Sometimes You Just Can't Separate the Art from the Artist

 

In the worlds of art, literature, music — really anywhere in the realm of human endeavor — it can often be difficult to separate the art from the artist.

I learned that firsthand during my brief stint as assistant to the curator of an art gallery in Philly.

“Welcome, Ambrose, we’re thrilled to showcase your work!” I gushed as I greeted the latest artist we were exhibiting, Ambrose Dehaven.”

“I’m not satisfied with the way you’ve arranged my paintings,” Ambrose replied flatly.

“I need to make crucial aesthetic changes immediately.”

With that, he moved "Still Life with Stale Fruit" to the opposite wall and hung "Starry, Starry Night Sweats" catty‑corner to the Men’s Room.

Odd, but okay.

Then Ambrose stayed all day in the gallery, surveilling his paintings like a man

guarding rare treasures, adjusting the picture frames by millimeters, and repeatedly performing that sensitive gesture where you kiss your fingers and fling them outward towards the object or objects of your admiration and affection.

In this case, his paintings.

Every one of his paintings.

At closing time I said, “It’s 5:00, Ambrose. Time to lock up and go home.”

“Oh,  no, I’m not leaving,” he declared. “I always have a sleepover with my paintings.”

The next morning I went straight to the curator.

“With respect to Ambrose Dehaven,” I said, “I’m afraid I cannot separate

the art from the artist.”

“That can often be difficult,” she replied. “But you must try.”

Ambrose slept over the next night and the next night after that.

I tried to encourage him to leave the gallery. I offered to take him out to the best steak dinner in town, fix him up with my sister even though I don’t have one, and told him I would sleep over in his place and tell compelling campfire stories to "Whistler’s Stepmother."

No dice.

One day a bedraggled woman entered the gallery.

“Please come home, Ambrose!” she begged. “Little Ambrose needs you!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dehaven,” I said to her. “Nothing I say or do will separate the

art from the artist.”

After eight long days - and nights - finally the exhibition ended.

“Goodbye, Ambrose,” I said. “I guess you’ll go home now to see little Ambrose.”

“Who?”

And with that, Ambrose left the gallery, gently cradling "American Goth Girl" and

"Whistler’s Stepmother" in his arms.

With Ambrose gone, we prepared for the next artist.

“I hope I won’t have a problem with this one like I did with Ambrose,” I told the curator. “This time will I be able to separate the art from the artist?”

“Well… yes and no.”

“Excuse me?”

“This artist definitely goes home at night.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“On the other hand, his name is Vlad.”

“Vlad who?”

“Vlad the Impaler.”

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I never even knew this guy could paint!

A Very Embarrassing Tale of the Zeitgeist

 

All of us acquire nicknames now and then but most of them come and go, especially those from our earlier days.

But sometimes they’re not always gone for good.

I was in my favorite coffee shop with my favorite barista Julie a couple months ago, and I ordered my usual cappuccino.

"Here you go, Space Cowboy," she said nonchalantly as she handed it to me.

"Excuse me, Julie... what did you call me?"

"Space Cowboy," she laughed. "What they called you when you smoked a ton of weed – you called it dope - in your late teens and early twenties."

"But... but ..how would you know that?!"

"Oh, it's out there in the zeitgeist. Everyone knows it."

"That's so embarrassing, Julie! It was another time in my life. I was insecure."

"So what else is new? I dunno how many nice promising women you turned off being too goddamn high."

"You even know that?!"

"Yep. It's all out there. See ya, Space Cowboy."

But I had an open mic that night, so I tried to shake it off.

"Give it up for Sarah!" the host said as the previous comic left the stage. "Next up is a familiar face. Let's hear it for Captain Quaalude!"

"OMG! Dylan, what did you call me?!"

"Captain Quaalude,” he laughed. "What they called you when you downed all those ludes when you were hitting the discos in your late twenties

"But... but ..how would you know that?!"

"Zeitgeist, dude.”

"That's so embarrassing, Dylan! It was another time in my life. I was insecure."

"So what else is new?  I dunno how many nice, promising women you turned off being too goddamn high."

"You even know that?!"

"Yep. It’s all out there. Now get the fuck on with your set, Captain Quaalude!"

I had to know what else was out there. I raced home and called my friend Brian from work a few years back.

"Brian!" I practically shouted. "Everyone knows my embarrassing nicknames from when I was younger! You know me from a couple years ago. Was I called those names then?"

"Hello, Genial Underachiever," he said. "No, you weren't."

Okay. Well, at least that one doesn't involve drugs.

 I’ll take it.

What’s out there in the zeitgeist for you?

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Fahrenheit 451 + 10 (My Parody from 2012)

 

(On MS NOW today, Ali Velshi explained that Tennessee has incredibly sought to ban Fahrenheit 451 from school bookshelves throughout the state.

Wow.

In honor of that groundbreaking book, here's Fahrenheit 451 + 10, my parody from 2012.)

