You know a novel is good when it's four centuries old and still makes me laugh out loud.  I've read Don Quixote many times, often because I had to teach it, and it still makes me laugh.  It's baggy, but keep plowing on through and you will soon hit some deadpan or slapstick.  When the characters are vomiting on one another, you know you're reading the classics equivalent of a stupid Hollywood comedy, but it also digs a bit deeper into philosophical issues, which is why it has lasted so long.

This translation is a good one, but I've read a few different ones, and as long as the humor is conveyed I have no deep feelings one way or another about one translation being superior to another.  But this hardcover edition is a nice one.  I bought it at a point when I was trying to get really nice editions of books I liked.  A flooded basement (it's a long story about how the books ended up there) soon cured me of Rare Book Collector Disease, and a few moves since then have caused me to shed most of my belongings because I was tired of lugging so much stuff around (it's a slow process, so I still have many things to shed).  It's an irony that one spends half of one's life acquiring things, and the next half shedding them.  If you're sensible that is, some people hang onto a lifetime's accumulation of stuff, just so their relatives can hurriedly chuck most of it in a dumpster after their death--that's a little too irresponsible for my tastes.  I've had to clean out some dead people's houses; it's a big pain, and work that should be done slowly and joyfully by the owner/collector soon becomes a mindnumbing race to the end by others.  Of course, I've benefited from that as well.  I think I got an awesome reggae cd box set from a dead person's garage sale for $3 (of course, I sent it on its way after I was done enjoying it to another new owner), and I am sure that some dumpster diving treasures came from similar situations.

Anyway, if you think classics are boring, then give DQ a try.  It's a hoot!

If you want to read a newer humorous book, then please read my latest novel!

Thursday, May 7, 2020

Heavy Drinking In The DC Graphic Design Department In 1999?

So I've been rereading some old books I own since the public library has been closed for a couple of months now due to the COVID-19 panic (will taxpayers get a refund on their property and other taxes used to pay for services they didn't get during this period?  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  I can hear the idiot politicians who created this mess laughing now).  Anyway, one of these books was a collection of Golden Age Flash comics.

My advice:  Read them one day at a time, and they are charming in their goofy Golden Age comic way.  Don't read them all in a row or the plot holes, stereotypical gangster villains, lack of continuity or even basic storytelling common sense, and ridiculous endings will annoy you.

One odd thing I noticed this time through (which will be the last time through unless I am reading them to a child, at 50, the things one dreamed of reading as a 5-year-old aren't too satisfying, though it was nice to make the inner 5-year-old happy) was that the back cover has a Hawkman cover on it among the four Flash Comics covers (pictured above).

What?

I know Hawkman was in Flash Comics, and he and The Flash generally alternated covers after the first few issues, but the graphic designer couldn't find a 4th Flash cover out of the bunch?  Admittedly, the Hawkman covers (generally by Sheldon Moldoff) are cool, but save them for the Hawkman collection.  There were 4 unused covers with The Flash that could have been used instead.  I don't know if DC fixed this issue on later printings, but they should have.  It looks like they let the book go out of print anyway.  With luck, when they bring it back, the Hawkman cover will be replaced with a Flash one.

Maybe the production department was drinking heavily that day . . .

If you also need something new to read, then please check out my latest novel!  It just came out this year, 80 years after Flash Comics #1!

Wednesday, May 6, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "The Fan" by Mark Justice

Sweat.  Herod sat on the weary recliner; its coarse texture moist with his sweat. His bare back and arms were glossy with it.  A trickle at Herod’s upper lip, and his tongue lashed out to snatch up the drop.  The room moved as though hellish heat waves passed.

With his back to the room’s open window, Herod watched the still shadows cast by the shutters.  The choked air that limboed through the room was circulated by a fan at Herod’s right, blowing at him, the air like some cadaver.  Herod watched as the sweat from his limp index finger splattered into the blue blades of the spinning fan.

A ringlet of drenched black hair fell into Herod’s eyes, the sweat stinging them. He wiped it away with a moist fist.  The whir of the fan smacked against the stillness of the room, shortening the breath that the room could hold.

