Not a real album cover, just one I made for a friend. And just to show that I have my priorities straight, I gave him the cover and forgot the disk. And then we went to see Stefan Sagmeister, which kind of sounds like Stefan is the hip king of sagging, but that's his real name, he's Austrian. But first we went to a Mexican restaurant and my friend, who shall remain nameless because he emitted a gigantic fart in the CACV parking lot that made a woman's car not start, and she thought it was something she did, like flooding it or whatnot, and she called a tow truck and everything, but the fart dissipated just before it got there, and the tow truck guy started her car fine, but he sniffed around a bit and told her she might have a dead squirrel in her catalytic converter. And the reason my friend has to remain nameless is that the woman is someone we know and it would be embarrassing to him. But like I said, first we went to a Mexican restaurant, and Bart ordered this giant beer that looked like a novelty beer or something, and it needed three whole limes. But damn if he didn't drink the whole thing, which probably played a part in later developments.

I'm not saying there aren't scenes like this in Norfolk, it's just that in Norfolk they're peripheral. They're on the periphery. Here in Virginia Beach, strip malls are essential. They're where you congregate, where you do your business, where you replenish yourself. Oh sure, they have that Brasilia on the Boulevard that they like to pretend is a downtown, but it's really just a strip mall with some hotels sitting on top of it. No, you got me: I'm just jealous. My fondest fantasy is to be knee-deep in my luxuriously manicured lawn massaging Scott's Turf Builder into my Pomeranian Fescue as I gaze at my platinum Cayenne, the one with the set of Big Berthas in the trunk. Hm. Think I'll head down to the 7-11 for a Slim Jim and a lottery ticket.

No, it explains nothing. Nothing to explain. Various people of various ages in various poses. That's all. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on to another blog.

Turned out to be sort of a nice guy. It just goes to show you, huh?

That's not a euphemism. Well, it could be. It could be a euphemism for world peace. Or for committing suicide. Or for a guy watching a pigeon on a balmy Saturday afternoon. I guess every drawing is a euphemism, if you think about it. Huh. (I'm thinking about it.)

This is intended to be metaphorical. It's not, like, a photo or whatnot. I had to attend two meetings yesterday, and much of my effort was devoted to not projectiling various bodily essences into the proceedings. Worser than the meetings was the trip between them, wolfing down a McDonald's "hamburger" while the driver chain-smoked clove cigarettes. In meeting #2, the occasional sharp report of my forehead hitting the conference table kept me alert, more or less. Thank god nothing of consequence ever happens during meetings, or I'd be in trouble.

If I had gone the business route, wore suits and shit, talked the business talk, let's bottom-line this, I could have ended up like one of these guys. I'm not saying there aren't decent people going around in suits. I'm sure there are. Law of averages and all that. But I'm so suggestible, it would have brought out the worst in me. And I have to say, law of averages notwithstanding, if I'm talking to a guy in a suit, odds are he's playing some kind of suit-guy role, and comes off as a little less human to me. This is grossly unfair of me, I acknowledge this. But, you know, on the occasions that I have had to put on a suit, I find myself acting a little less human, being condescending to waitresses and whatnot. Looking for other people in suits to make eye contact with. Oh, I know, this is just so much sour grapes. I've always wanted to drive a Beemer, and I know I never will. Oh, hey, I just heard a funny joke on The History Channel. Man's on an elevator. Woman gets on. She say, "Can I smell your balls?" Taken aback, he says, "No!" She goes, "Well, then, it must be your feet." Hey, it was the History Channel. You can't fault me here. Well, of course you can, but you shouldn't is what I'm saying.

Second stop on the sketchtistic march of pillage and plunder was The Boot; my first time there. I sampled the fine but pricey oyster stew. Run by the proprietors of the late, lamented Relative Theory Records, The Boot is determined to use locally-grown foods as much as possible. It's a worthy goal, but their prices reflect the cost of good intentions. One of those American ironies that many of the people who share their beliefs won't be able to afford to act on them. Simplicity is gonna cost you. I don't know about you, but I'm getting kind of tired of American ironies.

A vanishing breed. Shills for the Brave New World claim that people are doing their reading on the internet now, but the numbers show that even those who are, are reading less. And if you ever tried reading a book on a computer monitor, you know why. When we stop reading, we put our brains in the hands of those who spew content onto our TV and computer screens. Even if we disagree with these jerks, we're letting them set the agenda. Who's going to be left to say that maybe Angie's pregnancy isn't quite as important as the decimation of marine life in the Gulf of Mexico? Well. maybe it was always this way. Maybe it's nothing more than that I'm entering the grumpy old man phase of my life. There's something to look forward to.

