My poltergeist’s name is Bas

Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have a poltergeist.  His name is Bas, short for Bastion of Evil.  I’ve had him since college.  I’m not quite sure why he started homing in on me, but I first noticed him when my random player for my music playlist started playing the same few songs over and over again.  Apparently the Bastion of Evil is very fond of Bon Jovi, which I can’t say is surprising.  Birds of a feather, you know.

Bas has expanded his repertoire since then.  He makes all my important emails get caught in the spam filter, eats my socks (only the right sock, for some reason, and he favors patterned socks that can’t easily be paired with other sort-of-similar socks), and hides that thing I’ve been looking for.  He also likes to put my flute in a different place every time I set it down, but I think that’s just because he doesn’t like my flute-playing, which, fair enough.  You don’t have to be a spirit being of malicious mischief for that.

Truth be told, I’ve been impressed at the steady way in which Bas has been working to improve his skills.  He’s been showing real initiative and discipline.  I especially admired the way in which he recently caused two lightbulbs to burn out just after I’d put the ladder away after replacing three other bulbs that had been out for weeks.  It’s Bas’s attention to detail that sets him apart from the other poltergeists.

He’ll go missing sometimes.  It took a while for me to see the pattern, but once I started to look, I realized that, when I didn’t notice him around the apartment for a while, there would be odd stories on the news:  one time after Bas disappeared, the Vice-President shot his friend in the face while duck-hunting.  Another time not long ago, Bas vanished for a while and a British Petroleum oil well in the Gulf of Mexico exploded and started spewing oil uncontrollably.  When Bas reappeared, he seemed particularly smug and put “It’s My Life” on loop for a week (longest week of my life).

Over the years, I’ve tried various techniques to overcome my poltergeist.  Of course, I went with the ever-popular exorcism.  This seemed to go well–no one’s head started spinning around, nothing caught on fire–until the end, when the priest turned to go and found that Bas had tied his shoelaces together.  Subtle.  The computer then started playing “You Give Love A Bad Name” without any apparent cause.  Also, it turns out that holy water stains duvets.  And Bas was still around.

I tried talk therapy, to see if there was some underlying issue we could resolve that would break this cycle of mischief.  I would ask questions like “How does it feel when you inflict injury on others?” to a seemingly empty room.  Then a crash would come from somewhere nearby, and I would run out to see a friend rolling around on the floor with a fork stuck in her foot, whimpering “It hurts!”  And I would yank out the implement, clean up my friend, and stomp back to my room, muttering “You could have just mysteriously typed it on my computer screen, you know.”

Your Ghost Is a Gift (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the end, I decided to embrace my poltergeist.  Not literally, because I’m guessing that ectoplasm is even worse for fabrics than holy water is, but metaphorically.  Bas is a poltergeist, and he’s mine.  I check my email spam filter regularly, buy new socks to replace the ones he’s eaten and resign myself to listening to a lot of Bon Jovi.  In return, Bas doesn’t blow up my apartment, and he stays out of the way when I’ve got a guy over.  A poltergeist will do a lot for a woman who keeps him well-supplied with socks.

How to rant effectively

Angry Penguin (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m looking out for you guys.  I want you all to lead happy and fulfilling lives, and I want to spare you from the pain and trauma that exist around every corner in this world.  So here is today’s life lesson:

What with the election season heating up and all the controversy over transvaginal ultrasounds and Tim Tebow being traded and all the other drama going on in our complicated little lives, we’ve seen a number of very passionate monologues, dialogues, arguments, discussions, and flat-out rants lately.  They’re on TV, at home, at work, in church, waiting in line at the grocery store…you haven’t lived until you’ve had a gut-wrenching, no-holds-barred debate on Kim Kardashian’s marriage with the lady at the next table in the coffee shop, and then you realize at the end of it that not only have you never seen each other before that day, you haven’t even bothered to exchange names.

