We are off to Maine for a week of lobster eating and probably freezing our butts off.
Since, I expect my hands to be dripping butter and clam goo all week, it would be messy for me to attempt to type a blog.
So, enjoy this entry from our trip last year. I hope I finally see a moose.
2-DOLLAR DIGGER
I fell when we were up in Maine last week.
Here’s what happened:
My wife, Kathie, and I always visit Pemaquid Beach when we are up there. It isn’t much of a beach by New Jersey standards. It’s rocky and weedy and the water is cold. Still, it is beautiful in a Maine way and the scene of many happy memories from the days when we went up there with the kids every year.
Then, they never enforced the two dollar per person admission charge and you could evade it altogether by entering the beach at one of its ends, rather than the main entrance. Now they are making a more concerted effort to collect it. Kathie dropped me at the end that required me to walk through a swamp to access the beach. She went to the parking lot and paid her two bucks.
After wading through the muck, I had to climb a huge mound of sand that had been placed where the swamp trail meets the beach in an apparent effort to block it. I climbed up and over this obstacle and was on the beach. Hey, two bucks is two bucks.
I found Kathie and she said she could not carry my chair and book from the parking lot. I took her ticket stub so I didn’t have to pay admission to get back on the beach and went to fetch my things.
As I was returning along the sandy path that wound in front of the concession stand and passed some picnic tables before leading to the beach, I was feeling all happy and content with my two buck savings. As usual, this was when disaster struck.
Suddenly, I lost my footing and lurched forward in a Spiral of Doom. My falls are rambling, sprawling affairs with lots of arm flapping and leg wagging ala Ray Bolger’s Straw Man.
I came to earth under a picnic table at which a late middle age woman was seated talking on her cell phone. She looked at my twisted corpse in shock and said to her phone mate: “I have to go. A man has just fallen at my feet.” Now, you know the chance to utter those words must have made her day, if not her entire vacation.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You fell a long way.”
“Not so far,” I replied. “I’m only five foot ten.”
“No. You started to fall over there,” she said pointing at a spot 25 feet away. “ I thought for a second you were going to recover, but then you seemed to give up.” She sounded disappointed in me.
I realized I was having a conversation with someone from under a picnic table and decided now was a good time to get up and take stock.
“ I seem to be fine. Sorry for interrupting your conversation.”
I immediately launched an investigation into the causes of this calamity. I suspected divine retribution for my admission fee evasion, but soon found solid physical evidence for a more mundane explanation.
My efforts revealed the following: I tripped on a root that was hidden by the sand in the path; and I was wearing sandals.
The Witness said that she would report the root to management. In New Jersey this would have resulted in the whole area being sealed off with crime scene tape and the beach being evacuated until it could be determined if foul play was involved. This is Maine, however. Since the root was as thick as my arm, I suspected it has been happily tripping fee evaders and payers for generations.
The sandal thing is another story. I hate sandals. The only reason I was wearing them was that I was at the beach and I had a momentary brain freeze that made me think I could get away with it. Sandals, in my view, are a public health hazard. I believe New Jersey, a state that requires wearing a crash helmet for most human activities, is about to require helmets and kneepads when sandals are worn.
It should come as no surprise that people who REALLY don’t want to fall-high iron workers, tight rope walkers, mountain climbers-don’t wear sandals. I saw a History Channel special that revealed that the Fall of Rome was caused by the fact that all of the occupants were wearing sandals at the time.
Anyway, I thanked the Witness, gathered my scattered belongings and headed for the beach. Just to cover the retribution thing, next time I paid the admission.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
PPP 2
As the Father of Pants Pocket Photography (PPP) I am pleased to announce that it is sweeping the country.
Based on overwhelming response to my last blog ("Pocket Shots") introducing the new art form it is evident that Americans from coast-to-coast are PPPing in their pants and loving it.
Funnun submitted a wonderful example she shot inside her habit. It is titled “Pocket Full of Miracles.” The good sister reports: “I haven’t had this much fun since the diocese banned corporal punishment.”
Another reader, Stopnstart, credits the photo sensation with easing his prostate condition.
“Since I started PPPing, my gonads have shrank,” he gleefully proclaims. Three cheers for your gonads, Stopnstart.
Fashionista worries that tight pants aficionados may be excluded from the fun. Fashionista, either get a smaller camera or loosen up!
