queer courting and strange breeding

On Tuesday, I watched a silent movie, or drama rather. Out side the restaurant, standing on the corner were two young people, a man and woman, having an argument. By their poses and expressions, it seemed to be a lovers quarrel. More specifically, a break up. What made the exchange unique to me, was the fact that I knew that these two people were actors by trade. To be accurate, they were student-actors who attended the theater conservatory around the corner. I knew this because, while working at the restaurant, I had befriended a lady, who was an instructor at the conservatory.

The instructor was a regular for breakfast, coming in once or twice a week for a couple of years. She either order: a bowl of Raisin Brand with berries or one egg with toast. She hasn't been in for nearly six months, as I heard that her marriage had failed and she had returned to New York City where she is originally from. Sensing the distress in her personal life wasn't difficult as she was naturally a dramatic and emotional person. Once, upon seeing an example of my art work, she exclaimed, "This is f*!%ing beautiful!!". She did not use her indoor voice. She was merely looking at my business card, which has a portrait of myself on it; not exactly an ideal way to view a large painting. But she was none the less enthusiastic. I appreciated the emotional response to my work, however, in hindsight, I realize now that she could have just as easily been speaking about her bowl of Raisin Brand. This woman lived and breathed theater and was of a particular breed of creative-type who preferred her eggs poached, and slightly unstable.

In speaking with Madame Instructor one day, she became interested in the fact that I paint my portraits from photographs that I take myself. She asked if I would be interested in taking some pictures of her students as they rehearsed a series of 10 short plays written by Tennessee Williams. Ten by Ten was the title of the presentation, and over about two and a half hours, I watched the dress rehearsal of all 10 plays. It was great. I was one of only four other people in the audience and along with watching the dramas, I was privy to the direction and critiques of the performers by Madame Instructor as they worked. I shot about 24 pictures.

I think there were about a dozen actors, men and women, moving in and out of each drama. Two of the actors were now standing on the corner outside of my restaurant, in 20 degree weather, squared off against each other. To me, it looked like the girl was admitting she'd made a bad mistake and she was taking her medicine as the young man lectured at her. She would occasionally interject her point of view, but rarely made eye contact with the lad and simply nodded in agreement to her berater's accusations. This silent drama went on for at least 30 minutes, as I watched separated from their sound by the window glass. I wondered, had they had a tryst that the girl now regretted? Had this couple become intimate and now lusts flame had been doused? There was no doubt that the dispute involved a romantic cause. I watched their tragedy unfold, and was riveted. The two never moved from their spots and it didn't appear that they raised their voices. She kept her arms and hands still, either folded or clutching her bag. He was an inch or so shorter than her and was a bit more animated. I think I was observed spying by each of them, but they paid me no mind. Both times they looked my direction, I retreated, embarrassed. Then I'd find another location to peep from. I think I found this scene so interesting because I saw two people who were learning to make their living by making believe the very situation they now found themselves in, for real.

I soon found myself behind the bar and picked up the paper and began reading. I could both read and peek over the top of the paper and check the status of the silent struggle. I don't remember what article I was reading, but I glanced down at the paper for just a second. When I looked up, the girl was walking away and the boy was wiping his nose, looking at this hand, wiping his nose, looking at his hand, watching the girl walk away. I think he had just received a punch to the nose and he was checking to see if he was bleeding. Wiping his nose, looking at this hand...the young man watched for a moment in the direction of her departure, and walked the opposite way.


I'd missed the climax of my drama! It was sort of like watching Star Wars and deciding to walk to the kitchen to get myself a beer just before Luke blows up the Death Star! I'd been building up in my mind how it might end. Perhaps a sword fight! They were actors after all. Maybe a When Harry met Sally ending with tears, love, and a proposal. But here, it ended with a pop to the nose. Maybe just before she smacked him, everything went black and white and the film speed increased just enough to be comical. The smack caused the young man to fall down on his bottom and the beautiful young lady spoke one last insult to his manhood and turned with a jerk to leave him sitting in the snow, legs splayed, hair mussed and his dignity lying about him. I'm sure that's how it happened, I think, I didn't exactly see it. Dang.

It serves me right. Peeking through a keyhole to watch someone else's misery can't be justified. Still.... Here are some of the pictures I took last summer of the angry ex-lovers during my visit to the Williams' plays.













A thing that might make you go....

Long time Colorado resident Hunter S. Thompson, deceased as of February 2005, self-inflicted via .45 caliber, has apparently left behind a bit of himself. In a recent interview, Thompson's wife, Anita Thompson, reported that her late husband had left behind an undisclosed amount of his sperm for her to use in any child bearing she might wish to partake in. "Hunter, you always remembered the little things."

Ms. Thompson has, of yet, not decided whether to use the Gonzo sperm. I imagine, not before she answers the ethical and moral question of reincarnating another possible Traveler for the Lords of Karma.

.....Hmmm.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he or she grows up. Very true, Pablo. Go create something.


Have a good weekend everyone, and Godspeed, John Glenn,


Dave

of football and frugality

Holly-moly. Cold was what it was this morning. Five degrees when I stepped out of bed at 4:30 this morning. It had risen to nine degrees by the time Sharon drove me to work an hour later. The parking lots and empty streets were desolate tundras.

Momentum (and computer results) slid in favor of Oklahoma Football fans last weekend. Super Sam went airborne more than once and handed the Pokes a healthy defeat. All due respect, however, to the Cowboys, who gave the Sooners their most exciting challenge this season and played and excellent game. The Cowboy's newly expanded stadium looked pretty sweet too. The big 12 championship game this weekend will be exciting again for me and will, I predict, lead to the Sooners playing Florida in the National Championship game January 8th. Stay tuned.


Did I say that I made ricotta last week? It turned out great, and it seemed to get better a few days later. I'll probably need to make sure the rest of it gets eaten this weekend. To get the best of it's flavors, let the cheese come to slightly cooler than room temperature before you eat it. It will stay fresh in your fridge for about five days. Here's the recipe.


Ricotta

Makes approximately 12 ounces of cheese

1 cup heavy cream
2 quarts whole milk (organic is best)
5 lemons (for 1 cup lemon juice)
1 cup buttermilk
pinch of salt

1/4 cup heavy cream to fold in after the cheese has been hanged

Tools needed: citrus reamer, sauce pan, cheese cloth

Ream the lemons; set juice aside.

Bring cream and whole milk to a boil. add lemon juice, buttermilk, and salt. Reduce heat to low and simmer, stir until thick. The mixture will be watery with clumps of curd.

Place a colander in the sink and line it with about four large layers of cheese cloth. Carefully pour the hot cheese into the cloth lined colander to drain. Gather the corners of the cheese cloth; knot the top and hang over kitchen sink (I use a piece of kitchen string to hang cheese from the faucet) Drain 12 hours.

