Blog number 402 **** 29 July, 2010
So in Blog number 400 I went on a slight rant about the name or history of an artist making a painting or a carving or anything like that more valuable than the work itself. So today I pick up the latest issue of the New Yorker and the letters page is completely about an article written by a guy that confirms or denies expert's opinions on who mastered what painting. All of the letters - the whole letters page of three letters was only on the topic of David Gann's examination of Peter Biro's work in art authentication of art experts.
Understand this. First a guy paints a picture. Then an "expert" authenticates it as being painted by such and such - Rembrandt or Van Gogh or some other master. Then Peter Biros checks the other experts' expertise and then David Gann authenticates Peter Biro's expertise and then three self proclaimed experts go over David Gann's ruminations and THEN the New Yorker prints these letters for the further edification of the elite masses.
It's little wonder that publicity agents garner such huge salaries for guiding the public into what to think and what is important. Buddha knows they can't do it on their own.
Rant rant rant.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
WHO'S MORE IMPORTANT, ME OR YOU?
Blog number 401 **** 29 July, 2010
Back when I was in the Air force protecting Sacramento from any Viet Cong incursions up the Sacramento river, I spent a period of time "working" in an office along with a secretary. She wasn't my secretary any more than I was her flunky - although at times it seemed like I was, at least to her, but that's another story for another time.
My job was to make sure each department in A&E (Armaments and Electronics) was up to snuff using timely tech orders. I can't remember any other jobs I had to do. I spent a lot of time just walking around the base, going to coffee, to the cafeteria, to the base exchange, things like that. I visited the various departments in the A&E building - Radio, ECM (Electronic Counter Measures), PMEL (Precision Measuring Equipment - I don't know what the "L" stands for) and Bomb Nav, which was my AFSC. Your AFSC was the number for your speciality. My number was 32170E.
Government jobs sure love their acronyms, don't they?
Anyhow, this sergeant from Radio used to greet me with, "Hello, Reynolds, " when I met him in the hall and I used to respond with, "Hey, Man." He always had a troop of men with him. Why, I don't know.
Anyhow, one day after this exchange, he asked me, "What's my name?" I didn't answer, I just looked dumbfounded 'cause I was. He reamed me up one side and down the other while his sycophants looked on in pity, I guess. He said, "All this time and you don't know my name!' I was crushed.
I went to "my" secretary and asked her the guy's name. She told me, but every other day or so I had to ask again. I tried to "Hello, whatever his name was," but he never responded, passive aggressive dork that he was.
I really felt bad about my sin until one day years later I got to thinking about it, and right off the bat I realized, "I don't have to know this guy's name! Who the hell does he think he is, O.J.'s get-away driver? "
This guy obviously had an ego problem along with a low self esteem problem. And he blamed me for not seeing what a great guy he was. I still don't see it.
Back when I was in the Air force protecting Sacramento from any Viet Cong incursions up the Sacramento river, I spent a period of time "working" in an office along with a secretary. She wasn't my secretary any more than I was her flunky - although at times it seemed like I was, at least to her, but that's another story for another time.
My job was to make sure each department in A&E (Armaments and Electronics) was up to snuff using timely tech orders. I can't remember any other jobs I had to do. I spent a lot of time just walking around the base, going to coffee, to the cafeteria, to the base exchange, things like that. I visited the various departments in the A&E building - Radio, ECM (Electronic Counter Measures), PMEL (Precision Measuring Equipment - I don't know what the "L" stands for) and Bomb Nav, which was my AFSC. Your AFSC was the number for your speciality. My number was 32170E.
Government jobs sure love their acronyms, don't they?
Anyhow, this sergeant from Radio used to greet me with, "Hello, Reynolds, " when I met him in the hall and I used to respond with, "Hey, Man." He always had a troop of men with him. Why, I don't know.
Anyhow, one day after this exchange, he asked me, "What's my name?" I didn't answer, I just looked dumbfounded 'cause I was. He reamed me up one side and down the other while his sycophants looked on in pity, I guess. He said, "All this time and you don't know my name!' I was crushed.