Canman, a California proctologist, reports a technical breakthrough: “I have found my ColonCam works perfectly for Pants Pocket Photography. I can even double bill Blue Cross.” I think that may be cheating, Canman.
I am thinking of running a contest of reader submissions. I don’t want to spring for a prize though, so I am looking for a sponsor. That credit card company would be a good bet. They would just have to change their slogan to “What’s in your pocket?”
How about the AARP? They should jump on the bandwagon. We geezers take millions of inadvertent cell phone shots inside our pants. Now it can be perceived as a form of artistic expression, and not the onset of mental deterioration….. that can be their motto: “It’s not Alzheimer’s, it’s art.”
There’s a fly in the ointment though. I just got an email from the lawyer for Billy Mays estate saying that, prior to his demise, he was set to promo a Pants Pocket Cam for $19.99 (order right now and I’ll double the offer). Too bad, Billy. Guess I will just have to mop up my tears with my Shamoo and huckster on without you.
Singleagain sounds a cautionary note, however. His wife left him after she spotted his wedding ring, six beer bottle caps, a motel room key and a condom in his first Pants Pocket Photo. This isn’t cinema verite, singleagain. A little artistic editing is recommended.
Based on overwhelming response to my last blog ("Pocket Shots") introducing the new art form it is evident that Americans from coast-to-coast are PPPing in their pants and loving it.
Funnun submitted a wonderful example she shot inside her habit. It is titled “Pocket Full of Miracles.” The good sister reports: “I haven’t had this much fun since the diocese banned corporal punishment.”
Another reader, Stopnstart, credits the photo sensation with easing his prostate condition.
“Since I started PPPing, my gonads have shrank,” he gleefully proclaims. Three cheers for your gonads, Stopnstart.
Fashionista worries that tight pants aficionados may be excluded from the fun. Fashionista, either get a smaller camera or loosen up!
Canman, a California proctologist, reports a technical breakthrough: “I have found my ColonCam works perfectly for Pants Pocket Photography. I can even double bill Blue Cross.” I think that may be cheating, Canman.
I am thinking of running a contest of reader submissions. I don’t want to spring for a prize though, so I am looking for a sponsor. That credit card company would be a good bet. They would just have to change their slogan to “What’s in your pocket?”
How about the AARP? They should jump on the bandwagon. We geezers take millions of inadvertent cell phone shots inside our pants. Now it can be perceived as a form of artistic expression, and not the onset of mental deterioration….. that can be their motto: “It’s not Alzheimer’s, it’s art.”
There’s a fly in the ointment though. I just got an email from the lawyer for Billy Mays estate saying that, prior to his demise, he was set to promo a Pants Pocket Cam for $19.99 (order right now and I’ll double the offer). Too bad, Billy. Guess I will just have to mop up my tears with my Shamoo and huckster on without you.
Singleagain sounds a cautionary note, however. His wife left him after she spotted his wedding ring, six beer bottle caps, a motel room key and a condom in his first Pants Pocket Photo. This isn’t cinema verite, singleagain. A little artistic editing is recommended.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Pocket Shots
No, the photo above is not a lost work by Mark Rothko. It is the first work in a new art form, invented by me: pants pocket photography. I call this work, “Left Pocket, Blue Shorts.”
Like most great cultural discoveries it happened by accident. Several months ago as my son was cleaning all the old messages and photos from my cell phone, he remarked: “Dad, do you know you have a few gazillion photos of the inside of your pants?”
“No,” I replied, “why would I take pictures inside my trousers?”
“You probably did it by accident. With your cell phone turned on in your pocket you probably squeezed off a few shots every time you moved or turned. Didn’t you hear the clicking sound?
“Yes,” I responded, “but I thought it was my trick knee sounding off. It comes as a relief to learn it was my phone.”
“Do you want to save them?”, he asked.
I looked at the pictures all of which had a dark, murky, mysterious look about them with strange unidentifiable shapes floating like creatures at the bottom of a sea cave.
Somewhat embarrassed as I was presented with the evidence of yet another technology gaff on my part, I told him to go ahead and delete.
Now when I am walking I prevent this from happening by keeping a tight grip on the phone. Of course, the sight of a man with his hand thrust deep in his pocket grasping a hard cylindrical object, causes many of my fellow walkers to cut me a wide berth (“Is that a cell phone you’re clutching, or are you just happy to see me.”).
