Strained.

I work at Macy's some mornings, helping put out shipments. I work in the Home department, which is filled with bed coverings, glass ware, electric appliances, and coffee. I have come to the realization that everything is priced on how confusing the name is. If you have to stare at it for a few seconds, just multiply the number of seconds by ten. That Wusthof knife? Yup, 90 dollars.

Today I unpacked a Martha Stewart berry strainer. Yes, you read right. It was a tiny strainer. For berries.

If you are walking through the store, and you stop by the berry strainers, and you think, 'jeeze, this is what I've been looking for all this time. A tiny strainer for all the goddamn berries I eat.' Then you've probably got the runs.

It is the absolute height of superfluous purchases. If this strainer is on your shopping list, you have run out of things to spend your money on.

I've got a better idea. Those strainers are four dollars a piece. If you have exhausted all the other avenues for fund depletion, call me over. For only four dollars, you can pour your delicious berries into my freshly cleaned hands. I'll shake them gently, making sure not to bruise your precious fruit.

Not only will you get an automated berry handler to place berries into a bowl or what have you, my hands come with close-able fingers allowing for a tight fit no matter the volume or variety of berry.*

My hands also come with my body. While straining your berries, I will smile and nod if you want to tell stories. I may even look at you. Don't we all miss a little human interaction now and then as we eat berries on the porch in the cold rain, humming to ourselves and our nearby cats? Put the human back in berry straining.

But I'm not stopping there. At four dollars, not only will I hold out my squeaky clean hands to be filled with your moist berries, not only will I place said berries in a bowl or decanter of your choice after rinsing them, and not only will I nod appreciatively at your chatter, I'll also show myself out of the house once your berry washing is complete, so that you can enjoy your fruity mastication in privacy.

So if you really want to spend four dollars on something that has no reason to happen in the first place, spend those dollars on me. After all, will Martha Stewart handle your berries for you?

On an unrelated note, in the spirit of the Occupy Movement:

This is what democrasaur looks like.

*Hands have a maximum capacity of 12 small berries.

GameSTOP

I am a gamer. Well, I was a gamer, back when I didn't have anything to spend money on, and I had all day to hang out with whomever I pleased.

But though things have changed, and I no longer get to spend the entirety of my funds on video games, I have not. I am a gamer at heart. Sadly, Gamestop is a dick.

I just recently picked up Portal 2. This game is awesome in every way. It is the ultimate culmination of art, writing, and gameplay. But where was I? Ah, yes. Gamestop dickishness.

My Portal 2 disk got big radial scratches due to an undeniably cute incident involving my family's dog, Cocoa, and my Xbox 360 being knocked over. These scratches prevented me from being able to play the one player aspect of the game. So I took it to Gamestop to see if it could be fixed.

I showed them the scratched disc, and I showed them my tear filled eyes. The young woman I was working with looked at her manager imploringly. He had taken all of his head hair off to fashion a goatee for himself. "Nope. Disc is a goner, bro." The man didn't even look at me. He knew his betrayal.

They let me trade in the disc for 20some dollars, minus refurb. Wait. Refurb sounds a lot like refurbish, which means that they would take my disc, fix it, and put it on the store shelves. Which means that the disc isn't a goner, bro.

Let's pretend the disc was done for. Why would Gamestop pay me money for it? Do they recycle? If I brought in a game disc that had been cut into little cubes would they still give me 20some dollars for it? If I asked real nice? If I showed them how the pieces sparkled like magic when you threw them?

I didn't think so. Gamestop, you're a dick. And I want Portal 2 back.

Ruby, thank you for being my first follower. This is for you.

What is Art?

What is art? If you are a college student, you have heard this question. It could have been in philosophy class, which is much like Nascar but without a winner after all the driving in circles.

Perhaps you heard it at a party, if you were one of those people still awake in the kitchen after all the alcohol is gone and you try to talk about intellectual things to forget that you are sobering up. Well, maybe there's some Pabst left, but you're not that drunk anymore.

Maybe you had a studio class, and during breaks, the smokers in the class would walk outside in sub-zero temperatures and ask this question to feel smart about giving themselves cancer, pretending that a flipped collar and an American Spirit cigarette is all they need to stay warm on Planet Hoth.

If you were at art school, you heard this question at all these places. And everywhere in between. It was a question that defined your existence at art school. The question, mind you. Not the answer. Because the answer is a unicorn. The answer is the pot of gold in each rainbow. The answer doesn't exist.

Why not? Well let us try to define it, shall we? Art is an image.

Wrong, what about performance art? Art is an experience.

OK, is Transformer's 2 art? It is certainly an experience. Throwing up is an experience too. But neither of them is art.

We could go on like this all day. I will share with you a talk I had with my Critical Analysis of Art and Literature teacher:

It began as a field trip. We all went to the auditorium to hear a presentation by the art director for CCAD's galleries.

Among many post-modern offerings, there was one artist in particular who had done a number of works in other countries. One of this artist's pieces was a large concrete square built in the center of a town.

This marvelous sculpture inspired musical artists to perform on it and speeches to be held on it. Rallies would gather around his artwork, and it became a focal point for performance centered art. Wow, right?

Let us review. It's big, made out of concrete, in the shape of a square, and has people perform on it. That sounds a lot like a stage. I'm sorry, what I meant to type is: he built a stage.