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Montag was alone, sitting by a brook on the outskirts of the settlement. 

Sure, he was helping to keep knowledge alive in the dark times by memorizing and becoming a book. But after these ten odd years, a dark sadness had descended upon him, sapping his spirit and diminishing his soul. 

A tall man with a ruddy complexion and piercing eyes approached him. 

"Hello, my friend.  Why are you so morose?"

"Oh, hullo,  Great Expectations.  I'm kind of bummed out because I'm just not getting anywhere with the ladies.  You ever have any problems like that?" 

"Me?  No,  not at all,"  said the tall man.  "I'm Great Expectations.   I intrigue the hell out of women!   Y'know, I've been diddling Madame Bovary for the past three months!"

"Well, it's sure different for me.  Ever since I joined the Book People and selected a book to become, women don't take me seriously. Hell, they treat me like a child!  

"Well, what do you think the problem is, Goodnight Moon?  

"The problem is I can't compete with the more macho books!  Last night I went to a single's bar with Captains Courageous and Last of the Mohicans.  We ran into two chicks,  Anna Karenina and Tess of the d'Urbervilles."

"And?" 

"Right away Captains Courageous pairs off with Anna Karenina and hasn't been home since. I spent the whole evening playing Ms. Pac Man while watching Tess of the d'Urbervilles  grind into Last of the Mohicans on the dance floor!" 

"Well,  maybe some woman will admire you for your warm sentimental values as opposed to manliness."

"That only goes so far, Great Expectations.  Can you imagine: 

 Ride me, Goodnight Moon! 

 Give it to me, Goodnight Moon! 

It just doesn't work."

"I just had a thought, Goodnight Moon.   A new woman recently joined the group;  name's  Dr. Zhivago.  She looks a bit like a young Julie Christie." 

"I've seen her!  That Dr. Zhivago's hot as hell!"

"Well, I'll introduce you.  Straighten yourself up,  clean up your punctuation, and remember to stay in proper tense at all times."

"Okay, okay!  Y'know, if all goes well, Great Expectations,  one day Dr. Zhivago might become Mrs. Dr. Zhivago Goodnight Moon!" 

"Let's not rush things, Goodnight Moon.   But should you happen to get lucky,  do me one favor?"  

"What's that, Great Expectations?"

"For God's sakes, don't shout out:

Goodnight, Mus-s-s-s-h-h-H-H-H!!!

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Perry's Odyssey or My Quest to Find Penny from Ithaca

 

Matt Damon Ain't Got Nothin' On Me!

There's an upcoming movie about the Odyssey directed by Christopher Nolan and starring Matt Damon which seems like a must see.

But I had kind of an Odyssey myself last week. Please allow me to home in on it and relate my epic journey to you.

I was at my friend Jeff’s meetup in a neighborhood bar when I saw Penny at the other end of a long bar. She's so pretty and so smart; I think she was an English Lit major at Cornell University. You know, in Ithaca New York.

If only I could make it over to her! 

But in my way was Pauly Phoebus,  a loud-mouthed jerk with an eye patch that was probably affectation.

"Norman," he bellowed, pounding me on the back like he was doing the Heimlich Maneuver, "how's your comedy going? Hey, tell me a joke!"

For some reason, the guy thinks my name is Norman, but  whaddya gonna do?

"I'd say I'm aging well," I replied through extremely clenched teeth, "were it not for one thing. The invention of cameras."

"Ho, ho, ho ,ha, ha, hah" he  laughed hysterically. 

"Norman is killing me!"  

I made my escape from Pauly Phoebus and saw Cerise sitting at the bar surrounded on either side by a couple of guys. She's still quite alluring and both guys were falling all over themselves to get her attention. 

One  guy was so nervous he spilled his drink on her dress and the other guy knocked over a plate of chicken wings and barbecue sauce was everywhere!

This kind of thing happens a lot.

Men are often turned to pigs under Cerise’s spell!  

I journeyed on but bumped into Lottie who always has the best edibles in the tri-state area, and before I could protest she shoved an edible right down my  throat. 

It was so potent I was instantly transported back to the Sixties where my cares were ephemeral, no one ever Bogarted a single joint, and I practically forgot my own name.

OMG!

Lottie’s Eating had almost made me forget about my quest to reach Penny!

The edible’s effect banished, I was ever more determined to complete my epic journey to reach Penny from Ithaca. Now she was only about 15 feet away, hardly across the Aegean, so near but yet so far.

But as I set off  again …  oh no!  … There was Sylvia and Clarissa standing across from each other and I had to thread my way through.

Sylvia always waves her arms wildly and crazily as she talks, creating such a swirling vortex you feel like you could be sucked down under to Hades, and Clarissa is so mercurial you’re wondering “who or what are you this time, Clarissa?” as if she has as many heads as Hydra.

It can be a Herculean effort to pass between Sylvia and Clarissa!

But I made it. I know many others have not.