Upon consideration, however, I rued my haste in sending this material into oblivion. This could be the Next Big Thing. A photographer friend of mine does very nicely by taking photos of leaves in various undulating positions. He gets big bucks and has had shows at Madison Avenue galleries.
If pictures of his lawn sweepings are grist for the artistic mill, why not an in-depth study of the unexplored world of pockets? The galleries will eat it up.
The picture above is my first effort. You, dear reader, are in at the birth of a major movement.
I shot this picture by sticking the lens of my Nikon digital SLR camera into my pocket. The blasted thing won’t shoot if there is not enough light, so I had to insert a small flash light as well. Why didn’t I use shots right off my cell phone? Simple, I couldn’t figure out how to get them from my phone to the computer.
The tan objects you see in the photo are rubber bands. I keep them handy to fire at snot nose brats who walk on my lawn or at those annoying cat birds that seem to be everywhere. I shoved a supply in my shorts about a month ago and there they will reside until the clothes drier melts them into a solid lump. The black object is my cigar cutter which, frankly, I am surprised to see since I had given it up for lost.
See if you can guess the name of this work:
That’s right, “Pocket Full of Rye.” You catch on quick.
The expressive possibilities of this art form are limitless. Once I have fully explored the depths of my drawers, I will be asking celebrities to shove a camera in their own bottoms.
Stick around and see what develops.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Califon Carnival
The Califon Carnival has ended. This event held the first week in July and sponsored by the local volunteer fire company is the official start of summer in our community.
It is five nights of food, rides, games of chance, and fireworks. It is the highlight of the Califon social calendar, which doesn’t say much for the Califon social calendar.
It is small by most standards encompassing a football field size lot with perhaps a dozen rides, an equal number of games, and a few concession stands.
And like most things Califon, it is journey to a simpler past. It is exactly like the fireman’s carnivals I used to attend as boy during the summers at our lake cottage. It hasn’t changed in the 32 years that I have been attending. They switch a few rides around, add some new features, but the core remains the same.
The kids love it. Kathie and I still go. Now that our children are grown and gone, our grand nieces and nephews are the main reason for our attendance. Our nieces begin asking us around Christmas if there will be a carnival this year.
They came again last week and a fine time was had by all. Faces were painted, cotton candy consumed, and enormous sums of money spent in pursuit of winning each child a cheap trinket.
When we got back home, we sat out in the bank parking lot next to our house and watched the fireworks. Eventhough, you can’t see the ground displays from there, we have an unobstructed view of the aerial works. Years ago, our neighbors down the lane used to carry the wicker sofa from their porch up to the lot and sit and sip their beers while taking in the show.
Many “townies” go every night just to feast on clams, burgers, and the best funnel cake anywhere, while sitting at a picnic table under the bright carnival lights.
We did as well when our kids were in their early, pre-driving, teens. The carnival is a big deal with this set who dress-up in their latest duds to strut and flirt among their peers. We, like many parents, would go, take a seat on a strategically placed bench, catch up on the latest news and gossip, and keep an eye on things.
Though the carnival is still a big deal, it was a bigger deal years ago. In the days before reality TV kept people glued to their sofas, they would come from miles around to attend.
Cars would fill the town. They would park everywhere with total impunity: in driveways, on lawns, where ever they could squeeze regardless if they blocked someone else. My neighbor, a large man who wore overalls, would discourage would-be parkers by sitting on his front porch with the light on, a baseball bat clearly visible on his lap.
One night a car carrying four outlanders pulled right into my other neighbor’s side yard without so much as a by-your-leave, locked up, and marched off to the carnival. Unfortunately, they failed to note that the neighbors septic had backed up into her yard in precisely that location.
Upon their return, the revelers’ car became stuck in what they took to be mere mud. Three of them got out to push and noticed that the substance splashing on their clothes was of a more pungent, organic nature. Cries of anguish and disgust filled the air as they freed their car and proceeded on their long and odiferous journey home.
Well, this is starting to sound too much like the “Prairie Home Companion”, so enough already.
It is five nights of food, rides, games of chance, and fireworks. It is the highlight of the Califon social calendar, which doesn’t say much for the Califon social calendar.
It is small by most standards encompassing a football field size lot with perhaps a dozen rides, an equal number of games, and a few concession stands.
And like most things Califon, it is journey to a simpler past. It is exactly like the fireman’s carnivals I used to attend as boy during the summers at our lake cottage. It hasn’t changed in the 32 years that I have been attending. They switch a few rides around, add some new features, but the core remains the same.