Using an electric mixer or simply a fork, whip additional heavy cream into room temperature ricotta until it is the consistency of soft ice cream.

Around the country, and I assume the world, the art market is behaving like most other markets. Business is down and collectors are cautious. It may be a necessity for an artist to create, but it is not a necessity that the fruits be purchased. Noble ideas will endure but the electric bill must be paid first.

If frugality isn't a requirement and you're looking for something interesting to do this weekend; it's Nobel Week in Stockholm. Laureates from around the world will be partying in white ties in the rarefied air of Swedish food markets, sampling Swedish meatballs with lingonberry preserves and cucumber salad. The Prizes will be awarded on Wednesday 10th, concurrently the Peace Prize will be awarded in Oslo. I understand that nearly 20% of the Swedish population watches the awards ceremony on television. Rooms with a view of the harbor at the Grand Hotel begin at $593 a night.

We have a 25-inch Phillips Magnavox TV that is about 10 years old. On Monday, we attached a digital converter box to it in preparation for the analog sign-off on February 17th. After a bit of trial and error, and a brief tutorial from a 14 year-old via Youtube, we switched on the set and the converter box and beheld the razor-shine of pure digital imagery that poured from our old TV. We are still using an analog antenna to capture the signal, but we now have about 15 channels compared to 5. The picture is flawless and free. Why don't we pay for cable? Eh.

Tonight and Saturday night, Denver kicks off the Christmas season with the Parade of Lights. It's always cold and you have to wait close to an hour before the parade makes it's way to where Sharon and I stand on 16th street. But, we haven't missed the parade for 7 years running. It's fun to be out with thousands of our neighbors celebrating and it gets us pumped up for the holiday. We're gonna decorate our own house for Christmas tonight after happy hour. Cheers.

Have a good weekend everyone, and Godspeed, John Glenn,


Dave

finally, fresh cheese

At last, Denver saw it's first snow of the season this morning. At 7 am it was sticking to the grass, but I don't expect it to linger. With an apology to Sharon, I'm very happy that the cold has arrived. The forecast for the next two nights are lows around 18 degrees.

When the temperature dips, I move to listening to sacred works of music. They are heavy and solemn, different from a symphony. The holy masses of Mozart and Beethoven are perfect for gray snowy days. Two in particular, Mozart's Mass in C and Beethoven's Missa Solemnis.

The Idea series continues. I've finished the fourth painting, and I'm very happy with it. For those coming to our house on Sunday, it will be up on the wall available for pre-viewing. I hope to begin preparing the board for number five next week, with the goal of having it completed by December 12th. 

The year-bell will chime 38 times for yours-truly tomorrow. Among other things, November 15th has come to represent blueberries and oysters. Since I began celebrating my birthdays with Sharon (8 years ago), I've been blessed with a tall stack of homemade blueberry pancakes each birthday morning, and then, at the end of the day as the whistle blows, we grab our hats and head to the fish house to join a platter of a dozen or more fresh shucked oysters and one or more ice-glazed martinis. There are few marriages more perfect than oysters and martinis, and there is no better time to drink a martini than on your birthday when the weather has turned cold. This is my idea of a perfect birthday dinner. Sharon opts for the peel-and-eat shrimp and a glass or more of red. 

Tomorrow, I think will be gallery day. We've yet to visit the Museum of Contemporary Art down the road; and there's another relatively new gallery called The Lab that I'm interested in also.

Later, we have reservations for dinner at Il Posto. This is an awesome little Italian restaurant across town, off of 17th. We've eaten there once before with our friends Tom and Cindy. There are no menus. All of the night's offerings are written on two large chalk boards. The menu changes daily and the food is numero uno. Nice wine list too.

Cheese has been on my mind more than usual. I'm going to make ricotta cheese this weekend. If you've never had fresh ricotta, seek it out. It is the only way to fly. Pair it with grilled bread and a tomato jam. Holy-mouth-watering-creation.

I made paneer last week. Paneer is Indian cheese. It's a snap to make. Whole milk, apple cider vinegar, heat. Once it's drained and pressed, I cut it into cubes, flour it, and then fry it in ghee (Indian butter). Then I stir it into a savory spice-laced tomato sauce. Sublime.

We've lots of cooking to do this weekend. Sharon's arranged for family to visit us Sunday afternoon for lunch and birthday cake. We've 8 quarts of minestrone to make, eight sheet pans of focaccia to bake for the panini along with one Italian Cream birthday cake. I'd better go clean my kitchen.

Ode to the oyster

Unwilling Kamikaze

your cover scrapes and catches

in the cold currents

deep and protected

evolution brings to me

delicious, metallic, briny,

soft, glowing. I am

seduced.

your spirit is imagined

and your wet intentions

meet my whet appetite.

Grey and silver mercury folds

sweet and giving

the sea itself.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

sweet beginning

I tremble. I just got off the phone with Mom, and Dad & Karrie. Champagne and tears flow. I've been swapping texts with my brothers Matt and Ben. Sharon and I hugged, kissed, cried happy tears, danced, kissed, and hugged. I opened the front door and 'yee-hawed!' at the top of my lungs.

We are different now. On the night I saw President-elect Obama speak in Denver on the last night of the Democratic convention, I spoke to a homeless black man as we walked home and he was jubilant. I wonder what he's feeling now. There is celebratory gunfire in the black, 5-Points neighborhood of Denver. I wish I had a gun to shoot in celebration too.

Sharon is in bed. I walked down to the corner liquor store and bought myself a celebratory beer. It's owned by a middle aged couple from the Middle East. The man and I grinned at each other when I walked in. The woman rang me up and we smiled broadly at each other and shook hands. We spoke quickly and excitedly to each other. She said that this night was for the future of her children and her grandchildren and for anyone who works hard.

I told her that I'm ready to have children. She laughed and said "Get to it! Your wife is beautiful!"

I just set off a round of Black-Cats in front of my home.


I'm reminded of Sheridan, who's new baby daughter could become our president in the future.

I was 13 before I had a conversation with a black person. While I was on vacation in Denver with my family, years ago, a man at a Target store approached me. I was in the music section looking at cds. He asked me who sang the song People Are People. I knew the answer was Depeche Mode, but I couldn't recall this at the time because I was, though innocently, distracted by his skin.

I'm grown now, and long ago I fertilized the ground with that distraction, and so has my country.



Senator Obama will be sworn into office on Tuesday, January 20th, 2009. When he is sworn in, he will stand on stone steps that were built and put into place by black slaves.


The doors have been swung wide. For everyone who helped make tonight happen, thank you. Me and myself are very, very happy fellows. Que Beethoven's 9th, Ode to Joy.





God bless us, everyone.

