I avoid ranting as long as I can these days, but it builds up in me like the egg sac of a brown recluse. And then it's gotta blow. So, get ready, America (or the tiny little corner of America that's reading this):

Today’s rant was spurred by reading that conservatives are accusing liberals of being condescending and insulting to the “common people”, the tea party attendees, ignoring their wishes, sneering haughtily in their innocent upturned faces, the people with whom the Republicans are so empathetic, people who will go their entire lives without saying “with whom”, the veritable salt of the earth, whose salt our dear right wing friends lick with naked lust, while embracing them as blood brothers. 

What a crock of shit! The spittle has hardly dried from the presidential campaign, which was punctuated with the shrill complaints of the right that the mindless masses were being hypnotized and led away in lockstep by the empty celebrity of a master charlatan. Remember that, Republicans? You labeled the majority of voters in America dupes! What a convenient sweet amnesia you indulge in. And your lustbunny Sarah Palin has the gall to stand up and ask those who put their money on Hope and Change--the majority of American voters--”How’s that workin’ out for ya?” Have you asked yourselves at whose expense she’s laughing? Of course not. Introspection is a decadent luxury of the elite. Time to grab a pitchfork and storm the ramparts! But first make sure your bespoke suit is hanging safely in the closet--wouldn’t want to get mud on it.

I've never told anyone this, but I have a sketch trainer. He runs me through my cross-hatching drills every morning. A protein shake, a neck massage, a short nap, and then it's moleskine lifts, followed by a trip to Starbucks for some cardio sketching. No, that's not true. I don't have a sketch trainer. There's no such thing. I'm very sorry. Try to find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Is there any greater pleasure than settling down with a good book and a nice hot cup of coffee? Well, of course there is, we're not fools here. There's your bucatini all'amatriciana, The Daily Show, a check for $780 in the mail, a good dump, a Swedish dollhouse (for some folks), a new set of blackout curtains, café au lait at the Croissant d'Or, an illustrated version of Genesis by R. Crumb, slipping on the ice and thinking you're going to smack the back of your head for sure but you catch yourself just in time, finding a twenty in your jacket that you didn't know you had, getting bought a free martini even if it isn't Boodles, looking in the mirror and seeing that your hair doesn't look like an over-the-hill celebrity's mug shot, finding some Reddi-Wip in the fridge that you didn't know you had, discovering that the H1N1 shot didn't hurt at all, not having a boss, mashing that flea in your ear with a Q-tip, finding out that $5 bottle of wine isn't half bad, being introduced to Steve Buscemi by your Brooklyn friends because they know how much you would like to meet Steve Buscemi and being good friends that's what they would do (that one's still on my to-do list), finding a giant diamond on the sidewalk, sharing morning breath with someone, having your family doctor tell you that he can't explain it but the tests show that you're immortal, having a drawing turn out good, having someone tell you your drawing turned out good even when you know it didn't, scratching that scratch, waking up to find that you have super powers, waking up to find that nobody left a severed horse's head in your bed, having bad weather cancel a local appearance by Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck, not having watched Lost, listening to Johnny Dowd sing A Picture From Life's Other Side. And I haven't even touched upon the whole panoply of sexual activities. So I guess you see my point. You can just come down off your high horse, Mr. Good-Book Reader.

It's not all beautiful models, oh no, there's a seamy side to figure drawing too. As a conscientious sketchojournalist, I feel obligated to turn the pad in the opposite direction and reveal the institution's dark underside.

Tonight at Shuck's I was introduced to Alice's Propellor, which, as it approaches the event horizon, has a little propellor attached to it, and it's blurry, which proves...well, I don't know what it proves, either because I was treated to a free martini, or because I was listening in on a MEGA-NERD conversation.  But it was either that or hear about Penis Night After Parties, which was a no-brainer. And we wonder why no women join us at Shuck's anymore!