I went to "my" secretary and asked her the guy's name. She told me, but every other day or so I had to ask again. I tried to "Hello, whatever his name was," but he never responded, passive aggressive dork that he was.
I really felt bad about my sin until one day years later I got to thinking about it, and right off the bat I realized, "I don't have to know this guy's name! Who the hell does he think he is, O.J.'s get-away driver? "
This guy obviously had an ego problem along with a low self esteem problem. And he blamed me for not seeing what a great guy he was. I still don't see it.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS. MAYBE MORE.
Blog number 400 **** 28 July, 2010
"Pawn Stars" is a television reality show about a pawn shop and the shtick is that people bring in objects to sell or pawn. The owners talk about the objects, explaining the history if they know of it, and if not, experts are brought in to do that chore. I find the show entertaining and sometimes informative.
Last week someone brought in a bar of gold about eight inches in length and about an inch and a quarter in diameter. The owner of the pawn shop said it was pretty obviously pure gold and that it was worth about twelve thousand dollars. However, he noticed what appeared to be remnants of coral on the underside and said that it might be from sunken treasure and if it was, then it would be worth twenty four thousand dollars - twice as much. The expert that was brought in confirmed that it was indeed sunken treasure and it was worth about twenty four thousand dollars as such.
I pondered long and hard on this aspect of the history of an object being worth, in and of itself, twelve thousand dollars. The history of an object was worth exactly the same amount as the object itself. Isn't that odd? What would that history bring to the owner of the bar of gold? "Oh, look," he could say, "this was once sunken treasure."
HE didn't find it. The fact that he owns it only means he had enough money to buy it and nothing more. Or am I missing something?
In a college art class once, we students were shown a book of "famous" paintings, and one was a canvas painted white. A white canvas painted white, artistically worth reproduction in an art book. Seems to me that painting could have been described just as well in words as it was presented as a painting.
"This artist painted a painting of pure white. Here's what it looks like." Oh! Wow! Beautiful!
I have often thought it a bit crazy that the author of a painting or a book or a carving or a sculpture is what makes those things valuable, and the object itself is merely the vehicle that brings the artist's name to the forefront. No famous name, no big money. Forget the art, that doesn't seem to matter, money wise. It's who did it that counts the most, or, as in this bar of gold, its history.
It's not so much that we are illogical. It's more that we are nuts.
"Pawn Stars" is a television reality show about a pawn shop and the shtick is that people bring in objects to sell or pawn. The owners talk about the objects, explaining the history if they know of it, and if not, experts are brought in to do that chore. I find the show entertaining and sometimes informative.
Last week someone brought in a bar of gold about eight inches in length and about an inch and a quarter in diameter. The owner of the pawn shop said it was pretty obviously pure gold and that it was worth about twelve thousand dollars. However, he noticed what appeared to be remnants of coral on the underside and said that it might be from sunken treasure and if it was, then it would be worth twenty four thousand dollars - twice as much. The expert that was brought in confirmed that it was indeed sunken treasure and it was worth about twenty four thousand dollars as such.
I pondered long and hard on this aspect of the history of an object being worth, in and of itself, twelve thousand dollars. The history of an object was worth exactly the same amount as the object itself. Isn't that odd? What would that history bring to the owner of the bar of gold? "Oh, look," he could say, "this was once sunken treasure."
HE didn't find it. The fact that he owns it only means he had enough money to buy it and nothing more. Or am I missing something?
In a college art class once, we students were shown a book of "famous" paintings, and one was a canvas painted white. A white canvas painted white, artistically worth reproduction in an art book. Seems to me that painting could have been described just as well in words as it was presented as a painting.
"This artist painted a painting of pure white. Here's what it looks like." Oh! Wow! Beautiful!
I have often thought it a bit crazy that the author of a painting or a book or a carving or a sculpture is what makes those things valuable, and the object itself is merely the vehicle that brings the artist's name to the forefront. No famous name, no big money. Forget the art, that doesn't seem to matter, money wise. It's who did it that counts the most, or, as in this bar of gold, its history.