Dave

the finish

Hello everybody,

Enjoy this election day essay by John Tierney from the New York Times - November 4th 2008.

Happy voting.

Obama and McCain Walk Into a Bar...

By John Tierney

While Americans choose their next president, let us consider a question more amenable to science: Which candidate's supporters have a better sense of humor? In strict accordance with experimental protocol, we begin by asking you to rate, on a scale of 1 (not funny at all) to 9 (hilarious) the following three attempts at humor:

A) Jake is about to chip onto the green at his local golf course when a long funeral procession passes by. He stops in mid-swing, doffs his cap, closes his eyes and bows in prayer. His playng companion is deeply impressed. "That's the most thoughtful and touching thing I've ever seen," he says. Jake replies, "Yeah, well, we were married 35 years."

B) I think there should be something in science called the "reindeer effect." I don't know what it would be, but I think it'd be good to hear someone say, "Gentlemen, what we have here is a terrifying example of the reindeer effect."

C) If you saw two guys named Hambone and Flippy, which one would you think liked dolphins the most? I'd say Flippy, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong, though, It's Hambone.

Those were some of the jokes rated by nearly 300 people in Boston in a  recent study. (You can rate some of the others at TierneyLab.) The researchers picked out a variety of jokes - good, bad, conventional, absurdist - to look for differences in reactions between self-described liberals and conservatives.

They expected conservatives to like traditional jokes, like the one about the golfing widower, that reinforce racial and gender stereotypes. And because liberals had previously been reported to be more flexible and open to new ideas, the researchers expected them to get a bigger laugh out of unconventional humor, like Jack Handey's "Deep Thoughts" about the reindeer effect and Hambone.

Indeed, the conservatives did rate the traditional golf and marriage jokes as significantly funnier than the liberals did. But they also gave higher ratings to the absurdist "Deep Thoughts." In fact, they enjoyed all kinds of humor more.

"I was surprised," said Dan Ariely, a psychologist at Duke University, who collaborated on the study with Elisabeth Malin, a student at Mount Holyoke College. "Conservatives are suppose to be more rigid and less sophisticated, but they liked even more complex humor."

Do conservatives have more fun? Should liberals start describing themselves as humor-challenged? To investigate these questions, we need to delve into the science of humor (not a funny enterprise), starting with two basic kinds of humor identified in the 1980s by Willibald Ruch, a psychologist who now teaches at the University of Zurich.

The first category is incongruity-resolution humor, or INC-RES in humor jargon. It covers traditional jokes and cartoons in which the incongruity of the punch line (the husband who misses his wife's funeral) can be resolved by other information (he's playing golf). You can clearly get the joke, and it often reinforces stereotypes (the golf-obsessed husband).

Dr. Ruch and other researchers reported that this humor, with its orderly structure and reinforcement of stereotypes, appealed most to conservatives who shunned ambiguity and complicated new ideas, and who were more repressed and conformist than liberals.

The second category, nonsense humor, covers many "Far Side" cartoons, Monty Python sketches and "Deep Thoughts." The punch line's incongruity isn't neatly resolved - you're left to enjoy the ambiguity and absurdity of the reindeer effect or Hambone's affection for dolphins. This humor was reported to appeal to liberals because of their "openness to ideas" and their tendency to "seek new experiences."

But then why didn't the liberals in the Boston experiment like the nonsense humor of "Deep Thoughts" as much as the conservatives did? One possible explanation is that conservatives' rigidity mattered less than another aspect of their personality. Todd Martin, the author of "The Psychology of Humor," said the results of the Boston study might reflect another trait that has been shown to correlate with a taste for jokes: cheerfulness.

"Conservatives tend to be happier than liberals in general," said Dr. Martin, a psychologist at the University of Western Ontario. "A conservative outlook rationalizes social inequality, accepting the world as it is, and making it less of a threat to one's well-being, whereas a liberal outlook leads to dissatisfaction with the world as it is, and a sense that things need to change before one can be really happy."

Another possible explanation is that conservatives, or at least the ones in Boston, really aren't the stiffs they're made out to be by social scientists. When these scientists analyze conservatives, they can sound like Victorians describing headhunters in Borneo. They try to be objective, but it's an alien culture.

The studies hailing liberals' nonconformity and "openness to ideas" have been done by social scientists working in a culture that's remarkably homogenous politically. Democrats outnumber Republicans by at least seven to one on social science and humanities faculties, according to studies by Daniel Klein, an economist at George Mason University. If you're a professor who truly "seeks new experiences," try going into a faculty club today and passing out McCain-Palin buttons.

Could it be that the image of conservatives as humorless, dogmatic neurotics is base more on political bias than sound social science? Philip Tetlock, a psychologist at the University of California, Berkeley, who reviews the evidence of  cognitive differences in his 2005 book, "Expert Political Judgement," said that while there were valid differences, "liberals and conservatives are roughly equally closed-minded in dealing with dissonant real-world evidence."

So perhaps conservatives don't have a monopoly on humorless dogmatism. Maybe the stereotype of the dour, rigid conservative has more to do with social scientists' groupthink and wariness of outsiders - which, come to think of it, resembles the herding behavior of certain hoofed animals. Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is a terrifying example of the reindeer effect.

Have a good day, and Godspeed, America

Dave

"the fierce urgency of now,"

Time moves, and then it's either a foot note or red letter.

I spent the week edging two new paintings.





One that will be a full body portrait of my grandfather, and the other, an in-progress painting that is number four-of-six in the Idea series. Number four is coming together nicely.

I began attending wine classes this week. The wine sommelier of Restaurant Kevin Taylor is providing first level wine instruction to any employee of the company, for free. This class would cost me about a thousand bucks if I were to seek this education on my own.

We began by smelling twelve different aromas contained in individual glass vials and recorded our impressions and what we thought each aroma was. I deduced four of them correctly. The aromas included: strawberry, leather, violets / lavender, anise, cherry, cedar, mushroom, smoke, etc.

Our focus will be on Italian wines for the first few weeks. All information will be cursory and will give me basic knowledge. It would take literally years to understand fully the wines from Tuscany alone. Despite the Italian itinerary, we blind tasted seven wines, all from Spain. Notes were written down and then we ranked them, least favorite to favorite.

I'm happy to be taking this course which will last through the rest of the year, convening each Wednesday. The wine sommelier, Kevin Arndt, is a laid back guy, a bit younger than me. He's exceptionally educated in oenology, but without pretense. A few years back, he won first prize in a Halloween costume contest wearing a homemade costume of Boba Fett.

Wine removes the burrs of the day and puts a period on the days work. Evaluating my satisfaction or disappointment in the day's or week's progress through the lens of a red wine gives me strange powers of observation.