The kids love it. Kathie and I still go. Now that our children are grown and gone, our grand nieces and nephews are the main reason for our attendance. Our nieces begin asking us around Christmas if there will be a carnival this year.
They came again last week and a fine time was had by all. Faces were painted, cotton candy consumed, and enormous sums of money spent in pursuit of winning each child a cheap trinket.
When we got back home, we sat out in the bank parking lot next to our house and watched the fireworks. Eventhough, you can’t see the ground displays from there, we have an unobstructed view of the aerial works. Years ago, our neighbors down the lane used to carry the wicker sofa from their porch up to the lot and sit and sip their beers while taking in the show.
Many “townies” go every night just to feast on clams, burgers, and the best funnel cake anywhere, while sitting at a picnic table under the bright carnival lights.
We did as well when our kids were in their early, pre-driving, teens. The carnival is a big deal with this set who dress-up in their latest duds to strut and flirt among their peers. We, like many parents, would go, take a seat on a strategically placed bench, catch up on the latest news and gossip, and keep an eye on things.
Though the carnival is still a big deal, it was a bigger deal years ago. In the days before reality TV kept people glued to their sofas, they would come from miles around to attend.
Cars would fill the town. They would park everywhere with total impunity: in driveways, on lawns, where ever they could squeeze regardless if they blocked someone else. My neighbor, a large man who wore overalls, would discourage would-be parkers by sitting on his front porch with the light on, a baseball bat clearly visible on his lap.
One night a car carrying four outlanders pulled right into my other neighbor’s side yard without so much as a by-your-leave, locked up, and marched off to the carnival. Unfortunately, they failed to note that the neighbors septic had backed up into her yard in precisely that location.
Upon their return, the revelers’ car became stuck in what they took to be mere mud. Three of them got out to push and noticed that the substance splashing on their clothes was of a more pungent, organic nature. Cries of anguish and disgust filled the air as they freed their car and proceeded on their long and odiferous journey home.
Well, this is starting to sound too much like the “Prairie Home Companion”, so enough already.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Portrait of the Artist of an Old Man
George Viener, Director of the Outsider Folk Art Gallery, left a message the other day with exciting news: two of my wood carvings, Father of His Country and Eve of Liberty, have sold and I will be a featured artist in the gallery during July and August.
The gallery, which is based in Reading, PA, specializes in outsider and folk art. Both are the work of self-taught artists. So,what is the difference? The proprietor of a Manhattan folk art gallery has this to say on his web site: “Outsiders live on the margins of American life. Folk artists live in the mainstream. Outsiders are often troubled people living their lives in isolation or, frequently, they find themselves institutionalized because of emotional or mental instabilities or incarcerated because of criminal conduct. Folk artists are everyday Americans, with families and friends, and homes, and mortgages, and pets, and soccer games, and tuition, and church, and bills, and debt, often with full-time jobs.”
Clearly, he takes a dim view of outsider artists, but manages to make folk artists sound like Republicans. Based on his character description, it could go either way for me. Maybe because I haven’t been institutionalized yet, most people, if they consider my work art at all, consider it folk art. I don’t think much about such things. As I say on my bio on the gallery web site:” I do what I do, and it is what it is.” (Note: the use of two clichés in one sentence, though a crime, is not enough to get me categorized as an outsider artist.)
George took an interest in my work after I had bombarded him with emails urging him to visit my blog site, http://www.jandersenfolkcarving.blogspot.com. Several months ago, at his invitation, I took some of my carvings out there. He liked them, but was not sure where they would fit in the gallery at that time. We agreed that he would keep them and try to sell them on the gallery web site.
His phone message was followed by several days of missed calls and intense fantasizing on my part. As befits a borderline outsider artist, I am bi-polar in my wool gathering.
In my manic mode, I convince myself that the American Folk Art Museum is the buyer of the pieces and that I can now quadruple my price. I am picturing my grandson taking his children there and saying: “The American art treasures encased over there were carved by your great grandfather. You come from a proud legacy, my dears.”
In my depressive mode, I am sure they will break in transit and the buyers will demand their money back. Or worse yet, one of their children will poke his eye out on George Washington’s sword and they will sue me for every dime I have.
Anyway, I am relieved to hear from George Viener. The buyers are collectors from Louisiana and really like my work. I will be a featured artist at the Outsider Folk Art Gallery for July and August.