It's not so much that we are illogical. It's more that we are nuts.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
WHAT GOES AROUND, HOO BOY
Blog number 399 **** 18 July, 2010
I am pretty sure it was a natural process of circumstances and the personalities of the involved, but the end result sure seems like it had been planned. Let me explain.
For many years I loved washing dishes by hand. I was the dishwasher in our family. I loved the making ready the sink with hot water and lots of suds, dumping in the dirty dishes, cleaning them until they sparkled, the useful feeling when all was washed. To me it was kind of meditative, like lying in a warm sun, relaxing.
Washing dishes by using the dishwasher always seemed like work. I didn't like bending over, pulling out the drawers, grabbing a couple of cups, putting them away, going back for more, then when that was all done, gathering up the dirty dishes and reversing the gathering procedure. Not fun or relaxing at all.
When we moved here to this nameless city by the bay, I was told that I was no longer to wash dishes by hand. It was not germ free enough. Not sterile enough. So I started using the dishwasher. Very frequently I was told "don't put them it there like that, you idiot!" Well, the "idiot" is an added bit I put in just because I can, but you get the idea.
Finally my wife told me that she would take care of the dishes, that I was free to take my show on the road. I could play. She would work. So that went on for a few weeks and then I began hearing, "Don't leave the dishes on the counter like that, put them in the sink." Ok.
Then I began hearing "You filled up the sink with dishes." I responded, "You told me to put them in the sink!" So I started putting them in the dishwasher. I must have learned how to put them in right, because I no longer hear that I am doing it wrong.
So last night I was up after the wife went to bed, taking clean dishes out of the dishwasher and putting in the dirty ones before I went to bed when I suddenly realized that I had been washing the dishes by dishwasher when she clearly told me several months ago that I was no longer to worry about the dishes, that she would take care of them.
How did she so easily guide me into doing the dishes her way? I didn't even know it was happening. Up until last night's sudden realization, I thought she was doing the dishes and I wasn't. Was it planned? She's that good, I know that. But it still seems like it was just a natural process. But was it?.......
I am pretty sure it was a natural process of circumstances and the personalities of the involved, but the end result sure seems like it had been planned. Let me explain.
For many years I loved washing dishes by hand. I was the dishwasher in our family. I loved the making ready the sink with hot water and lots of suds, dumping in the dirty dishes, cleaning them until they sparkled, the useful feeling when all was washed. To me it was kind of meditative, like lying in a warm sun, relaxing.
Washing dishes by using the dishwasher always seemed like work. I didn't like bending over, pulling out the drawers, grabbing a couple of cups, putting them away, going back for more, then when that was all done, gathering up the dirty dishes and reversing the gathering procedure. Not fun or relaxing at all.
When we moved here to this nameless city by the bay, I was told that I was no longer to wash dishes by hand. It was not germ free enough. Not sterile enough. So I started using the dishwasher. Very frequently I was told "don't put them it there like that, you idiot!" Well, the "idiot" is an added bit I put in just because I can, but you get the idea.
Finally my wife told me that she would take care of the dishes, that I was free to take my show on the road. I could play. She would work. So that went on for a few weeks and then I began hearing, "Don't leave the dishes on the counter like that, put them in the sink." Ok.
Then I began hearing "You filled up the sink with dishes." I responded, "You told me to put them in the sink!" So I started putting them in the dishwasher. I must have learned how to put them in right, because I no longer hear that I am doing it wrong.
So last night I was up after the wife went to bed, taking clean dishes out of the dishwasher and putting in the dirty ones before I went to bed when I suddenly realized that I had been washing the dishes by dishwasher when she clearly told me several months ago that I was no longer to worry about the dishes, that she would take care of them.
How did she so easily guide me into doing the dishes her way? I didn't even know it was happening. Up until last night's sudden realization, I thought she was doing the dishes and I wasn't. Was it planned? She's that good, I know that. But it still seems like it was just a natural process. But was it?.......