Ah, an interruption: The UPS man just arrived. Excellent, our new external hard drive just arrived. This was a practice in patience. About a year and a half ago, I decided that with all of the photos, music, and other digital stuff that we are amassing, I wanted a 1 terabyte drive to ensure that it could all be backed up and leisurely stored, but I wasn't willing to pay more than $200 for it. Patience won and this week I paid $165 for the new 1TB drive. To all who are looking for any computer stuff, check out newegg.com.


Now, what was I saying? Oh yea, strange powers of observation. A glass of Malbec, (spice and earth) or Pinot Noir (of ancient heritage and genetically freaky) or a noble Nebbiolo (rich and chewy) gives me super-insight to the greatness or mediocrity of my work. Usually in the same swallow. It helps me evaluate how behind schedule I am and if I should worry about it or not. I make plans. I change plans. I wonder how I can be more productive. I'm moved to restless and fierce urgency to produce as much as I can. And then to delight, that I control my own clock. "Yes, Sharon, I'll have another glass. Thank you."


Another interruption: Phil Bender just called and left a message. Phil is a Denver artist who is the Grand Senior of Pirate Gallery here in el barrio. Tonight is the Dia de Los Muertos party at Pirate. He's calling to ask if I can help out with set up. Hmm. It's always good to stay in contact with established artists, and the party's usually fun. A parade of the Dead snakes it's way through the neighborhood with candles, drums, and Skeletons. Then everybody goes back to the gallery for art, music, and beer. Great fun. Perhaps I could put in an hour or two. It would be a good way to spend Halloween night. I'm sure Sharon would dig it.




To continue: I've been painting for a decade and I'm grateful that I began working as soon as I did. I have something to show for my sweat. I think the 2009 harvest will be a memorable one. A show feels imminent and I'm growing hungry to initiate gallery contact. Am I ready? Ready as I'll ever be, and from where I stand today, the view is ripe and it's almost happy hour.




And last:





Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

cabernet savig-weiser

Briefly, my summation:

Mr. McCain: Intelligent, Ernest, Nostalgic, Stagnate.

Mrs. Palin: Smart, Frank, Driven, Unknown, Puppet.

Mr. Obama: Intelligent, Progressive, Inspirational, Relevant, Presidential.

Mr. Biden: Intelligent, Frank, Rounded, Compassionate, Whitest teeth in the universe.

With all the talk of 'Joe Six-pack' and 'Joe the Plumber', I found a related article in the paper this week.


Obama Clinches 'Joe Cabernet Sauvignon' Vote

October 16th, 2008

WASHINGTON- Following a strong performance by the Democratic nominee in Tuesday's Presidential debate, political analysts overwhelmingly agree that Sen. Barack Obama has all but clinched the much-sought-after "Joe Cabernet Sauvignon" voting bloc. "Once again, Obama has proved his ability to speak directly to all the regular truffle-oil-guzzlin', Nabokov-readin', opera-attendin' folks who play such an important part in deciding this election," MSNBC commentator Chris Mathews said of the Illinois senator's strong connection with the nation's hardworking gallery owners, literary critics and gourmet-cheese purveyor. "His strong rapport with the average haut monde Joseph could tip the scales Nov. 4." Sen. John McCain's recent attempts to reach out to this constituency by wearing an elegant silk ascot where not well received, having been described in most quarters as "pandering of the most contemptuous variety."

-the Onion

After a numbingly long campaign, four debates, and several silly impersonations complements of Fey and Poehler, I'm ready to push the button.

I count no chicken before it's been turned into chicken-soup,




...but I feel very positive about the forthcoming election. I am hopeful to watch the pendulum swing back towards the center. It's been like waiting for Halley's to return.

When I think about the two major parties, Democrat and Republican, I perceive them as two separate cheeks on the same giant national ass. While both have their merits, they both are capable of creating a great stink. Moderation is not a strength of either cheek, so the continual shifting of power must be endured by the ductile middle constituents that have recently grown to make up nearly one-third of the attendance.

I hear the cries all the time, "We don't need the stinking right cheek, Banish it!" From the opposite shore, "Whoa was the day that the left cheek entered the scene! Death to the left cheek!" I grow weary of the rattle.

Blended wines have produce some beautiful offspring, so perhaps...

Should Senator Obama receive the promotion that I'm endorsing, I hope we will be able to get into some desperately needed national deep cleaning. I know that spit and polish is uncomfortable for some people. Articulation worries some folks and drinking beer imported from somewhere other than a Budwiser factory is a bit suspect. But fear not, a good scrubbing of the floors never hurt anyone and most often allows one to find that lost puzzle piece behind the couch.

Now that the debates are past-tense, I feel a little more relaxed. Time to crack a beer and a smile. Last night at a charity fund raiser at New York's Waldorf Astoria Hotel, the candidates cracked jokes. Sen. Obama remarked: "Barack is actually Swahili for 'that one,'" Obama deadpanned to the tuxedoed crowd. "And I got my middle name from somebody who obviously didn't think I'd ever run for president."

McCain told the crowd that Obama wasn't upset by his awkward "that one" reference during their second debate. "He doesn't mind at all," McCain said. "In fact, he even has a pet name for me: George Bush."


In another article, Americans appear ready to lighten up.

Poll: 85% Of Americans Would Like To See Candidates Compete In Funny Obstacle Course

October 15, 2008

WASHINGTON—According to a USA Today–Gallup poll released Monday, as many as 85 percent of Americans strongly wish to see Sens. Barack Obama and John McCain race through a gauntlet of comically ludicrous hazards and encumbrances sometime before Nov. 4. "Voters want to know how Obama's poise compares with McCain's experience, specifically when racing to pick the flag out of a giant foam nose," political analyst and Gallup pollster Brian Garfield said. "It has been a grueling nominating season, and now the American people want to see the candidates prove their mettle in a gigantic syrup moat. If they react the wrong way under pressure—say, on some sort of gravy slide or human-size hamster wheel—the results could be hilarious." At press time, neither candidate had comment, as they were both being zipped into sumo suits.

-the Onion

So, in the days ahead, don't worry, eat good food, walk through the leaves on the street, enjoy this season, and vote mindfully, prayerfully. Vote your conscious. Have faith in your family, your friends and neighbors. If you're a person of faith, have faith in God, as I do. Everything will be alright. Remember, the President is just a hired temp. It is our behavior that has far more impact on what kind of country we live in.

"You must do what you feel is right, of course." - Ben Kenobi

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,


Dave

go see art

Nothing I feel like talking about today.

So, instead, here is some art Sharon and I took in over the last few weeks. Enjoy.




















































Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

curious decay

The season is ripe and about to turn dank and decayed. It's time to become superstitious and return to the dark Carpathian mountain range. It's October and the Count is waiting.

