It’s GOTTA suck to be the laughing stock of the country after what was supposed to have been your crowning moment– the Republican debutante ball– turns into a debutante-debacle.
But then on top of that to have First Lady Michelle Obama come out swinging on the first night of the DNC dance– all classy and beautiful and moving and inspiring? Well that’s just RUDE!
Michelle Obama makes me feel proud; and not just proud of her, but of her “other half,” as well.
(APOLOGETIC FEMINIST SIDEBAR: Yes, of course a woman is her own person, whole and complete, apart from any other “half,” defined by herself and herself alone, yada yada yada…)
Still… a married woman is also a reflection of the man she married, because the kind of woman a man chooses as his life partner reveals a lot about the man.
So it makes me proud that our president has set the bar so high. He has redefined for the 21st century American male what kind of woman they should consider “attractive.” You don’t need to say goodbye to the concept of the “trophy wife.” You just need to check
what kind of contest she’s representing.
Because make no mistake — Michelle Obama is a trophy wife, all right. But she’s the kind of trophy you’d place on the same shelf as a Nobel Peace Prize more than you would, say, a Miss America crown. When most men are content to reach down to the bottom
of a Cracker Jack box for their matrimonial prize, Barak dug a liiiiiitle bit deeper… and struck gold.
Michelle. She’s our Lady Diana. No doubt about it.
As far as First Ladies go, I’ve never had an opinion one way or the other about ANY of them, save Jackie Kennedy. But she was more than a First Lady. She was in a class by herself, that one. Michelle seems to be following in her footsteps.
Michelle is the first time I’ve admired and respected any First Lady as much as their corresponding Commanders In Chief.
Michelle & Barak combined heals something in a generation made cynical by divorced parents, domestic abuse, addiction, and loveless, upper-middle-class marriages standing for nothing except their credit card limit. Mama and Daddy are at the helm. We can go to sleep. They’ll protect us. The tippy top of the White House wedding cake is balanced now- yin and yang. Little groom figurine and little bride figurine, holding hands.
Damn I’ll be sad to see these two go. But I’m gonna put a slice in the freezer for safe-keeping.
Now- onto some low-brow Melania-gate videos for your enjoyment.
Vine (6 inspiring seconds)
YouTube (under 2 min.):
I don’t know what the above drawing means. But that’s my favorite part about drawing. Once I stopped trying to convey some specific meaning when I draw or paint, I became much more immersed in the work — to the point where “work” is a misnomer. This kind of immersion feels so complete that it ceases being work and starts to become “play.”
And a fringe benefit of “letting go” is (almost always) being happier with the results– results I allowed to happen rather than forcing.
I was just drinking my morning tea and trying to draw a curly-cue pattern I noticed on a pillow in my living room.
And then… BIRDS.
It’s highly likely this drawing surfaced because of an HBO documentary I saw the other night – Hitchcock and Truffaut – which featured several snippets from THE BIRDS.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I just like creepy birds and curly cues.
https://artboi.wordpress.com/#jp-carousel-50illustrationen | freie kunst | portraits
If you’re on the facebook, check out the birdsong dreambook page*. It’s updated with new dreams and new drawings more frequently than this site. :-)
*If the link above gives you any trouble, punch it in the nose. Then copy and paste this link into your browser:
POPCORN PLEASE, WITH EXTRA R.E.M.! (Inside the Company That Wants to Be the Netflix of Lucid Dreaming: Luciding
Would YOU want to control your dreams? Let me know in the comments below.
Inside the Company That Wants to Be the Netflix of Lucid Dreaming
Jun 01, 2016 | 420 videos
Video by MEL Films
To me, half the fun of dreams (and later recounting/recording them through my art) is the LACK of control I have in their content; it’s very freeing and (I think) GOOD for us as a species to relinquish control in a world where we’re becoming more and MORE controlling with each new gadget that comes along.
Every time I go to sleep it’s like some mystical-neurological superpower has given me a free movie. I wouldn’t want to go to the movies if I already knew the ending. Popcorn please!
I’ve been spending a lot of time at the McDonald’s drive-thru lately.
My mom recently developed a habit of ingesting one double-cheeseburger a day. Here’s the thing to remember should you ever find yourself in the position of assisting my mother with her home hospice care:
She likes her double-cheeseburgers PLAIN.
“Make sure you tell them that you mean no sauce and no pickles and no lettuce or anything. Nothing except the burger, the bun, and the cheese. And promise me you’ll check them before you leave the McDonald’s. Okay, Mary? Okay??
And with that, I give you…. last night’s dream (pictured above) in which I was driven through the McD’s take-out window by police escort. I was threatened by an angry mob to my right, and the female cops didn’t want to shut the doors or windows on that side of their squad car.
I traded in my Southern California digs for this- to spend some quality time with my mom in chilly, Trump-lovin’ South Jersey. She’s now in stage four of, um… of the conditions that now qualify her for the large hospital bed sitting in the middle of her tiny living room, and a wonderful nurse’s aid that visits every weekday for an hour or so.
My daughterly duties involve a lot of wrapping and unwrapping lonnnnng bandages on her pain-filled legs.
Other than that, I mostly shuffle between her house and a Walmart that has its own zip code, a medium-sized McDonald’s, a ShopRite more sprawling than Los Angeles county, a Phriendly Pharmacy and the SuperWaWa™ (a must-have for any self-respecting, scrapple-eatin’ South Jersey community.) After that it’s home again to my mom to sport some “Ultra Latex Super Gloves” and change Mommy back into a Mummy.
This is my “home hospice hiatus” ya might say- administering morphine, hydrocodone, Xanax and other assorted, highly-prized, controlled-candy-substances.
That’s all for now. I’ll figure out what the dream “means” later. The mummy calls.