All Epochs Must Pass

I’ve been locked into a Cubist epoch for the past seven days. At the outset, I was extremely prolific, producing two paintings over the course of two days. Since last Friday, however, I have been toiling away on what I have decided must be the last of my Cubist works.

A floccinaucinihilipilificator might suggest this piece belongs in a dumpster behind an orphanage.

But it doesn’t. It is pulchritudinous. And sublime. And very, very lumpy.

Here is my ‘Late Cubism’ masterpiece, entitled Self Portrait, or also, The Bulge.

Self Portrait, or, The Bulge, by Michael Cedarwood. (2015) Microsoft Paint

 

Throwback Thursday

Here’s a photograph from last summer, the day the gal I’m going steady with and I attended our first Minnesota Twins game together. They played the Phillies on what turned out to be a gorgeous June evening. It’s a good picture—you can see the Minneapolis skyline in the background, and hometown hero Joe Mauer at the plate. She kind of ruined it by talking, but it’s still a fun memory.

 

Fan Art

This letter came in today:

Dear Mr. Philosophunculist:

I painted this owl for you in the hopes that you will recognize our spiritual connection. This is actually a painting of you, or as I see you in my imagination. You are wise and elegant, yet fierce.

I will be your field mouse, and you may hunt me.

Swoop down on me with your sharp beak, and eat me for dinner. I’m okay with that.

You may notice this owl looks like a combination of angry, suspicious, and judgmental. I imagine this may be how you see me.

As I painted your eyes, they pierced my soul. As your blurbs of wisdom often do.

Look at this note as creepy, haunting, weird, I don’t care. Our souls are connected, and you don’t even know it yet.

But you will in time. YOU WILL.

My sincerest regards,

Your soulmate.

A Few Random Things

—this happened one time in a restaurant:

servant: “would you like soup or salad with that?”

me: “a super salad, eh? yes, yes that sounds good. i’ll have that.”

servant: “well, which one?”

me: “there’s more than one super salad?!”

it was kind of like one of those ‘who’s on first’ things

—every time one of my friends starts dating a new person, my first question for that friend is always, “what, is she blind and deaf?”

—why does the orkin man wear a helmet? they’re bugs.

—that’s all i’ve got.

—no it isn’t. i have a coworker with the last name Jass (i really do). not once have I asked if he has a relative with the name hugh. am i losing my wit, or finally showing signs of maturity?

 

The Chicken Ticker

Years ago, my roommate and I were sitting at a bar. At one point, I convinced him that I had a chicken ticker running at all times on my computer. He then wanted to know what a chicken ticker was. So I told him.

A chicken ticker is exactly the same thing as a stock market ticker, only it constantly informs you of the current price of chicken in your area. It crowed when the market opened, and all day there was a quiet, constant buck, buck, bucking in the background as the prices crept by.

Even I knew I had drank too much at that point.

 

“My Other Car Is A Tiny Penis”

Bumper sticker, spotted today on a Cadillac full of old women: “My other car is a tiny penis.”

What does that even mean?

This Blog Is Three Years Old Today

Three years ago today, my WordPress notifier tells me, this blog began. I’d love to go into a long, rambling exposition about everything I’ve learned, the bizarre events and trains of thought that led up to each post, but I don’t want to end up crying like a girl on the last day of camp, or a fat kid on the first day of fat camp, or the homesick kid that cries right around the midpoint of camp.

Plus, I live in the now, man.

Happy anniversary, WordPress. Happy anniversary.

You Learn Something New Every Day

The phrase “you learn something new every day” really is true. For instance, at about 1:30 this morning I learned two things:

1) My friend Ben shaves his armpits.

2) If you shave your armpits, never, ever, announce it at a party, because you will get made fun of. A lot.

My Three-Year-Old Nephew Has An Eight-Year-Old Girlfriend

He may not know her name, and we aren’t sure if the girl in question is aware of the fact that they’re dating, but little Gavi-Shenanigans is in his mind officially dating a girl nearly three times as old as he is. All we know is that she’s petite, and, given her age, still very vivacious—I can really do nothing but respect Baby G for taming the Cougar. This is the equivalent of me dating a woman in her mid-eighties, which is a quest I have recently been looking into.

Hyper-Intelligent, Genital-less Race of Super-Humanoids Found Living In Cloud City Above Area 51

Scientists have discovered a step to the next level of human consciousness. A race of highly evolved, hyper-intelligent humans was found living atop a cloud city over Area 51. Their digestive systems are extremely streamlined — no liquid or solid waste is produced by their bodies, causing both their genitalia and rectal orifices to have been snuffed out by natural selection. When asked how they reproduce, what we formerly considered a “smart” anthropologist, who would be thought of as a water-headed infant by this new society’s standards, put down his Tootsie Pop and replied, “I don’t know, but it’s probably totally nast.”

The members of this all around better breed are so advanced that they transmit their language telepathically. Since we have no way of communicating with this newer, better version of the poor excuses we currently have for people, it may not be possible to find out or even hope to understand the technological advances they have made, but you can be damn sure those rat-bastards would have something up their sleeves, if they had use for clothing. They’re just up there on their stupid cloud, zipping around on their personal perpetual motion machines, while all us idiots are stuck down here, listening to what Stephen Hawking says, and he can’t even talk. We can only hope our out-dated bodies are so revolting to them that they have no interest in prodding, probing, and picking at every hole they can find.

This is sort of what they might look like.