I have a great copy of Stoker's Dracula. It's hard bound, black and starting to show wear. I have read this Gothic tale every October for years. However, as of late, I've had to read from library copies because I loaned my book to a friend a couple years ago and haven't gotten it back yet. I think she's hoarding it.

I'm not a horror fan unless the horror is primal and in print. Take all of the scary stories ever written and none of them are as creepy and disconcerting as our Count and his habit. We, as a people, do not like to be eaten. We also have a natural propensity to avoid eternal damnation at the cold bony hands of the agents of dark. So the story of an ancient, cadaverous ghoul who drinks our life's blood effectively damning us to eternal living-deadness is scary. But at this time of the year, when neighborhood cats begin to watch us with dark intent, I do like to be put on edge by stories of doom and supernatural damage. Dracula is not the vampire of modern perspective. He is not the bearer of sexy looks and romantic attraction. Those incarnations are for teenagers. Dracula is a monster of the foulest sort. He has no stake in love. His purpose is self preservation at the expense of us all. He's a fellow that lurks in the dark corners, and creeps up the stairs while your toes stick out from the covers, so he can bite them off. His castle is black, and icy with death, and unholy spooks. Reading Dracula, insanity and emptiness wrap you as you witness the horrible power and waste brought by the Count. Hope is a dream as the good Doctor and his heroes fight to destroy this original dark lord. It's horribly-perfect reading when the wind turns cool and dying leaves rattle through the empty yards and streets.

Lots of vampire movies are around. The scariest and creepiest is the original, Nosforatu. It's never been improved on.

Another October tradition for me is to listen to the broadcast of War of the Worlds performed by Orson Wells and Mercury Theater actors on Halloween night, 1938. I have a cd of that broadcast and it's great fun to listen to. Wells started the Mercury Theater on the Air in 1938 in New York with John Houseman. Interestingly, the first broadcast by the Mercury Theater was a reading of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Below is Orson Wells on Halloween night during his War of the Worlds performance.

Curious serendipity.

Leaving work on Tuesday, 23rd, September, I glanced up at the giant electric video screen that advertises the coming attractions for the Denver Performing Arts Complex. Theater, symphony, ballet, etc. Coming soon was a performance of Mahler's 1st symphony. I don't know that much about Gustav Mahler, so on a whim and curious, I steered my bike to the main branch of the public library where I check out classical music cds.

As I rode up to the bike racks at the library, I rode past a fellow painting a picture of the new wing of the art museum. It's interesting to see people painting from life in the open air, something I've never done.

Inside the Library I walked through the main corridor towards the music section. At the music bins, I flipped through the 'M' section 'till I found Mahler's 1st symphony. I pulled a few more selections from the shelves and headed towards the checkout desk. As I waited in line, a voice came over the speakers announcing that the mayor, would be announcing this years book choice for the One Book, One Denver community reading program.

I collected my cds and joined the gathering crowed in the large main hall of the library. In front of local news cameras, the mayor spoke with wit and pomp and soon unveiled the new book for the fall season. The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett. It's a hardboiled detective novel. Hammett also created the character Sam Spade of his classic The Maltese Falcon. After press questions and photographs, the mayor wrapped up his speech and encouraged everyone to read more and read often. Inspired, I grabbed a copy of the book off the top of the large stack and walked to the check-out kiosk straight away. Hammet and Mahler under arm, I peddled home.

Two days later, I greeted the Maestro, Jeffery Kahane, the Colorado Symphonies music director. The Maestro has breakfast at the restaurant often during the performance season of the symphony. As I poured his coffee, I notice that he was studying sheet music for Mahler's 1st symphony. I told the Maestro that, after seeing the sign announcing the Mahler performances, I had recently checked out some of his symphonies and that I was enjoying them. Looking pleased, the Maestro brightened, and asked if I would like to attend this weekends performance. I responded eagerly that I would love the opportunity, however, two of my parents were coming to town this weekend. I asked if I would be able to bring them as well. He agreed without hesitation and asked for my email address. He would ensure that four tickets would be waiting for me at will-call, Saturday night. The Maestro encouraged us to please come back stage after the performance and say hello. In gratitude, I took care of the Maestro's breakfast.

I'd followed my curiosity, which lead me to the library to find new music. The visit lead me to an audience with the mayor and an introduction to a book written by an author that I'd never read before. Having recently listened to Mahler's symphonies allowed me to start a conversation with the Maestro on a subject that was dear to him. This conversation lead to four free tickets to the symphony and a great evening with my family. Moral? Follow your curiosity, cool stuff follows.



Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

melons before their time

I agree with Julia Childs. "People who are not interested in food always seem rather dry and unloving and don't have a real gusto for life."

When I wake up, the first question on my mind is: What are we having for dinner? Why ponder dinner first and not breakfast? Because, dinner is the theater of our meals. More planning and thought must go into creating something worthy of our time. It's the meal that Sharon and I use to honor the day. My favorite meals are made from the simplest ingredients. I've found with a grateful heart and stomach, even simple meals become great sustaining feasts.




I find that food even invades my romantic thoughts. I sometimes refer to Sharon as my little burrito-schnitzel. Sharon is of Mexican-German descent.

I come from a family of cooks. Dad and Mom always cooked. Grandma Hoag, Mom's mom, was renowned for her proper hospitality and prolific cooking. My brother, Eric, who has been cooking since he could hold a knife, was recently honored as Chef of the Week at the restaurant that he works at. I have two other brothers and two sisters, they all cook. Over the last several years, I've seen a common credo growing in our familial view of food: quality over quantity.

I didn't grow up with food that could be credited to a specific ethnic or cultural identity. We ate American food, i.e. food from the grocery store, some of it fresh, most of it canned or packaged. My favorite meal was what we simply called, linguine. Today I recognize that meal as Pasta Carbonara. My first chores in the kitchen were peeling potatoes. Mom had allergies from the dust on the potatoes, so the duty of peeling spuds fell to the hardy sinused kids. My infatuation with food really began in college. I couldn't stand frozen dinners and most of the foods I cut out of a can were stupid and ugly. Tomatoes are my exception to the rule of disliking canned food. I usually have several cans of tomatoes on the pantry shelf, pinto beans too, though both are over salted.

Sometime in my second or third semester of university, I bought my first cook book, Italian Cooking, Betty Crocker; I never looked back. Searching for the best ingredients became a serious pastime and combining and eating them, a mild obsession. Most days don't pass that I don't flip through a cookbook or food magazine.

Without being to pointed, I feel that fast food is comparable to pornography, nutritionally speaking. I'd be remiss to deny my participation in fast food dinning during the early nineties. With lots of beer drinking comes lots of late-night Taco Bell. Being drunk, like smoking cigarettes, dulls the senses. So during my early days of oat-sowing, my taste in food was less than respectable. Never the less, some mysterious force continued to urge me to seek food that inspired, and to disregard the common.