Sick transit and all that, it does you good to spend a couple of hours in a cemetery. You get real quiet. You think about stuff. And then you leave and watch the Super Bowl. USA! USA! USA!

If you're very very short, you might want to go into a different line of work. This is the reason there aren't many 5-year-old painters. Well, there are, actually, plenty. But they're not any good. Well, yes, come to think of it, they're generally better than most adults. Okay, so my thesis sucks. Why should it be any different than my previous theses? Or should I say theces? Look, thesis-advancing is not my strong suit, okay? I'd better hurry up and find out what my strong suit is, my window of opportunity is closing. But you know what they say, whenever God closes one window of opportunity, He looks at you through that window and points at you and laughs. that's been my experience, at least.

Neither one of these guys is Jesse. Jesse is legendary. Or so the legend goes.

Hey, it's a doodle, okay? You don't hold doodles to the same high standard as you do conventional drawings. They're done when you're talking on the phone or whatnot. So like while my conscious mind was carrying on a conversation with somebody on the phone, my subconscious mind was doing this doodle, so I can't be held responsible. On the other hand, maybe my conscious mind was drawing the doodle and it was my subconscious mind talking on the phone. Which might explain why they hung up. Really hard. It hurt my ear.

Some topics leach the sarcasm right out of you. The irony, the aloofness, the contempt, the condescension just vaporize. That's Oona.

Was able to go to figure drawing group for the first time in a while. They've finally got a new permanent location, a church right around the corner from Tortilla West, which helps ease the transition back to everyday life on Tuesday nights. They told me this place was a church, but it doesn't resemble a house of God as much as a house of Ware, which is fine with me. By the way, the Tequila Shrimp, a few of which appear next to Mr. Mintle's martini, were pretty frickin good.

I love Republicans.

This morning I ate a bowl of cereal. But first I brought the bowl to the table. But first I got a spoon out of the silverware tray. But first I poured milk on the cereal. But first I got a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. But first I poured cereal into the cereal bowl. But first I opened the box of cereal. But first I got the box of cereal out of the cabinet. But first I got a cereal bowl from the shelf. But first I washed my hands. But first I used the bathroom. But first I turned off the alarm. But first I woke up. But first I dreamed I was eating a bowl of cereal.

You know, for one day when I'm pressed for time or forgot my pen. I can just cut these out and paste in the form of a drawing. See, it's this inability to think in productive, goal-oriented ways that has led to my utter and abject failure as a human being. At least I hope that's the reason. I'd hate to think it's just that I'm a corrupt and malicious soul. An intellectual deficiency is much easier to swallow. Like, this washing machine has a worn fan belt, it's not inherently evil. If I can't ascribe my carcass-strewn path to bad wiring or having pushed too hard with a Q-tip, then I must accept the possibility that I'm a carrier of the evil gene, and one day I might find a severed head in my laundry basket and have to worry about whether there are any long periods of time I can't account for. Sigh. There are times when my brain feels like a chuck roast left in the sun, crawling with maggots. It's an awful feeling, but not quite awful enough that you're aware of hitting bottom with a thud, and having hit bottom, letting it all go with a sigh of relief, enveloped by that oceanic peace, and murmuring we are all Hokies.

This here is The Attorney In The Seersucker Suit, on his way to lunch at the Town Point Club. Walked right past me as I was sketching the doomed Ikon building. How do I know he was an attorney? Well, let's see, I supposed he could have been a Hip Record-Store Owner or a Texaco-Station Mechanic or maybe a Pregnant Dominican Substitute Teacher, but I decided to go out on a limb. You northern types might have thought this guy lives only in bad John Grisham novels (oxymoron alert), but down here they're like ticks on a hound dog's butt. I'm not going to stoop to saying that all attorneys are like ticks on a hound dog's butt, regardless of how many of them there are, because that would be a low blow and unfair to the many fine attorneys there are in our fair land, and I'm nothing if not fair. It would be a gross exaggeration to blame society's ills on the law profession, actionable even, somebody could get their pants sued off by saying something like that! You can't blame attorneys for nobody being willing to tell the truth in public anymore, to apologize for anything and accept responsibility for one's actions. If you're smart, you'll blame illegal aliens.