Friday, July 9, 2010
PISSED
Blog number 398 **** 09 July, 2010
Tuesday I go into the Phoenix library and there's this five year old boy throwing a tantrum. He's slunk on the floor, one arm being held up by his mother, who's trying to get him to stand up but he ain't gonna.
I go back to where my requested book is awaiting me, I pick it up and go up to the counter to check it out. By this time the mother has dragged the tantruming boy to the front doors, but he has escaped and is running back from where he was drug, yelling and screaming. I hold out my arms for him while saying, "Aw what's the matter? Come here."
I expect him to come up short and stop his tantrum because of the shock of a strange adult paying him that much attention. This is usually what happens when I do that, but this time he runs into my arms and I hug him, all the while trying to comfort him. When his mother gets close, I ask her what he wants. She says he wants to check out a book. I tell the boy he can check out my book, but this still doesn't stop his outbursts. I hand him my library card and say, "Here. You can check out my book." He takes the card and throws it up into the air, screaming even louder. The mother drags him away.
That was the best part of that whole episode, the way he took that card and immediately threw it as hard as he could. "Get this dumb thing away from me!" he seemed to be saying.
It is not until the next day that I figure out that what the boy wanted was a particular book. He's going to be a reader, no doubt, having that much passion for a book at that young age.
Tuesday I go into the Phoenix library and there's this five year old boy throwing a tantrum. He's slunk on the floor, one arm being held up by his mother, who's trying to get him to stand up but he ain't gonna.
I go back to where my requested book is awaiting me, I pick it up and go up to the counter to check it out. By this time the mother has dragged the tantruming boy to the front doors, but he has escaped and is running back from where he was drug, yelling and screaming. I hold out my arms for him while saying, "Aw what's the matter? Come here."
I expect him to come up short and stop his tantrum because of the shock of a strange adult paying him that much attention. This is usually what happens when I do that, but this time he runs into my arms and I hug him, all the while trying to comfort him. When his mother gets close, I ask her what he wants. She says he wants to check out a book. I tell the boy he can check out my book, but this still doesn't stop his outbursts. I hand him my library card and say, "Here. You can check out my book." He takes the card and throws it up into the air, screaming even louder. The mother drags him away.
That was the best part of that whole episode, the way he took that card and immediately threw it as hard as he could. "Get this dumb thing away from me!" he seemed to be saying.
It is not until the next day that I figure out that what the boy wanted was a particular book. He's going to be a reader, no doubt, having that much passion for a book at that young age.
Friday, July 2, 2010
AMELIA EARHART AND THE REST
Blog number 397 **** 02 July, 2010
Every time I read anything about the lost Amelia Earhart, the article always stresses that she was the first woman to attempt a flight around the world. Solo yet.
Various and sundry adventurers ever since have attempted to find out what happened to her. NOW, today, I have discovered that she was not alone, she did not disappear alone, that there was with her, one Fred Noonan, the navigator. One Fred Noonan that nobody has looked for, nobody has cared about, nobody has wondered about. He's like a nonentity when compared to Amelia.
I did not see the movie about Amelia's flight, nor do I care to, but if any of you have seen it, would you e-mail me as to whether Fred was mentioned in the movie, of even if there was a ghostly figure in the seat next to hers on the flight? Thank you.
Every time I read anything about the lost Amelia Earhart, the article always stresses that she was the first woman to attempt a flight around the world. Solo yet.
Various and sundry adventurers ever since have attempted to find out what happened to her. NOW, today, I have discovered that she was not alone, she did not disappear alone, that there was with her, one Fred Noonan, the navigator. One Fred Noonan that nobody has looked for, nobody has cared about, nobody has wondered about. He's like a nonentity when compared to Amelia.
I did not see the movie about Amelia's flight, nor do I care to, but if any of you have seen it, would you e-mail me as to whether Fred was mentioned in the movie, of even if there was a ghostly figure in the seat next to hers on the flight? Thank you.
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