All of this talk regarding Super Bowl commercials, namely for cars and lumber and whatnot… And yet not a lot of buzz for SPAM.
It was the commercials for this wonder meat (I have already Trademarked “WonderMeat” for an adult cartoon series, so don’t get any ideas) that got my brain working yesterday. It’s such an underrated cut, you’d become clinically depressed just considering that the following exchange would never take place in some Michelin star restaurant:
“Why, yes... I’d like the Spamderloin. In fact, how about the Filet Spamignon?”
“Would you like that bacon-wrapped?”
“Seems rather redundant, but certainly.”
You’d have to wonder, though, what sort of a meat genius you’d have to be in order to discern the individual cuts of SPAM.
“Dis ‘ere, uh, particular cut is dee, uh, leg of SPAM. Which is, as you know, is remarkably similar to da arm of SPAM, as well as da chuck, loin and flank. Da majestic SPAM, when raised free-range, develops a little more devoisity in its physical appearance, as noted ovah ‘ere, wit dese little caps of gelatin-like substance.”
Eagerly awaiting my next rejection letter from the good folks at Taschen regarding the sample from my latest art book idea.
It’s a coffee table photography book which explores the subgenre of “found art,” with special emphasis the on the oft-overlooked importance of Ochre and Burnt Umber pigment. While many could argue that a lot has been written on the subject of these colors with regard to underpainting, my magnum opus spins a unique yarn as a photographic exploration of underwear which really holds its own from front to back.
The Scratch-N-Sniff variation holds a lot of potential, though. Using today’s technology, one could really capture the essence.
Little-known fact about Christmas Eve, via Brian’s “Lost History and Other Shit They Can’t Be Bothered to Teach You in School and Stuff Secret Bunker of Knowledge”.
Today’s installment: “All Things Are Delicately Interconnected Via Rubbers.”
Pining for his never-to-be love interest on this day back in 1933, Albert Einstein pens a letter to the woman he’s become smitten with, one Marie Curie from his New Jersey study as his wife prepares their usual evening treat, a fifth of wood alcohol and an eight ball chaser. Unbeknownst to Mrs. E, her husband is about to make history once again; this time in the field of photography.
After snapping the world’s first selfie (on the world’s first instant film camera, no less; the man was a fucking pioneer), he inscribes the photo with the words “Me equals meat squared,” and sends the image off to his crush.
Her second husband at the time, Stanley Czeirnitkovielskiweicz intercepts the pornographic portrait, and proceeds to poison his wife – whom he incorrectly perceives as being unfaithful – by utilizing a glow-in-the-dark condom that night, which he fashions from lambskin coated with radium-laced, self-luminous paint.
While the prudish history books of old may tell of her death being the result of she and her first husband Pierre staring for hours at a glowing batch of radium extracted from pitchblende, the cold reality was that it was a warm, glowing rod that sealed her fate years later via a photograph of a very disturbed (and naked) German, thus sparking the Polish-German war of 1934. As we all know, the war cam to an end with the Treaty of Lubin, wherein private manufacture of condoms was outlawed, and as a blanket punishment for the Polish people in general (based unfairly by virtue of his last name alone – Stanley was actually a Korean immigrant living under an assumed name), the Polack joke, once considered taboo, was to become the go-to icebreaker of choice in all pubs across Europe.
I see far too much of this bullshit on the interwebz:
“I’ll do your rendering for $100!”
With “rendering” meaning “a loosely cobbled-together bunch of photos I Googled and then made attempts to stitch together with the two tools I can sort of use in Photoshop.”
One last time, kids: NOT a rendering. Not on the best day of your life. And if you’re paying for, and supporting this crap, well, you’re not “on a budget”, you’re “A BIG FUCKING PART OF THE PROBLEM”. While it’s great that some cars have a huge-by-enormous budget for exotic and one-off parts, you simply need to realize that care and planning can make even a home-built ride a stand-out. If you’re willing to cheap-out on the very design of your project, well, it’s a given that you’ll do likewise in the build. And please don’t come to me in the eleventh hour of your SEMA proposal deadline with some fucking sob story about how you need a rendering, but you already threw money away on the photo-hack you just received from the kid on the forum. You knew going into it that some $100 rendering wasn’t going to make a manufacturer all hot and bothered, and squeeze out a new car for you. Too many things wrong with that mindset to even approach it here.