I am very pleased. This is a highly regarded gallery in this niche of the art world, and I never in the world expected to sell anything. When I told my daughter the good news she said: “Well, you topped Van Gogh. He never sold anything in his lifetime.” At least I have cleared that hurdle. In case you are wondering, Vincent Van Gogh, although he meets most aspects of the aforementioned expert’s description of an outsider artist, ironically, would not be considered one since he received extensive art training.
But now I worry that perhaps these Louisiana buyers live on the Gulf coast and my art might be lost to history in a catastrophic flood like what happened to that potter in Mississippi or Alabama whose name I don’t remember who would never sell any of his work only to have all his pots broken in a gigundus hurricane. Well, as the philosopher once said: nothing breeds anxiety like success.
I will enjoy the moment, though, and not let it go to my head. Speaking of which, I wonder how I would look in a beret?
The gallery, which is based in Reading, PA, specializes in outsider and folk art. Both are the work of self-taught artists. So,what is the difference? The proprietor of a Manhattan folk art gallery has this to say on his web site: “Outsiders live on the margins of American life. Folk artists live in the mainstream. Outsiders are often troubled people living their lives in isolation or, frequently, they find themselves institutionalized because of emotional or mental instabilities or incarcerated because of criminal conduct. Folk artists are everyday Americans, with families and friends, and homes, and mortgages, and pets, and soccer games, and tuition, and church, and bills, and debt, often with full-time jobs.”
Clearly, he takes a dim view of outsider artists, but manages to make folk artists sound like Republicans. Based on his character description, it could go either way for me. Maybe because I haven’t been institutionalized yet, most people, if they consider my work art at all, consider it folk art. I don’t think much about such things. As I say on my bio on the gallery web site:” I do what I do, and it is what it is.” (Note: the use of two clichés in one sentence, though a crime, is not enough to get me categorized as an outsider artist.)
George took an interest in my work after I had bombarded him with emails urging him to visit my blog site, http://www.jandersenfolkcarving.blogspot.com. Several months ago, at his invitation, I took some of my carvings out there. He liked them, but was not sure where they would fit in the gallery at that time. We agreed that he would keep them and try to sell them on the gallery web site.
His phone message was followed by several days of missed calls and intense fantasizing on my part. As befits a borderline outsider artist, I am bi-polar in my wool gathering.
In my manic mode, I convince myself that the American Folk Art Museum is the buyer of the pieces and that I can now quadruple my price. I am picturing my grandson taking his children there and saying: “The American art treasures encased over there were carved by your great grandfather. You come from a proud legacy, my dears.”
In my depressive mode, I am sure they will break in transit and the buyers will demand their money back. Or worse yet, one of their children will poke his eye out on George Washington’s sword and they will sue me for every dime I have.
Anyway, I am relieved to hear from George Viener. The buyers are collectors from Louisiana and really like my work. I will be a featured artist at the Outsider Folk Art Gallery for July and August.
I am very pleased. This is a highly regarded gallery in this niche of the art world, and I never in the world expected to sell anything. When I told my daughter the good news she said: “Well, you topped Van Gogh. He never sold anything in his lifetime.” At least I have cleared that hurdle. In case you are wondering, Vincent Van Gogh, although he meets most aspects of the aforementioned expert’s description of an outsider artist, ironically, would not be considered one since he received extensive art training.
But now I worry that perhaps these Louisiana buyers live on the Gulf coast and my art might be lost to history in a catastrophic flood like what happened to that potter in Mississippi or Alabama whose name I don’t remember who would never sell any of his work only to have all his pots broken in a gigundus hurricane. Well, as the philosopher once said: nothing breeds anxiety like success.
I will enjoy the moment, though, and not let it go to my head. Speaking of which, I wonder how I would look in a beret?
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Navigator
I purchased a Garman.
This is a little GPS gizmo that gives you real time driving directions in a firm, but friendly, female voice. I think they chose a female voice because most men are married, or have significant others, and are used to taking orders from women (“Dear, if I follow your directions can we make whoopee tonight?). Women on the other hand are probably more comfortable with some sisterly advice than with the ravings of a bullying male. (“What the hell is wrong with you? You missed our damn turn!”).