I don't recall going to farmers markets as a kid. Farmers markets teach you about eating seasonally. Melons for instance, are not fit to eat until very late summer or autumn.

I cut up a cantaloupe yesterday for lunch. It was perfect, sweet, juicy, a bit of earth and herb. Upon my wife's return from work, I declared that from this day forward: "Under penalty of ridicule, No member of my family would ever be allowed to eat a cantaloupe before September 1st!" Sharon is very understanding of my outbursts and usually supports them as they pertain to food.

In 2003, the agency, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, known as Unesco, which is based in Paris, adopted the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage to preserve “oral traditions and expressions” and “performing arts, social practices, rituals and festive events; knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe; traditional craftsmanship.”

In the spirit of this idea, this week a group of acclaimed Epicureans from France gathered to persuade the United Nations to declare French gastronomy a world treasure. God-bless their froggy hearts. Whether this declaration is granted or not, I will be first in line to wave my beret in honor of rabbit terrine and moules a la Normandie. "Hallelujah!" - de Babbet's Feast

The 19th-century food writer Brillat-Savarin wrote, “The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.”

Here's a new dish to inspire.


Moules a la Mariniere
mussles with wine and herbs
Serves 2

An 8-10 quart pot with lid
1 cups of light, dry white wine or dry vermouth
1/4 cup minced shallots
4 parsley sprigs
1/2 bay leaf
1/4 teaspoon fresh thyme
pinch fresh ground pepper
3 Tblsp butter
2 lbs scrubbed, soaked mussles

Bring the wine to a boil in the pot along with all of the rest of the ingredients, except the mussels. Boil for 2 or so minutes to evaporate the alcohol and to reduce its volume slightly.

Add the mussels to the pot. cover tightly and boil quickly over high heat. Frequently grasp the kettle with both hands, your thumbs clamped to the cover, and toss the mussels in the pot with an up and down slightly jerky motion so the mussels will change levels and cook evenly. In about 5 minutes the shells will swing open and the mussels are done.

With a big skimmer, dip the mussels into wide soup bowls. Allow the cooking liquid to settle for a moment so any sand from the mussels will sink to the bottom. Then ladle the liquid over the mussels, drizzle a bit of good olive oil over and sprinkle with the parsley, serve immediately.

Have an extra bowl at the table to discard your shells. Serve this light meal with hot crusty bread and maybe sliced ripe cantaloupe on the side. I suggest drinking a crisp, dry Alsatian white or an herby sauvignon blanc.



Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

six

Register to vote. If you haven't, do it.

An unadvertised benefit of voting is the legitimate right to complain. If you don't vote, you are ineligible to complain about any unsatisfactory situations that may arise in the day to day business of the country. The deadline to register for the November election varies from state to state. Check here to find out the deadline for your territory.



When I was in the seventh grade, I came up with a design for a wall mural that was chosen to be painted on two walls at the entrance of the school. I found a picture of one of the murals and also a picture that appeared in the local paper. I appear to be overseeing my artistic servants as they put into place my brilliant design, much like da Vinci I suppose.










Six years ago, Sunday, Sharon and I were married.
Here's a poem in honor.


That was a very good day for she and I
as Sharon is a woman set apart
and I'm a heck of a guy

I love to cook
she likes to eat
she loves to run
I enjoy resting my feet
her eyes are brown
my tend to be blue
I sing like an angel
she laughs at my jokes
we drink mostly red wine
at almost every meal

this poem doesn't rhyme anymore

truth beauty
freedom love
these are ours

our food our taste
our sense our hope
common and bound
together

fine artist seeks
wayfarer muse

mountain mama seeks
back country hombre

my friend
my equal
my wife
my life

I love you Sharon






Have a good weekend, and Godspeed John Glenn,

Dave

fire it up

Do you remember watching the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine called her boyfriend, Puddy, who was sitting on the couch in his apartment when she called. She asked him, "Whatch'a doin'?" Puddy repiled, "Nothing." "Nothing?" inquired Elaine. "You mean nothing? You're just sitting there, staring?" "That's right." deadpanned Puddy.

I can relate. Working on a painting or a series of paintings is preceded by seemingly dull stretches of nothing. Creative strikes don't happen without calms before the storm and I enjoy those times.

I'm not in the middle of nothing right now, but today's weather lends itself to wanting to do that. Gray and cool, fall is just around the corner. This time of year is great for me. Cooler weather always gives me extra drive to work. The last two weeks have been overly distracting. All good distractions, mind you. But I'm happy to move into the autumnal season, it gets my blood pumping. In my current series of work, number four of six is almost finished. It's looking really good and I should be done with it by next week. Here's a detail of number four below.

Here's a short quick video of me working on #4.

So, the Mexican orphanage trip is off.

The organizer of the trip emailed everyone to inform that, due to lack of resources, he finds it necessary to cancel this year's trip. I am bummed. I'd still like to finish the ideas I had for this project, just in case a similar opportunity comes up down the road. I like the idea of teaching kids to paint their own portraits. I think it would have an interesting impact on how they see themselves.



I got a haircut a few weeks ago, paid $22, including tip. I'm paying more these days for a cut and I leave the shop with less of myself. I suppose there's a hair disposal fee included in there somewhere, sort of like having your oil changed. I've realized that I function better with my hair longer. After the cut, I found myself bumping into walls and mistaking my dog for a large box of smoked salmon. My desire to paint was also weakened. Fear not, my hair is beginning to regain it's length and the curl is returning. This week was very productive, despite Delilah's temptations.




Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

children and drunks

Well, some week.

If you're not aware, I manage the breakfast shift, 5:30 am - 10:30 am, Monday - Friday at the restaurant Prima in the Hotel Teatro in downtown Denver. I'm home by 11:00 am and I paint from about 12:30 pm -4:00 pm each weekday. This week, I didn't get any painting done of course. I smeared paint around the board for about an hour on Monday, but beyond that, the last five days were all about Obama.


Fifty thousand.

The city was fifty thousand people busier than usual. At the hotel, the guest list included: various Kennedy's, Howard Dean and staff, governors, senators, millionaires & billionaires, members of congress, Italian consulate members, ambassadors from Barbados, occasional prime ministers, along with common Joes and Josephines, and lots of All-Americans wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. Muhammad Ali and his family had rooms as well, though I didn't see the champ.

Denver SWAT officers sipped starbucks* on their way to the Pepsi Center each morning. Gaggles of twenty-somethings wearing issue promoting t-shirts moved through the city in a continual flow, followed by members of L. A. A. A. E. (League-of-Americans-Angry-About-Everything) and, of course, members of the press. Lots of press.

It was the most eclectic gathering of people I've been a part of. Highly inspiring and very optimistic.