So because I want to help you on your path to spiritual enlightenment, here is my advice:  if you’re going to go on a rant, be it televised or otherwise, make sure you dress up.  I get a lot of free entertainment out of watching people go on television in bad suits and uncombed hair, giving longwinded diatribes on the proper method of vermin control or whatever hot button issue, but a rant inevitably ends up with the ranter sounding like a crazy person with his or her voice hitting that register that only other nutjobs can hear.  If your hair is all shiny and styled and your makeup is done, maybe you’ve got a particularly flattering shirt on, no matter how crazy you sound, you will still come off as reasonable.  This is because people don’t actually pay attention to the content of what other people say.  Politicians have been taking advantage of this fact for centuries.

This also holds true if you just happen to be in the lunchroom at work and someone wants to bring up the latest idiot comment that [Insert politician/celebrity of choice's name here] said.  If you’re having a bad hair day, or your tie is loose or there’s a run in your pantyhose, you’re going to come across as disheveled and unstable.  If you’re all power-suited up and you’re wearing your diamond earrings and you actually bothered to curl your lashes that day, you can say whatever you want and someone’s going to nod along with you.  Ranting is all about image.  You don’t want to be the crazy-homeless-person-ranter.  You want to be the clever, witty, insightful ranter who could have your own television show if you weren’t too busy doing work that matters.

So there’s your life lesson for the day: rant with style and you, too, could end up with a special broadcast on Yahoo, filmed in front of a hand-selected audience who will laugh and clap sycophantically.  Or else you’ll just rule the lunch room.  If you haven’t managed to pull it quite together, bite your tongue and live to rant another day.  But always rant responsibly.  Here endeth the lesson.

Famous Paintings Discuss Current Events: Super Tuesday

As regular readers of the blog will know, several famous paintings have been known to come on the blog and provide commentary on current events.  The paintings have been muttering restively about the Republican primaries, so I thought I’d let them out of the box leading into Super Tuesday.

A quick rundown of the facts, since  talking artwork isn’t usually big on spouting statistics:  while not quite so super a Tuesday as it used to be, there are still 419 delegates at stake tomorrow, with 1144 needed to clinch the nomination.  Mitt Romney currently has a healthy lead over Rick Santorum, and everyone else trails woefully far behind–but a sweep on Super Tuesday could put anyone back in the mix, so it’s still fun and games, even if I doubt anyone will lose an eye.

Now, without further ado, Famous Paintings discuss Super Tuesday:

Mona Lisa:  They just don’t make Super Tuesdays like they used to.  Come to think of it, they don’t really make presidential candidates like they used to.  Ah, that William Jennings Bryan, there was a man who could give a speech!

 

 

The Scream:  I know, and now they expect us to get excited about Mitt Romney?  ”Ooh, Mitt Romney can fix our economy!  Ooh, Mitt Romney’s a businessman, he’ll clean things up!  Yeah, he’ll clean up all right.  How much is he worth now?

 

 

Whistler’s Mother:  I like that Newt Gingrich fellow.  He’s a firebrand.  He’ll shake things up.  And what a nice young man, so protective of his mother.

 

 

The Scream:  You know he’s on his third wife and proposed an open marriage with his second wife, right?

 

 

 

Whistler’s Mother:  Well, dear, I’ve had an arrangement with Van Gogh’s self-portrait for several decades now.  People have urges.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

 

 

The Scream:  Oh, God.  Oh, God.  That bastard.  I can’t take the mental image.  I feel like I need to yell, or shriek, or just…somehow…make noise….

 

 

 

Girl With A Pearl Earring:  I like Rick Santorum.  I know he’s not the sexiest candidate, but he just seems so dependable and sensible.  And he’s right, not everyone needs to go to college to have a rewarding and fulfilling life.

 

 

Old Guitarist:  You realize he’s a lawyer with an MBA, right?  He actually has more advanced degrees than Barack Obama has!  And he may be from a steel town, but I doubt he got any closer to blue-collar work than walking past construction sites on his way to work as a lobbyist.

 

 

Mona Lisa:  Does anyone else miss Ronald Reagan?  I mean, I know he drove us into an unprecedented deficit situation, but when you saw him onscreen, you really believed he was the President.  The man had presence.

