Portrait of the Artist as a Young Expectorator

Weird Internet discovery of the day.

I like it. It's slightly disturbing, as is most of the artist's (Kim Simonsson) work. It's definitely not kitchsy like a Precious Moment or incomprehensible and annoying like a so-called modern art paint splatter.

It juxtaposes conflicting concepts in a bizzare fashion (cute little girl; unsettling, ghostly complexion; and decidedly uncute creation by said little girl of a long strand of saliva.)

Like Munch's Scream, it's devastatingly original and clearly not the product of a pretentious non-talent hiding behind the modern art label.

When does it end?

As I was walking out of the grocery the other day, I saw a mother and daughter heading for their car.

The mother walked slowly, ponderously, straight forward, a small grocery bag in each hand. The daughter, who was maybe seven, skipped, scampered and ran in joyous circles.

When does it end?

When does the un-self-conscious spontaneity of childhood end? When do we stop skipping and start plodding? What would the world be like if we could delay its departure indefinitely?

Perhaps you say: Someone has to carry the groceries.

Something all thinking people should read

http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Cinema/3117/sociosmurf2.htm

I adored this show growing up. And to think it may have been a socialist conspiracy. Gasp.

I actually arose before dawn on Saturday mornings just to watch it. Back in the day, that's what you had to do to catch a good cartoon -- there was no cable cartoon channel.

Last gripe of the day -- outdated stereotypes passing unchallenged

Today, I was hoping to find some web clip art to illustrate a page for my job that had to do with bilingual tutors.

Imagine my irritation and frustration when every site onto to which I typed Hispanic, if they had anything at all, featured the same things: some exaggerated, bandito-looking guy with a big, black handlebar moustache; a flamenco dancer; a cactus; or various items of quasi-Hispanic food.

Nowhere was there any clip art showing Hispanic characters going about normal, daily, 21st-century life, although a few photo sites had such material. No children reading or parents parenting; no Hispanic characters typing on a computer or carrying a briefcase or leading a business discussion.

When it comes to Internet art, apparently we still live in Speedy Gonzales' world. Que malo!

Somebody killed the Easter Bunny

Upon exiting my neighborhood this morning, making the very sharp turn where the posted speed limit is 20 mph, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but a rabbit, flattened in the left lane.

I pondered how anyone could accidently,while driving anywhere close to 20 mph (on a road with little traffic and few distractions) run over a rabbit, one of the fastest creatures around. And I'm not superstitious, but to kill a bunny so close to Easter just seems like a bad omen.

I'm an admitted speed demon on the freeway, but even I am quite aware that children, not just small critters such as that unfortunate rabbit, inhabit neighborhoods and people too stupid or distracted to slow down and pay attention in such areas, should have their drivers licenses burnt to ash, their nose hairs plucked and their behinds permanently exiled to the city bus system.

Cars -- our modern slaves

I hate cars. I love my car. I am conflicted.

I am an automobile addict. I'm just like those nineteenth century folk who recognized the evils of slavery but couldn't imagine how to maintain their lifestyle without it.

I hate making my way to work through a dead zoo of squirrels, cats, dogs and deer, left to rot on the asphalt after being crushed by some driver -- maybe a pyscho dirtbag who got a thrill from it, or maybe by some quiet librarian on her way home from work who couldn't swerve in time.

Although I've come close, I can say, knock on wood, that I have yet to kill an animal with my car. I dread the day when it finally does happen.

Our eight-lane death-rivers make life unimaginably harder for everything but vultures, cutting off ancient migration routes and water access, introducing terror and confusion and merciless, endless traffic where not so long ago, cool breezes blew through shady forests.

I hate how the modern American community is absolutely dependent on the automobile and how one takes his or her life into his or her hands attempting to be a pedestrian. And when the darn thing breaks down, unless one is blessed with wealth, all other concerns go on hold and your existence is at the mercy of the guys at the repair shop.

I think of the Beatles, famously cursing Sir Walter Raleigh as "such a stupid get" for introducing the world to the pleasures and perils of tobacco -- and I in turn curse Henry Ford, who introduced the common man to the automobile.

But I love being able to cruise down a country road on a sunny day, go where I want, stop where and when I want, something that is almost impossible on public transportation.