Sweat collected and ran in stuttered streams down Herod’s belly; the air spat out of the fan used and useless.  The heat made his thoughts dizzy and sluggish, but he liked to sweat.  It made him feel like he did something.  He did.

He sweat.

In that dizzy hot wash, he sat nude, and while he drifted there, sweating, a wispy, nude woman got on her knees beside him and blew a long soft kiss that was cool against his skin.  She lowered her head to his limp hand, put her cool mouth to his index finger, and began to nibble at it.

Her teeth moved quickly and delicately as she bit.  Aroused, Herod felt the beautiful woman’s bites become rougher.  They were starting to hurt.  A slick, grating sound came with each nibble, louder with each painful bite.

Herod jerked forward from his sleep, from the teeth of the fan blades.  He recoiled his hand, fingertips throbbing shooting stars of pain.  The back of Herod’s neck shivered, and he chilled in the sweltering heat.  It was cooler; the pain was now subsiding, and he thought of his dream, the crawling skin, his goosebumped, cool skin:  from the pain.

His fingertips throbbed like sex, like his hot, lusting dream as he drew his hand nearer to the fan.  He tested the biting air, and his tingling, prickled skin was there in the whirling, blue, dusty metal.

He allowed his middle finger to graze the blades.  The “rat-at” sound reverberated in the room.  Again, he shivered, shuddered.  “Something good,” he thought as he tested the moving blades once more.

The quickly spinning blades caught his fingers and sent his hand flying downward with a chunk of meaty sound, hot and thick with humidity.  Herod shook out his hand, wincing at the pain but writhing at the crawling flesh on his back, the pinpricked chills that made him shudder.

Herod’s breath came quicker now, the room lessened its chokehold on him, and the cadaver air found a life of sorts.  Herod ran his hands down his chest and stomach, watching sweat, and with a flick, wrung it onto the blades, covering him in its salty kiss.

Herod’s hand still throbbed.  The hot pulsations pounded back and forth from his fingers and palm.  Shivers crawled along Herod’s neck that made him cringe and cool.  Herod thought the cool, sensuous delight was like having to suffer with an itch, realizing its tingle, and then that quiet orgasm of scratching, like watching a mosquito deliver its bite, aware of its nuisance yet feeling the barbed prick and watching blood flow into its belly, only to smack it as it attempts to fly away, the red and black stain wet and fresh on the arm, the welt just coming up.

The exchange of pain for pleasure, the sacrifice of self-will for an ecstasy on the fringe of having, is what Herod bartered for … and got.

With a voyeur’s smooth grace, he eased his throbbing hand toward the spinning fan blades, the orange sun reflecting off their metallic sheen.  He heard the “thap-thap-thap” as his fingers rubbed against the whirring steel.  Herod pressed harder, feeling the continual blows against his reddened hand, but he also felt the heat begin to dissipate in the cold shock of shivers’ crawling skin.

Herod had an erection as he held his now bloody stump of a hand into the blades, screaming in his pain/relief exchange.

The blades kept flicking up pieces of Herod’s hand onto the walls and ceiling as his face was reddening from the fan’s spray of his butchered limb’s flowing blood.  Herod writhed in his chair, his limb becoming more and more numb with each convulsive thrust.

Herod fell back into his chair, sopped with his blood and sweat.  He smelled the vibrant tang of blood and the scattered tatters of his pulped right hand.  As the chills subsided, the sweltering heat began to make its approach to his body, forming stinging globs of sweat on his stump.  THAT pain brought no pleasure; THAT pain brought no chills, no relief.  THAT pain was NO GOOD, Herod thought.

Herod thought.  Hard.  He thought what it would be like to plunge his face into the whirring, bloodied blades of the fan.  He thought he would jerk a few times as the blades caught their way into his face and skull, slicing chunk after chunk away.  He thought of what his eye would see as it was caught from its socket and whipped up at the ceiling.  He thought that the last thing it would see was his own back, bright blood covering a thousand chill bumps, freshly popped.

Herod sat in the hot chair, sticky with blood, thinking. His hot thoughts chilled him.

Mark Justice is the author of Gauge Black:  Hell's Revenge.  Check it out for more pulpy goodness!  That one's a Western.  Obviously, this Website does not recommend sticking limbs into fans, but it does recommend reading more Mark Justice.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!