I am liking the little thing so far, since I have absolutely no sense of direction. Whichever way I am heading feels like up, or north, to me. I have to turn the map with the direction I am supposed to be heading pointed up to determine if my next turn is a right or left. The whole sun thing doesn’t work for me either, because I can never remember if it rises in the east and sets in the west or the other way around. Aside: I wonder if people who have a sense of direction feel like they are going down, or falling, when they are heading south?
I waited to get one because they have been expensive and Kathie and I had a bad experience with one on a rental car in Florida. The directions said that tapping the home prompt would route us to the Budget Rental desk at the Tampa/St. Pete airport. Instead, it took us to an alligator infested swamp in what we assumed was the Everglades. This being Florida, an airport or Wal-Mart will appear there soon, but we couldn’t wait.
It has been useful in my job with the Census. I was recently sent to Trenton, a city with which I am totally unfamiliar, to do some address canvassing. My little Garman got me to my start point with no problem. After a tiring day of walking the streets, dodging free-range pit bulls, and a near fatal encounter with a kielbasa and kraut on rye, it was nice to not have to worry about finding my way home when I returned to my car. When the screen prompted “Where to?, I just tapped home and off I went smooth as pie.
I think the Garman folks are missing the boat though. They should come with a device that helps us navigate the highways and byways of human intercourse. Such a device would eliminate panicky name groping (“The male approaching from your left is Steve Donnelly, your neighbor. Be sure to inquire about his prostate.”); or skillfully reroute us when we have wandered astray on the Rue de Faux Pas (BEEP, BEEP, ROUTE CORRECTION: “Oh, it must be that stunning, loose fitting frock you are wearing that led me to inquire if you are pregnant. Where DID you get it?").
For someone like me who spends so much time on the Rue de Faux Pas that he is considering buying a pied-a-terre there, such a device would be very useful indeed.
This is a little GPS gizmo that gives you real time driving directions in a firm, but friendly, female voice. I think they chose a female voice because most men are married, or have significant others, and are used to taking orders from women (“Dear, if I follow your directions can we make whoopee tonight?). Women on the other hand are probably more comfortable with some sisterly advice than with the ravings of a bullying male. (“What the hell is wrong with you? You missed our damn turn!”).
I am liking the little thing so far, since I have absolutely no sense of direction. Whichever way I am heading feels like up, or north, to me. I have to turn the map with the direction I am supposed to be heading pointed up to determine if my next turn is a right or left. The whole sun thing doesn’t work for me either, because I can never remember if it rises in the east and sets in the west or the other way around. Aside: I wonder if people who have a sense of direction feel like they are going down, or falling, when they are heading south?
I waited to get one because they have been expensive and Kathie and I had a bad experience with one on a rental car in Florida. The directions said that tapping the home prompt would route us to the Budget Rental desk at the Tampa/St. Pete airport. Instead, it took us to an alligator infested swamp in what we assumed was the Everglades. This being Florida, an airport or Wal-Mart will appear there soon, but we couldn’t wait.
It has been useful in my job with the Census. I was recently sent to Trenton, a city with which I am totally unfamiliar, to do some address canvassing. My little Garman got me to my start point with no problem. After a tiring day of walking the streets, dodging free-range pit bulls, and a near fatal encounter with a kielbasa and kraut on rye, it was nice to not have to worry about finding my way home when I returned to my car. When the screen prompted “Where to?, I just tapped home and off I went smooth as pie.
I think the Garman folks are missing the boat though. They should come with a device that helps us navigate the highways and byways of human intercourse. Such a device would eliminate panicky name groping (“The male approaching from your left is Steve Donnelly, your neighbor. Be sure to inquire about his prostate.”); or skillfully reroute us when we have wandered astray on the Rue de Faux Pas (BEEP, BEEP, ROUTE CORRECTION: “Oh, it must be that stunning, loose fitting frock you are wearing that led me to inquire if you are pregnant. Where DID you get it?").
For someone like me who spends so much time on the Rue de Faux Pas that he is considering buying a pied-a-terre there, such a device would be very useful indeed.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Unemployed...Again
Well, my job with the Census Bureau has come to an end….at least for now.
The next phase will start in August and we are told that we have a good chance of being called back because we have experience. I doubt this will happen. I think the Government way is to re-invent the wheel, dismantle this temporary bureaucracy, and replace it with another with all new employees.
We were told the job would last ten weeks and it barely made it to five.