 

 

American Gothic:  We’re just going to wait until we’re told who the candidate is for the Anyone But Obama party and vote for that one.  Super Tuesday, as far as we’re concerned, is just known as That Annoying Day With No Good Television.  Talk to us again in November.

 

 

Boy, that Old Guitarist is quite the liberal, isn’t he?  And who knew that Mona Lisa was a Reagan supporter?  And that Van Gogh’s Self Portrait, always causing problems.  As always, the views expressed are those of the portraits themselves, and not of the blog in general.  Happy voting!

How to succeed in politics without really trying

Image via Wikipedia

This is what I imagine conversation is like behind closed doors in the Oval Office:

President Obama:  This election season is so much more relaxing than the last one.  It’s almost like I don’t have to do anything at all; I can just sit back and watch the Republican party tear itself to pieces.

Interchangeable Flunkie #1:  Have you seen the latest attack ads?  Gingrich’s campaign is threatening to sue over one that claims that he co-sponsored a bill with Nancy Pelosi to give $60 million a year to a U.N. program supporting China’s one-child policy.

President Obama:  Oh, that’s priceless!  I should throw out a hint at the next press conference about potential action against China’s human rights atrocities, really get them going.  Out of curiosity, is there any basis to that ad?

Interchangeable Flunkie #2:  There was a bill introduced in the House in 1989 called the Global Warming Prevention Act to develop plans to reduce carbon emissions.  It included support for the United Nations Population Fund, but specifically disallowed funding for the performance of involuntary sterilization or abortion or to coerce any person to accept family planning.  Gingrich and Pelosi were co-sponsors of the bill along with 142 other House members. The bill never became law.

President Obama:  So, no truth whatsoever.

Interchangeable Flunkie #2:  No, sir.

President Obama:  Fantastic.  I love being the incumbent.

Interchangeable Flunkie #3:  Romney’s PACs are targeting Santorum, now.  An ad ran the other day on his voting record in Washington:  ”Would you have voted to let convicted violent felons regain the right to vote? Rick Santorum voted yes, joining Hillary Clinton.”

President Obama:  My God, not Hillary!  You know, it seems like only yesterday that I was being crucified alongside Hillary.  She’s not bad, actually, once you get to know her.

Interchangeable Flunkie #1:  I thought you said she was a demon in human form.

President Obama:  Well, yes, but now she’s a demon in human form that’s on our side.

Interchangeable Flunkie #1:  Yes, sir.

President Obama:  You know, after I’ve had a long day at work apologizing to Afghanistan and bailing out people who took on mortgages they knew they couldn’t afford, I like to switch on the television and watch my opponents take each other out, one by one, leaving behind one battered, weakened, exhausted candidate to go up against me in the fall.  After I watch Mitt attack Newt and Rick attack Mitt, I get to watch Newt come off like a crazed egghead philanderer.  I almost miss Michelle Bachmann.  I could listen to her all day long.  I would have loved to have debated her in the general election.

Interchangeable Flunkie #4:  There’s always Sarah Palin.  You never know about her.

President Obama:  Stop, you’re making me giddy.  Now, where’s the head of JSOC?  I need to kill another high-ranking terrorist right after the Republican primaries.

Interchangeable Flunkie #5:  Right away, sir.

President Obama:  God, I love this job.

They say you can’t take it with you when you go

In the news today is an article about how Russian scientists took a flower from the Ice Age, perfectly preserved for thirty thousand years, and brought it back to life.  It’s called the Silene stenophylla blossom, and it’s beautiful and improbable and astonishing.  Naturally, upon hearing this uplifting news I immediately thought about how I could use it in my blog.  I’ve come up with this:  a list of what I do and don’t want future scientists to bring back from today’s civilization.  I’ve divided it into categories:

Entertainment

Do bring back:  Adele.  Her voice is like fire, sometimes low and smoky, sometimes warm and comforting, then suddenly it engulfs the entire room.  It will burn the pain right out of you if you let it.  Leave out Britney (sorry, Britney), those kids who sang “MmmBop” (please leave them out) and the entire cast of High School Musical, but bring back Adele.

