Saturday, April 08, 2006

For Bad Art History, The Hug of The Short Knives

Were I still in the Lileks phase I noticed coming over me like a dread fog here, I would be stretching this image from a Detroit restaurant into a banner for the blog. Hey, wait just a minute... Oh yeah, a version of that sentiment is written on top already and I'm almost completely inept with Photoshop, though I fondly remember being decent with Illustrator back in dusty yore. Cripes, my second-rate alter-Lileks just creeps in and takes over. I'm dreaming up absurdist colloquialisms. I'm creating a metaphor between something and scifi, and I must...divert....the Agammemnon....falling into....the sun. AAArrrgh. Envy is the cruelest master. Or is that ennui?

Having discovered the divine Joanne Jacobs, lantern of hope and outrage, I was agog over the kindergartner forced to write a repudiation of hugging. Also, the boy who turned in his Swiss Army knife to the principal for safekeeping before school, was declared a "model student", and recommended for expulsion.

(Because I'm trying to shake off the fever from the state of 10 billion lakes- perhaps now, it's just one big one- I won't expound on the homey ritual of grandkids on Christmas, all gathering with our booty around my grandfather's chair where his pocketknife was the official method to get tape and packing encumbrances removed. I won't talk about my father's omnipresent pocketknife or my own- Victorinox Signatures- that are stashed everywhere useful including the jewelry box, and which have never-ever-been eliminated by airport security from my keyring, though my nail scissors went forfeit. Glad I'm not doing that.)

As I've mentioned, theologically I find The Da Vinci Code to be so much creamed corn, but I was reading it for fun, and I'm as much a sucker for international conspiracy fantasies as any wizardly ones. However, I forgot to mention the additionally succotashy art history. Here 'tis.

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