So what next? Clearly there is no income to be derived from blogging. I read in the Times yesterday (“Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest”) bloggers are abandoning their little corners of the internet in record numbers. According to a survey by Technorati, which runs a search engine for blogs, only 7.4 million of the 133 million blogs the company tracks have been updated in the past 120 days. “That translates to 95 per cent of blogs being essentially abandoned,” the article reports, “left to lie fallow on the Web, where they become public remnants of a dream-or at least an ambition-unfulfilled.”
Of course, the major reason for this is failure to attract readers and, even if readers are attracted, the inability to translate that into income. Book deals are few and far between.
Oh well, there is always pooper scooping. Another article in the Times reports that this is a real growth industry with franchises sprouting up that do millions a year in business. The premise is that armed with a pooper scooper you hire yourself out for $12-$15 a week to pick up Fido’s deposits in people’s yards. Apparently, even in these hard times, people are unwilling to pick up their own pet’s crap.
There is even a trade association for these folks: The Association of Professional Animal Waste Specialists. Companies in the field have clever names like DoodyCalls and Poop Patrol and slogans like “we are number one in the number two business.”
It is claimed that an independent poop professional with 20 or so clients can generate an income of $30,000 a year.
I may take a shot at this. First, I need a name. Doodie Howser, Canine Crapologist, has a classy ring to it. Or how about Dr. Doo-Little? Or The Feces Fanatic? Actually, I am kind of partial to Scat-Man-Doo. If you, dear reader, have any suggestions feel free to unburden yourself, so to speak.
Even though most of the franchises have cute little uniforms (not brown, I hope) for their workers, I would prefer to be incognito. However, I think it is absolutely necessary to have specialized footwear. I have designed shoes that have bald, Teflon coated soles. Take it from someone who has been there, there is nothing worse than trying to dig fresh dog poop out of sneaker treads with a toothpick.
AHA!!! I have just had a Eureka moment. With all of that abandoned bullshit fouling up the internet, there might be a market for a blog pooper scooper. For a low fee, I will wander hosting service sites tidying up the “public remnants” of abandoned dreams. And no special footwear is required!
The next phase will start in August and we are told that we have a good chance of being called back because we have experience. I doubt this will happen. I think the Government way is to re-invent the wheel, dismantle this temporary bureaucracy, and replace it with another with all new employees.
We were told the job would last ten weeks and it barely made it to five.
So what next? Clearly there is no income to be derived from blogging. I read in the Times yesterday (“Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest”) bloggers are abandoning their little corners of the internet in record numbers. According to a survey by Technorati, which runs a search engine for blogs, only 7.4 million of the 133 million blogs the company tracks have been updated in the past 120 days. “That translates to 95 per cent of blogs being essentially abandoned,” the article reports, “left to lie fallow on the Web, where they become public remnants of a dream-or at least an ambition-unfulfilled.”
Of course, the major reason for this is failure to attract readers and, even if readers are attracted, the inability to translate that into income. Book deals are few and far between.
Oh well, there is always pooper scooping. Another article in the Times reports that this is a real growth industry with franchises sprouting up that do millions a year in business. The premise is that armed with a pooper scooper you hire yourself out for $12-$15 a week to pick up Fido’s deposits in people’s yards. Apparently, even in these hard times, people are unwilling to pick up their own pet’s crap.
There is even a trade association for these folks: The Association of Professional Animal Waste Specialists. Companies in the field have clever names like DoodyCalls and Poop Patrol and slogans like “we are number one in the number two business.”
It is claimed that an independent poop professional with 20 or so clients can generate an income of $30,000 a year.
I may take a shot at this. First, I need a name. Doodie Howser, Canine Crapologist, has a classy ring to it. Or how about Dr. Doo-Little? Or The Feces Fanatic? Actually, I am kind of partial to Scat-Man-Doo. If you, dear reader, have any suggestions feel free to unburden yourself, so to speak.
Even though most of the franchises have cute little uniforms (not brown, I hope) for their workers, I would prefer to be incognito. However, I think it is absolutely necessary to have specialized footwear. I have designed shoes that have bald, Teflon coated soles. Take it from someone who has been there, there is nothing worse than trying to dig fresh dog poop out of sneaker treads with a toothpick.
AHA!!! I have just had a Eureka moment. With all of that abandoned bullshit fouling up the internet, there might be a market for a blog pooper scooper. For a low fee, I will wander hosting service sites tidying up the “public remnants” of abandoned dreams. And no special footwear is required!
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