Don’t bring back:  Clowns.  They’re evil, they’re just evil.  Man, they creep me out.  They just stare at you, grinning, and for all you know they’re actually frowning or making kissy faces or plotting carnage.  You just can’t tell.  Never trust a clown.  Don’t turn your back on them, don’t let them around your kids, and don’t bring them back!

 

Guys

Image via Wikipedia

Do bring back:  the quirky, dorky genius.  This guy can take many forms, and they’re all knee-wobblers.  I’m partial to the scientist myself, but he could be a musician or a writer or a computer guy or a statistician.  You can always tell this guy by how his eyes get really big and start shining when he gets onto his subject.  It’s like the brilliance of the universe is locked inside him and he’s trying so hard to let it out.  The best part is, unlike the annoying jerks detailed below, this guy only gets more awesome and knee-wobbling as time goes on.  Totally worth bringing back.

Don’t bring back:  the obnoxious frat boy.  I usually end up getting hit on by these guys while I’m looking around for the quirky, dorky genius.  They can be preppy, sporty, slacker, emo, or anything else.  It’s not the style; the dorky geniuses can be any of those, too.  It’s that asinine approach to the world, of arrogance, entitlement, and most of all, that ‘whatever’ attitude.  That attitude just needs to die out.  On the upside, you do get to watch them degenerate into washed-up shoulda-coulda-woulda’s later in life.  Not enough to make up for it, though, and they’re still obnoxious even then.  Don’t bring them back.

Locations

Do bring back:  The Amazon rainforest.  I’m sure the world will continue to change as dramatically in the future as it has in the past.  We can’t quite seem to get it together enough to keep this massively awesome place around at the present juncture, but maybe if the scientists of tomorrow want to bring back more than just a flower, they could try for this.  Maybe leave out the electric eels, poison dart frogs, and vampire bats.  No, let’s keep the vampire bats.  And the eels, they’re pretty cool.  Oh, all right, bring back the poison dart frogs, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Don’t bring back:  New Jersey.  I know this one is going to cause some controversy, so I want to propose a compromise.  I’m fully aware that Bruce Springsteen is from New Jersey, and so I’m willing to allow that perhaps we don’t need to wall off the state altogether.  I’m even willing to celebrate Bon Jovi in a retro kind of way.  But let’s agree not to bring back the Jersey Shore.  We can all get together on that one, right?

Cartoon characters

Do bring back:  Peanuts.  Charlie Brown is eternal.  Thirty thousand years from now, we can have specials like “It’s a Post-Nuclear-Apocalypse Wonderland, Charlie Brown!”  Charlie Brown will still, thirty thousand years from now, be trying to kick the football, and Lucy will still yank it away from him.  Snoopy will still live out back in his doghouse, although it may be a self-contained eco-pod canine unit, and children will still not understand a word their teachers say to them no matter how much technology advances.  I’m not convinced that the Peanuts characters will ever fade away, but if they do, these are the characters to bring back.

Image via Wikipedia

Don’t bring back:  Dora the Explorer.  My entire family is united in our disdain for all things Dora.  She’s a clueless idiot who tries to pass herself off as some sort of role model or educator for children, but her best friend is a monkey and she blinks in that creepy, vacant way while she’s waiting for a response.  Why this has caught on to the extent it has is beyond my comprehension.  Peanuts!  Calvin and Hobbes!  The Muppets!  Not Dora.  Let her empty-eyed oblivion drift into obscurity and eventual nonexistence, never to be resurrected.