And there at last was Penny.  But surrounded by three ardent suitors.

Maybe I could slay the suitors with humor, so to speak, and then win her over.

“Excuse me, Penny, I’m …”

“I know who you are, Pauley Phoebus said you’re a comic.”

“That’s right, you see I write a …”

“I’m sorry I’m not in the mood for silly jokes. We’re having  a serious discussion about Greek Mythology.”

“Yes, but I’ve also read…

“The four of us are off to a poetry reading by the great J.B. Hogan, you wouldn’t be interested.  So long, Norman!

And Penny and her suitors were off.

They had slain me.

My epic quest had come to an inglorious end. The Gods had not smiled on me.

They did something more graphic on me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, I hope you enjoyed this little Homeric tale, dear reader.

That is, if you are even out there.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Why Max Goodkin Got His Own Park Bench

 

. 

About a week ago I sat down on a park bench in a neighborhood park and noticed a plaque on the front of it that said "In Memory of  Max Goodkin."

I wondered what marvelous things Max Goodkin had done to deserve such an honor.

And suddenly out of nowhere a wraithlike figure appeared before me.  He looked sort of like an old Jewish man, somewhat bald and with an aquiline nose. 

I guess no one gets them done in the afterlife.

"Who or what are you?" I said, trembling. 

"I am the Spirit of Max Goodkin," it intoned. "You have summoned me with your inquiries."

"Well, I didn't exactly summon. I mused, but that's not the same as summoning."

"Are you gonna quibble about semantics after I took the trouble to get here? Celestial roadways are worse than your Schuylkill Expressway!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Goodkin. Why have you come?"

"I've come to answer your questions as  to why this Park Bench was dedicated in my honor."

"Yes, please tell me," I said. 

He stood fully erect and pronounced "I am the inventor of Park Benches."

"Didn’t we always have them?"

"Not before 1958. Before that everyone squatted on the ground. Uncomfortable to say the least and carpenter ants often climbed up their privates.”

“So what you’re saying is ...”

"Yes, I invented sitting outdoors."

"Wow, tell me about it."

"We've had chairs but they were only for sitting around indoors, eating dinner, playing cards, and arguing over your husband leaving the toilet seat up.  It took years of painstaking work to develop the Park Bench; the early prototypes required everyone to stand on their heads”

“I see.”

“My wife left me.  My kids left me.  Even the dog left me.  But I was determined.”

“And?”

“The final invention was a smash hit. For a while everything was great. Money poured in; I was on the Merv Griffin Show. I even dated Elizabeth Taylor.”

“So why do we not know of you?”

“Before my passing, I sold all rights to the Park Bench to the very young Jeff Bezos.”

"Oh, no!"

“He used the riches he made to finance his empire while I, Max Goodkin, am forgotten. I died penniless, not that pennies are worth much anymore.”

“Well, at least you have this Park Bench, but I guess that's all that's left of your legacy.”

“Don’t feel bad for me. “

“Why?”

“I’m dating Liz Taylor again in the  afterlife.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Prosopagnosia: Face Blindness. I Can't Pronounce It But I Have It.

                                         

Prosopagnosia.

I have a medical condition called Prosopagnosia.  Before you offer me your deepest thoughts and prayers or go off to start  a GoFundMe Page, it's not such a terrible thing.

I'm Face Blind.  I am often unable to recognize the faces of people I may know, especially when I see them out of context. 

I never knew Face Blindness was a thing until someone I'd known for years once failed to recognize me in the supermarket such that I wondered "Does he think he owes me money such that he's cold shouldering me?" 

"It's me, Perry Block," I said, "and you don't owe me bupkis!"

"I'm sorry, Perry," he replied. "You see, I'm Face Blind. I never forget to never forget a face!

I'm still trying to map out that sentence.

But then I realized I'm a little Face Blind too. Unless someone has very distinguishable features I may easily run into a person in the gym I've hung out with in a night school class I've taken for the past six weeks and not know who they are. 

Fortunately I can solve that problem by never going to the gym or taking any more night school classes. 

`But I never quite realized how bad my Face Blindness had become until last week when I ran into a woman on the street who greeted me warmly.

"Hi ya, Perry!" she said. "Gee, it's been a while since I've seen you."

"Oh shit!" I thought,  I  knew she looked familiar but I couldn't quite place her. What to do, what to do?  I racked my brain.  Finally I just had to say:

"It is good to see you after all this time, but I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank.  How do I know you?" 

"Perry,"  she said softly, "it's Gwen. We were married for 7 years."

"Yes, we were!  Of course!  And it was a great 7 years!"

"Yeah, it was.  Except for those days when you would come home after work, come to the door, and say "Who the fuck are you?!!"

Yep.

Face blindness. 

Maybe a GoFundMe page wouldn't be a bad idea?

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I've posted this picture because it shows how Face Blindness works. Also because for those who've never met me, I do look exactly like Brad Pitt.