There are professionals out there who do great things in Photoshop, should that be the look you’re after… and plenty of other artists working in all media (should one of those be the look you’re after) who can craft something to actually be proud of, versus bragging that it only cost a few bucks. A rendering is a work of artistry and design, and a good one brings years of experience and knowledge to the table… Not simply some shit that your seven year old could pull off in 30 minutes. Keep in mind that the photo-hack of the Hirohata Merc will always be just a photo-hack of the Hirohata Merc and not YOUR Merc, no matter how many layers of flames or how big a set of smoothie wheels with poor camber and perspective some douche pastes on there. And for the record, you’re not “helping some new artist get a start”. You’re simply enabling yet another talentless hack with either a trial or pirated software to further soil a part of the industry that works its ass off to be continually undervalued. You deserve a series of ingrown toenails and festering boils on your heels, you dirtbag.
A rendering should represent YOUR vehicle, and showcase the pride and planning of your project. You know, thinking about it, maybe some projects are best left at this level anyway.
/drops knowledge AND the microphone; heads off stage.
But you can’t get busy in a department store. Unless, perhaps, you know the other party intimately — or are GETTING to know them that way, with their permission, of course. It’s a fine line, you might say.
Anyway, a thought crossed my mind the other night, and I did what I always do when I need some time alone:
I shared it with my wife, who promptly shook her head and wandered off.
I got to thinking about bars, and how it’s almost completely acceptable to make out in them… not to mention the correlation of S,B x HF=OK (where SB= “Seediness of Bar”, HF=”Hotness Factor” of persons involved — note multiple, as one person making out gets, well, kinda f**king weird (see “Palm Pilots” below) — and OK=well, Okey-Doky-ness amongst other patrons of said bar.) Consider that the grungier the bar, the more face-sucking potential people have. Of course, I have taken into consideration such variables as LF (or “Lateness Factor”), BG (“Beer Goggle Factor”, which, in most cases, is directly dependent on LF), and of course, DL (or “Desperation Level”), but wanted to keep this simple.
My main concern is that, while accepted in bars (and airplane restrooms), for the most part, you’re limited to places that you can “get busy”, as the kids say, without fear of reprimand, the stink eye, or arrest. I mean, in a bar, you may expect one or two couples (and again, maybe the one loner) leaning against the bar (or rubbing for you loners), and enjoying one another’s company… fillings, piercings, halitosis, whatever. Try that while waiting for your burger at the fast-food place. Reaction is often quite different… (next week we’ll cover “prop usage in PDA situations for fun and profit”, wherein we’ll present the transcription of my recent Ivy League dissertation on “Originality in Public Lovemaking For Fun, Profit, and a Film Career on the Internet”) I’m assuming the family behind you may frown on this, and complain. Place that same family in a bar, and, well, someone’s probably losing a liquor license, but your making out session will gain higher approval.
Wander into the local tavern, have a few drinks, play some darts, meet a cutie, and make out a bit. You’re a hero.
Wander into IKEA, and eat a traditional Swedish breakfast, look at some furniture, meet a cutie, and bed her down in a tastefully decorated room right out of post-apocalyptic (future, Blade Runner-style version) Germany, where everyone graduates from the Bahaus and is uber-stylish and budget-conscious. You do not get to read the instructions and assemble furniture. Instead, you get to make license plates or pick up roadside trash. It’s opposing ends of the spectrum to be certain.
Granted, there’s more to life (and making out) than IKEA and bars. There are plenty of places that PDA’s (those would be Public Displays of Affection, versus Palm Pilots and what have you… and don’t even get me started –pardon the pun– on “palm” anything with regard to making out… that, my gentle reader, is a whole other topic for another time and place. I could count the reasons for not going into that now on one hand. Oh, they write themselves sometimes) would be unacceptable… Come to think of it, even levels of affection have limits, publicly… and for good reason… the above-mentioned mathematical formulas notwithstanding.
Consider a drunken company Christmas party. There are lines to be drawn there… but I’d bet that many a make-out session have occurred there. A seance. Concerts. Buses. Dark alleys. Parked cars. Alien spacecraft (I’m betting that many of those sessions don’t begin or end well). During the sign of peace at Church. Movie theaters. Burning man. All (or any) of those may or may not be proper (or improper) places to engage in such activities.
In summary, I suppose that’s what growing up is really all about: Knowing what to do and where.
And understanding math.