Slang phrase

Do bring back:  Dude.  There are so many fabulous slang terms out there to put a particular nuance of meaning to your phrase, but I don’t think any is so versatile as “dude.”  It can be a question:  Dude?  It can be a pithy commentary:  Dude!  You can use it to refer to some random stranger, to your husband of fifty years, or just shorthand for a guy whose name you know but have forgotten.  We’re going to forget the attempt to feminize it by adding “ette” on the end, and focus instead on the fact that it’s been turned into a rock song by Aerosmith, features prominently in that bastion of awesome slang terms, South Park, and of course, denotes the protagonist in the coolest movie of all time, The Big Lebowski.  Even after 30,000 years, the dude will abide.

Don’t bring back:  Like.  There were so many runners up.  Dawg.  Junk.  Baby Daddy.  Gottsta.  You know.  Occupy the anything.  But none of them cause that twitch in my eyelid that “like” does.  I think I might hate it so much because it is so incredibly contagious.  If one person says it, ten more start saying it.  If a person says it once during a sentence, they say it five times during the next sentence.  Eventually, you end up with conversations in which over fifty percent of the conversation is the word “like.”  Don’t ever, ever bring this slang back.  If anyone tries, take all necessary measures to stop them, because once it comes back, it will grow and multiply and become a cancer on our language, and there is no chemo in the world that can take it on.

So how many people did I offend?  Are you offended because of what’s on the list or because of what I left off?  Contributions?  Castigation?  Tell me what you think.  Just don’t say it was, like, pretty good, or I’m sending you to New Jersey.

Whitney Houston

Image via Wikipedia

I love music.  I may not be able to see the sunset, but I can hear and appreciate music in a way I never could if I’d grown up with perfect vision.  I grew up depending on my ears because I couldn’t depend on my eyes, and I grew up learning how to sing and how to play the flute and piano, and I learned the theory and the practice and the soul of music.  No, I learned the theory and the practice of music.  The soul of music I found when I gave my time and love to learn how to perform those incredible songs.  If you want a memory worth having, blindfold yourself for a month, then at the end of that month go to listen to a symphony performed live.  It’s worth losing your vision for a time to be able to experience music properly, to hear that overwhelming, melting, glorious music for one evening and remember it forever.

Whitney Houston died.  She was a beautiful and intelligent woman and obviously had family and friends who loved her very much, and it is a tragedy that she died so young and after so much suffering.  But her voice died a long time ago.  I can’t mourn the loss of an irreplaceable talent because I’ve already done my mourning.  Her voice was one of the wonders of the world.  When I think to myself that I’d rather be blind than deaf, the inability to hear her songs is one of the reasons I think of.  Beethoven’s Eroica symphony; the incomparable performances of Yo Yo Ma; the perfect voice of Whitney Houston.  As I go blind, I’ll miss the incandescent clarity in the blue of the daytime sky and the wonder of the stars at night, but if I had the image of the world in flawless detail, I would trade it to be able to hear her sing.

It shook me to my core to hear what had become of that voice.  When she sang, her voice was a river in flood, terrifying and awe-inspiring, carrying everything before it.  When she softened her voice, the river sparkled in the sunlight, flowing gently and whispering, “Follow me.  I will lead you somewhere new.”  When I found that the river had run dry, I grieved as though a living person had died.  I hope that she is somewhere beyond suffering now and that her voice, that voice that angels would die to have, is ringing through Heaven like a reminder of Eden before temptation, like the way the world could have been if we had made different choices, like the musical expression of the will of God.  If I’m very good and very lucky, when it’s my turn to die, I think the voice calling me home will be the voice of Whitney Houston singing the first, last, and only Song.

Rest in peace, Whitney Houston.  I’ll remember your voice when I’ve forgotten that I was ever able to see at all.

Caffeine inhalers: breath of life?

Image via Wikipedia

There are discoveries that revolutionize the world.  Fire, the wheel, penicillin, Megan Fox, these are all remarkable finds that have changed day to day lives the world round.  There is such a discovery about to bring light into our darkened lives right now.  Dr. David Edwards, a biomedical engineering professor at Harvard, has invented a caffeine inhaler that will deliver the same amount of caffeine as a large cup of coffee, but in a single breath.