For the artist's next piece, he was planning on coming to Columbus, OH to paint bike lanes. Not, like, colors in all flavors of the rainbow lanes. Just bike lanes. The kind that they pay construction workers to make. Usually that is called a public service. But no, this was art.

When we got back to class, we asked the question: What is art? If the bike lanes and the concrete stage are both considered art, then what else falls into this category? Is a playground art? No, says the teacher, goateed and bespectacled as he was.

Is the Ohio Theatre building art? No, again, comes the reply from the man sipping a tall mocha-chino-latte-salted-hopscotch-foursquare at the front of the classroom. What, then, classifies these projects as art?

"That an artist does them." The words ease out like cigarette smoke and fade into the silence. So if I, an artist by my own definition, dug a hole in the ground, would it be art? No. This time the answer is hesitant. His glasses fog with the effort of his thoughts.

What, then, makes something art? I ask, the whole class asking the same question (except for the kid in a torn jean jacket and floppy Chucks who almost certainly spends his days thinking thoughts so deep he craps ideas). The lips purse. The silver mustache bristles. "A signature from an artist."

So if I bought a hamburger bun at Kroger, I was an artist, and I signed it, it would be art. "Yes." If I scribbled on a napkin and signed it, it would be art (oops, Picasso did this). If I, as mayor, ordered that an on-ramp be made, and I called myself an artist, and I signed that on-ramp, would it be art? Stunningly, the reply was yes.

I think you all know which side of the bike lane I'm on. I've never been quiet about my disdain for the post-modern movement, and I did not and do not agree with the definition of artwork given to me by my teacher. Much of this probably comes from my illustration roots. But the fact (my opinion) remains, the definition of 'art,' especially 'fine art,' has been diluted beyond significance.

I want to hear the words 'fine art' and see the work of masters in their craft. Someone who has something to say and the skills to say it with. That isn't to say that post-modern artists don't have anything to say, or that they are bad at what they really do. If I walk into an art gallery full of holes in the walls and the message is in the hundreds of pages making that artist's thesis, he is a writer. Probably a good one. But he is bad at art.

I've heard it time and again, 'my gallery was meant to inspire conversation,' or 'the empty canvas is filled with the thoughts of the viewer.' Let me put this in capitals to be clear: YOU ARE THE ARTIST, YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SUPPOSEDLY HAS THE AWESOME INSPIRING IMAGES/PERFORMANCES. COMPANIES MAKE BLANK CANVASES EVERY DAY AND THEY ARE WRAPPED IN PLASTIC AND HAVE A STICKER THAT SAYS 14.95, NOT 14,950. THE IDEA THAT YOU ARE UNEDUCATED IF YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ARTWORK IS ELITIST AND LAZY. GET OVER YOURSELF, WRITE A BOOK, AND STOP PEDDLING YOUR ARTIST'S BLUFF. Breath now, relax.

I know, I used the dreaded word: craft. No other profession has been so successfully lampooned by over-educated egomaniac fart-sniffing paintbrush-diddlers as the art world. A plumber can fix my plumbing (as they are wont to do), and he can do this with varying degrees of craftsmanship. Of the best plumber in the world, it could be said that he is an artist in his field. But if plumbing were defined in the same, nebulous manner fine art is, he could have walked into my home, hammered nails into the pipes, told me that my face was a vagina and signed the front door.

My car is awesome

Atreyu had Falcor the Love Dragon to ride where he pleased. Lindsay Lohan had Herbie the Love Bug. And coke. Shia LeBuff rode Megan Fox. I mean Bumble-bee, sorry. Me, I have a '94 Grand Prix... the Pontiac of Loooove.

The interior is a sexy combination of car seats and a radio, complete with cassette player. It also runs. Which is more than can be said for my previous car, RIP Corsica.

What sets my car apart is that it has a personality. Just like all of the vehicles I mentioned earlier, with the exception of Megan Fox. Sadly, it is the personality of an angry old man. If it could talk, it would have the voice of Clint Eastwood and tell me to get off its lawn.

Instead of turning the key, I have an ignition button on the dash. Yeah. If I'm giving a ride to any of the fine ladies that I frequently give rides to, I always offer to let them press my ignition switch. I'm a gentleman like that.

It also has four fully see-through car door windows, one of which rolls down if it feels like it. Not that it doesn't complain about it, mind you.

Neither of my two front doors work. To fix this tricky business, I have to open the front doors through the back doors. The car can never be locked. When the doors first died on me, I still locked my car all the time. Suffice to say, I got really good at breaking into my own car. I once had a policeman pull up to me while I was breaking into my car and ask if I needed help. I just told him that I'd be fine unless the owner of the car came by, then I might need some help fighting the guy off. Policemen are so helpful.

My car is also shedding little parts bit by bit: evolving to become more aerodynamic.

This is an accurate portayal of how BA I am in my car.

I know that one of these days I'll punch the ignition and crank the Eurosynth pop and drive into the unknown just like Ryan Gosling, who is too badass to use things like words when he speaks. On that day, I'll stroke the dash, whispering sweet nothings as I listen to my car's delighted purr, and count out how much change I have for gas. It should get me to Walmart, at least.

Welcome

I am splitting my one blog into three. One for my writing, one for my painting, and one for my illustrated rants. You are on the latter. So welcome. I hope you enjoy it.