Friday, November 17, 2017

You Will Be Seeing Unusual Accomplishment

Let me tell you one thing, my super17, I'm really bored of drawing me at tables, desks, and in front of computers.

In fact, I'm really bored of drawing me all together.

Why do I have to be the focus of every picture?

The arrogance on me; the audacity to make myself my favorite subject.

 So, to everyone's shock, this post will not contain any drawings of me. Not one.

And it's not going to contain any chairs, desks, and laptops, either. 

Not a single mundane, tedious-to-draw detail that fleshes out a scene. 

To hell with fleshing out, and to hell with me.
  
The barest minimum. That's the principal all works of art should adhere to.

Don't describe the varietal planing of sidecut valley succulents to me, Cormac McCarthy, just say 'brown grass.' If it's old, simply say it:

"The gutshot drug dealer ran through the old brown grass. He bled on some brown grass, too, but it wasn't as old, and it was in a different part of the valley. The hot, dry valley."

Now that's how you tell a story, by dammit.


Over explaining, over showing; drawing too many walls and chairs, layering on so much thematic depth that the brain must tread water in a sea of many meanings, never once reaching the shore of What the Hell Are You Talking About Island.

Give me the classics, like Venus of Willendorf:


Oh, all right, wife.

The things you think are precious, I can't understand.


And then, sixty years later, a cybernetically enhanced Ken Burns makes a documentary about my life and accomplishments.


"The story of Gweenbrick is really the story of us all." -Shelby Foote

Cue "Ashokan Farewell"

Friday, November 10, 2017

Not a sight for sore eyes

Rats.

I waited too long to post again.

If I give myself even a few days to loaf, or bathe, or think upon the needs of others, then my urge to create sputters out.

Sophocles is supposed to have said:


I would argue that it is not penises at all, but blogging that drags us about by the chain. It compels us into the night of our thinking, desperate for a tryst with any inspiration we pass by.

And if we fail to consummate; when, bereft of all ideas, the blog it droops its head, then we collapse against our couches and our easy chairs, drown the memory of our glory days, the manic overlapping of ecstatic thoughts, in a plate of midnight nachos and yet one more episode of some mindless television.

Well, I guess I do all of that, anyways.

Your experience may differ.


Which is what JJ always says to me, in a loud, pleading voice.

"Come on, Brob, give me them shoes."

"No. You may not have my shoes."

"Damn, man, I'm trying to help yooooooou!!."

JJ has tried to help me in various ways: by asking for my shoes, my wallet, the keys to my car, and for my winter coat. 

I don't understand what he means by this kind of helping.

Other things have happened to me lately that I don't understand. 

Like one of my local thrift stores had at least ten blue pencil cases with the word 'Farkle' crunched out by a label maker and slapped on their tops.

Each case was priced at $3.50, and each contained exactly one set of Farkle rules printed on glossy cardboard, but absolutely nothing else.

It made me angry, irrationally so, and then left me baffled by my own gut reaction.

The Wikipedia entry for 'Farkle' begins with one of the most eloquent sentences ever written:

"Farkle, or Farkel, is a dice game that has also been called or is similar to 1000/5000/10000, Cosmic Wimpout, Greed, Hot Dice, Squelch, Zilch, Zonk,or Darsh."  

If I could write like that, I'd have one million readers.

Speaking of readers, on purpose so I could change the subject from empty Farkle boxes, when I checked the Google analytics for my last post, I discovered that it had been read by seventeen people.

Seventeen. If I'd charged each of them a dollar, I'd have way more money than I do right now.

And if I could meet all seventeen of you, face to face, I would firmly shake your hands, then force you to tell me every single joke in the post that did or did not work for you.

I would form you into a focus group and press you for feedback that I could incorporate into a holistic visioning strategy with a growth in my readership sectors as an expected outcome.

This would be so fun for all of us.


Imagine I was dead, and you were going through some old papers of mine, kind of cleaning up but also lingering over the words, seeing me in them with an ache in your heart, tracing a doodle of buttface Shakespeare slowly with your fingertip. 

You come across the joke.

What is the exact laugh you would make? Would it be a sad, quiet chuckle, or a big boffola? 

Would it make you wish I was still alive, still able to write such hilarious things, or would it make you pack all my notebooks away, and dismiss the entirety of me with a shrug and a well, that happened, murmured aloud to an empty room

Now it's you who have died: you float above your corpse, splayed out on the kitchen floor, and as you pass through the roof on your way to the sky, you see me in the driveway, wearing a T-shirt with the words of the joke printed on the back. 

Do you hang in the air for a moment, giggle out little bubbles of ectoplasm, or do you cluck your ethereal tongue at my weak punchline, my too wordy buildup or my botched drawing of a critical scene?