Could this be the fabled breath of life?  Since I was a little blind toddler, I’ve dreamed of having an IV of caffeine that I could just wheel around with me as I go places.  I could lower or raise the dosage depending on whether I’m at an amusement park or in a meeting.  I read about this caffeine inhaler discovery and I thought, “My God!  This is fantastic!  I love this doctor!  I don’t know who he is or anything about him, but I love him.”  Surely, if President Obama can win a Nobel Prize for nothing anyone can quite put their finger on, then Dr. Edwards should get a Nobel Prize for this magnificent scientific discovery and service to humanity.

Image via Wikipedia

Strangely, I seem to be in the minority in this reaction.  When I learned the news, I was full of eagerness to tell my friends and colleagues.  I thought there would be instant rejoicing, perhaps all business halted as celebrations began in the streets and in town squares across the nation.  Instead, I got furrowed brows and mutterings of “health concerns,” “uncertain long-term consequences” and “potential for abuse.”  I was appalled; my spirits drooped; my friends did not share my joy.  How could this be?

Ok, first of all, I just want to point out that caffeine is currently available in pill form, so I’m not sure the inhaler is going to cause a spate of caffeine overdoses, for which you would need to ingest the equivalent of about eighty cups of coffee.  Second, people, people, this is fantastic news!  A shot of caffeine, anytime, anywhere, no need for any beverage, no brewing, no spilling, no cleaning.  Instant energy, available in packs of six.  One for every day of the week, still allowing for a day of rest–very Christian.  What could possibly go wrong?

I especially love the portability of the product.  The possibilities are endless:  I was thinking about buying several packs and stringing the inhalers together in a kind of belt, so that I’d always have one available.  Or, I could hollow out a heel in my shoes so that I can fit an inhaler inside.  Or, I could wrap an inhaler in ribbon, glue a bow on top and a clip on bottom and use it as a hair ornament.  Caffeinated from head to toe.  I may never sleep again.

I’m a little worried that my first reaction, before any other thought had time to occur, was overwhelming, giddy joy.  That’s not a sign of anything, is it?  Well, just like the invention of fire, I suppose caffeine inhalers can burn as well as bring warmth and light to the cold, dark, desolate night.  But, man, if this brings about the downfall of western civilization as a friend of mine suggested, what a way to go.  I bet with a caffeine overdose, it’ll keep you moving for so long after your heart stops that people may not notice anything until a week after you’ve died.  In fact, I bet I could get out at least three blog posts before someone catches on and buries me.  For all you know, this may be one of them….

Image via Wikipedia

Famous paintings discuss current events

This is what I like to imagine that paintings get up to in their spare time:

Girl With A Pearl Earring:  Did you hear that Congress is thinking about trying to regulate the internet?  It’s total censorship!  They can’t do this to us!  They’re infringing on our artistic expression and ability to get stuff for free!

 

 

The Scream:  No!  How will my nonprofit grassroots community protest group get the message out now that we won’t be able to stream copyrighted material on our website?  We can’t pay for these things; we’re already operating out of Whistler’s Mother’s basement!

 

 

Whistler’s Mother:  You could always try to get a job.

 

 

 

The Scream:  It’s just that sort of apathetic, bourgeois attitude that creates an atmosphere of entitlement among the power players and the authority addicts!  Information is free!  Ideas can’t be regulated!  Occupy the Internet!  Oh, and could you pick up some toaster pastries on your way home?  Van Gogh’s self-portrait ate the last one.  Greedy bastard.

 

American Gothic:  We deeply oppose any legislation that would interfere with our ability to find free porn and download movies currently in theaters at three in the morning while net surfing in our underwear.  It’s un-American.

 

 

The Old Guitarist:  In my day, we didn’t stand for this sort of oppression.  You book the venue, I’ll write the protest song.

 

 

 

Mona Lisa:  Can I make a recording of your performance and post it on my website as a free download?

 

 

 

The Old Guitarist:  What are you, crazy?  This sh*t ain’t free!

 

 

 

 

All opinions expressed in this post are those of the individual paintings and not necessarily those of the Little Blind Girl or of the blog in general.