In addition to it being Obama week in Denver, it was also, unofficially, bicycle week. Thousands of bicycles were available to borrow for free all over down town which helped out-of-towners and locals navigate the packed streets. Streets in the downtown area were essentially pedestrian malls with only the brave, the stupid, or the police escorted traveling by combustion engine.

There is a billboard in my neighborhood with a picture of Martin Luther King and the words "Martin Luther King was a Republican", sponsored by the Black Republican League. True enough, however, on my way home today, I saw that someone had very neatly covered up the word "Republi" with "Obama". Now the sign reads: "Martin Luther King was a Obamacan". Pity the soul who believes that any signage promoting the merits of being Republican will stand for long in our neighborhood. Truly, I haven't seen a single McCain sign in nearly 100 square blocks of our house.

Access to the Pepsi Center was exclusive. The one entrance that I witnessed from my bike was at least two blocks from the Pepsi Center itself. Bicycles aren't even allowed inside the convention grounds.

In the weeks and days leading up to the convention, somehow receiving credentials to attend the convention held at the Pepsi Center, was a dreamers game. The first in line to obtain passes to the show were, naturally, delegates and the well connected. The snarl of road closures, detours, and protesters was enough to keep most people from even traveling anywhere near downtown.

Obtaining official credentials to Obama's Thursday night speech at Mile High was considered impossible by any standard. After 50,000 passes were distributed to the delegates, VIPs and politiks, 35,000 passes were made available to the general public. To have a chance at receiving passes, it was required to submit an online application requesting the credential, and it was first come first served. Over 100,000 people requested passes.

Sharon and I received emails informing us that due to the overwhelming number of requests, we had been placed on a waiting list and would be informed if anyone should give up their passes. To expect someone to give up their passes would have required a powerful amount of imagination and we were both tired this week. So, we resigned our selves to watch the politics on tv.

However,

...luck favors children and drunks. We must fall somewhere in between.

As I mentioned above, I work weekday mornings at a very nice hotel. In the hotel is a very nice woman who is one of the concierges. Within the community of hotel concierges, professional favors flow like milk and honey. The nicer the hotel, the creamier the milk and sweeter the honey. The Hotel Teatro happens to be a four star hotel, so Creamy Milk and Sweet Honey floweth.

On Wednesday morning, my friend the concierge spoke to me in hushed tones about possibly obtaining a limited number of credentials for the convention on Wednesday night and asked if I'd be interested in attending. Eagerly, yet discreetly, I said yes. The problem was that the passes were located three blocks away at the Hyatt Regency Hotel and she would not have an opportunity to collect the passes herself. That's where I and my downtown cycling skills became invaluable. In return for my acting as messenger and courier, I was to receive two passes to the convention on Wednesday night. Home run.

Sharon and I attended the convention that night. As we walked to the convention hall and navigated through security, Sharon made the comment that she felt like a tourist in our own town, which was true. We were wide eyed and excited and inspired. Being as close as we were to such passionate people and actively participating in the democratic process, albeit as observers behind the stage, provoked unexpected emotions for me and was thoroughly engaging. We watched the delegates on the floor dancing and clapping. I was awestruck to see the state signs indicating the representatives from each state. I'd seen these tall signs on tv during past conventions and it is such and iconic image to me that it felt as if I were inside a moving photograph of conventions past. It was hard to believe I was actually there. Among other speakers, including Madeline Albright, we were honored to listen to President Clinton give his perfect endorsement of Senator Obama. President Clinton is one of the most powerful speakers I've had the chance to listen to. His voice and perspective gave me a powerful sense of purpose to my own insights. Listen here.

It had been a long week, so Sharon and I left right after the President's speech. The next morning's a.m. alarm would come all to soon. We fell asleep quickly, amazed at our fortunate evening.


Lucky strike 2.

Thursday morning, the day began with fervor. Obama was in town and everyone knew it. All minds were busy biding time until the doors at Mile High opened. Business at the restaurant never ended. My usual departure time of 10:30 am extended to 4:30 pm. In the late afternoon, I walked in to the upstairs office. My friend the concierge was there. She saw me and her eyes widened. "Dave!" she whispered urgently and walked to me. She showed me an envelope and then opened it. Inside were at least a dozen credentials for the Mile High speech that night. "You got some?!" I said. "They just came in!" she said, not offering to elaborating further on where they came in from. "So you're going tonight!" I congratulated. "Yep, me, my husband, and our daughter." "That is so great!" I continued. My friend the concierge pulled two passes out of the envelope and asked, "Do you want to go?" She handed the passes to me.

As I took the credentials, somewhere above me I began to hear music. Soft at first, then louder. The office disappeared slowly from my world and soon I found myself standing on a London street wearing little boys nickers, a tweedy brown coat over a wrinkled dirty buttoned down high collard white shirt, and a proper, if not nappy, stingy-brim hat just like Charlie worn in Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. In fact, I was Charlie! And I'd just found the last Golden Ticket! Two Golden Tickets even! In my heavy black schoolboy shoes, I began to skip down the cobblestone street, in the morning sunshine as the music from above rang louder in my ears and I began to sing, in a perfect cockney accent! "I've got a Golden Ticket! I've got a Golden Ticket! They said it couldn't be done! Couldn't be done! But good morning! Look at the sun, it's bright and gay! 'Cause I've got a Golden Ticket and with a Golden Ticket its a golden day!" Joy.

Gratefully, this musical experience was an inner monologue that remained private from my co-workers standing around me in the office. Regardless, the nearly impossible had been granted to me and I thanked my friend the concierge enthusiastically and ran-walked out of the office to call Sharon.


I've never experienced a night like last night.

We rode our bikes from our house to within a mile of the stadium. Beyond that it would have been more trouble than it was worth to manage our bike among the thousands of people moving down the streets. We locked up the bikes and joined the parade. Hundreds of police lined the way, smiling and directing. Free bottles of water were available every hundred feet or so. We walked along Federal Avenue, now closed off from traffic. Peddlers sold t shirts, buttons, hats, posters. No one really knew exactly if we were heading in the right direction, but the officers waved us on. At one point, we left the sidewalk and followed the crowd down the side of an embankment. It was dirty and dusty and a bit precarious for some of the elderly. Sharon noted, with a laugh, that it felt like we were sneaking across the southern boarder. It did feel like that for a bit. Finally we returned to the sidewalks and snaked back into the vast parking lot surrounding the stadium.

Another fifteen minutes in the snaking line led us to the security tent. We were screened, airport style, and then continued on to the stadium. We had no idea where our seats would be. With our credentials, we had numbers that indicated where our seats would be. We were directed to the club level. If you're not familiar with what club level is, it's a good thing. As we walked towards our seating area, Stevie Wonder sang on the stage below. Ultimately, we had unbelievable seats. We sat on the isle at the very top of our section and had a perfect, unobstructed view of the stage. As it turned out, Hillary Clinton sat about 30 feet away from us, in the glassed-off seating area above our row.

We heard Al Gore speak: excellent, intelligent, funny. Music played, flags waved, everyone clapped and stomped. We participated in the most successful wave that has ever been
executed in any football arena. The wave traveled around the stadium nine times. Nine times.

At one point, non-famous folks took turns standing on the stage and told their personal stories and why they were voting for Obama. Undoubtedly for me, the most memorable of these was a man named Barney Smith. Barney had lost his job after 31 years and his position had been relocated to workers in another country. Barney gave us the best laugh of the night with his quotable line, "We need a president that puts Barney Smith before Smith Barney!" Thunderous applause rewarded Barney's folksy insight and 85,000 people began to chant his name. "Barney! Barney! Barney! Barney! Barney!"

Just after eight o'clock, Senator Richard Durbin introduced a short film about Obama. As the film ended to applause, Senator Obama walked onto the stage bringing the house to it's feet and roaring applause from the rafters. His speech was everything it should have been, inspiring us to believe in what our country should and can be. He spoke with respect and reverence in regard to Senator McCain. He gave me the pragmatic reasons that I wanted to justify my supporting his presidency, and he gave me the inspirational vision that I must have to be influenced. But the idea that had the most impact on me was his insistence that "We are our brother's keeper, We are our sister's keeper". This is the ideological and moral foundation that motivates Senator Obama. I was moved, and I was reinforced in my decision to help elect this man as our president. If you didn't get a chance to watch his speech, listen to him speak. Listen hopefully and without bias and see if you agree with his intent and his ideas.

I was a part of something last night that I've hoped for, for as long as I can remember. Sharon and I were blessed to experience our country's continuing miracle of democracy and to share our never ending hope for human dignity and opportunity. It was just the best night.




Everybody have a good weekend, and Godspeed, Barney Smith,

Dave

timing and miles

A good man I work with shared a couple of pictures of his daughter with me. Her name is Aya. She looks just like her daddy.

The Beijing Olympics open today, 08.08.2008, at 8.08.08 pm Beijing time. Which means that as I write this, at 7:51 am mountain time, the janitors are sweeping up yesterday's confetti. The eights are by no chance a coincidence - in Chinese folklore, the number 8 stands for prosperity, fortune and wealth.

No doubt China's presentation of itself to the world will be dramatic and beautiful, if we can see it through the smog. These Olympics will be sort of like watching Dorian Grey at a dinner party.

Never the less, I love the Olympics. Tune in and cheer for everyone.

Sharon, Matt, and I have all applied to receive tickets, or "community credentials" to attend Obama's speech at Mile High on Friday, 30th. According to reports, 30 thousand tickets were made available strictly for Colorado residents. Over 60 thousand of us applied. So, we'll see the action live or maybe we'll cheer from our sofa. Either way, how grand.

NASA just had it's 50th anniversary a week ago. One of the first space crafts that NASA built was called the NASA M2-F1. It was designed to test the ability to land an aircraft horizontally after atmospheric reentry. I imagine this was key to the future space shuttle landings. A cowboy named Milt Thompson piloted the craft for the first time on April 5th, 1963, 18 years to the week, that the first shuttle, Columbia, lifted off on April 12, 1981. All combined, the five shuttles have flown over 450 million miles. Space-science is an addictive subject for me. Bring on the star cruisers.

A different kind of Miles.

The Miles Davis Quintet was a bebop-oriented jazz quintet formed in 1955 by Miles Davis. John Coltrane played tenor sax, Red Garland waxed piano, Paul Chambers stood on double-bass, Phill Joe Jones on drums, and Miles on trumpet. These guys are mythic in the genre today, but at the time of the Quintet's formation, they were virtually unknown.

Davis had just kicked his heroin addiction in early 1955 when he performed such a strong version of Thelonious Monk's "'Round Midnight" at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1955, that Columbia Records signed Davis to a recording contract, which allowed him to assemble a working band.

"'Round midnight" is a song that moves like smoke. I have listened to this song so many times and I'm always laid down and swept away. When Miles exhales, I crave whiskey on ice and I want to loosen my tie and slow dance with my wife in the living room.

If you've never listened to Davis, listen and watch him below with his band, including Coltrane on sax, playing "'Round Midnight". I suggest you wait 'till you're at home with your shoes off before you press play. Pour yourself a drink and let the sound pull you into the night. Enjoy.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

thieves and irony

I had some great stuff to share today, but instead I'll tell a different story.

On Wednesday, my mountain bike was stolen from me. It was cable locked to the patio outside the restaurant that I work at each morning during the week. The bike was a gift from Sharon and I'd had it for about a year. I rode it on trails in Winter Park and over some supremely wicked slickrock just outside of Moab. It was a great bike.

Today I borrowed Sharon's mountain bike to get to work. I stored her bike inside the restaurant, downstairs in a stairwell, just a ways from where the pastry chefs work. After work, I rode Sharon's bike over to the Denver police department to file a report on my bike. I locked Sharon's bike to the bike rack outside the department and went inside to fill out the paper work. When I came back outside, less than twenty minutes later, Sharon's bike was gone. Irony.

I'm home now, looking for the serial number for her bike so I can go and make another report.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

startling stories

The prime job of artists or any creative person is to observe and comment. New ideas come from the observing, then new ideas are realized and shown through completed work, i.e. music, dance, painting, writing, etc. Hopefully the work either challenges or inspires whoever comes into contact with it, beginning another process of observation and comment.

Our brother Ben is a creative type. He wrote me this week asking if I "... ever felt weird when you give your pieces to your clients. Weird in a sad or a little depressed kind of way. Like you just lost something. I feel attached to the things I'm doing."

I responded:

"I haven't grown attached to any commissioned work yet. I think this is because I don't have any emotion invested in the subjects. Now, the non-commissioned work, any personal work I do that is created as a result of inspiration or some other gut feeling, will be another matter. These works are personally valuable to me because from beginning to end, I was responsible for bringing them into the world. My personality and values are part of each work, so the thought of letting these pieces go does make me a little nervous because I want them to be respected and treated well.

I document my work as I go, so I have a chance to see how my work changes over time, and I never let a piece leave without having photographed it for the portfolio.

I haven't sold any private work yet. When I do, I suspect that there will be a little postpartum depression that sets in for a short time. But, having other people acquire my work is the whole point for me. Unless my paintings move around in the world they just get dusty. Outside, they become dynamic and out of my control and that turns me on. I put my best into each piece and then let them effect as they will. Simple themes and subjects will evoke emotions and thoughts that I never intended, and I really like that idea."



Here is some artwork that I love. Enjoy.






















Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave