Torch

My art is made with lots of fire. Though the work looks like it was consumed by flames as a part of its construction, its burnt look is actually produced by a long, tedious, controlled burn. I use a plumber’s torch with a little propane tank. One of my very favorite things to do is to spend a Sunday afternoon torching a painting while listening to the Pogues and drinking black coffee in my garage. In the fall or winter, it is the definition of bliss, almost as good as fucking. The air is crisp and smells wonderful. The heat of the torch warms you up nicely if you’re chilly. In July, it’s still good, but not quite as good. Scalding hot coffee and a handheld torch aren’t quite as magical in July’s oppressive, humid heat. In my more ridiculous moments, I like to think that the discomfort and sweat might actually make the work mean more. Then again, maybe not.

Obituaries

Since buying a dog, I’ve begun reading the obituaries. It’s not because I’m interested in them, but because my dog needs to poop on newspapers. Often that means pooping on the obituary section. I feel badly about it. Sometimes my dog shits on pictures of somebody’s dead grandma or grandpa. I’m not sure if that makes me an asshole. I’m certainly responsible for it. Putting the obituaries down is my deliberate decision, but I don’t want my dog shitting on the carpet. She’s not yet sufficiently trained to only go outside, and there’s not always enough of a sports section to spare the obituaries.

Dog Turd

I just had her outside, and she had gone. I guess she was saving this one for inside, though. It’s cold outside, and very difficult to get her to shit out there. It’s hard to blame her. She went on the paper like she’s supposed to. I guess that’s alright. It’s the next best spot. That’s why the newspaper is down there. Now there’s a lonely little dog turd on the floor. It’s just one tiny little Chihuahua turd, about half as big as one of my fingers. The whole room smells like shit though. You can’t clean that up quick enough. The stink is immediate and powerful. Even after the offending item is removed, the stink lingers like a ghost.

Electric Blue

In the white-hot, late afternoon heat, I was stuck in traffic, on the ramp merging from the 10th street bypass onto the Fort Pitt Bridge. I was sweating through my t-shirt with the window down. I could have closed it and turned on the AC, but then I wouldn’t be able to smell all the exhaust that I enjoy so much. We all have priorities. Moving smoothly and without obstruction in the oncoming lane was an electric blue, late '80s Corvette with a T-top. A bald man with a very fat face was driving it. He was wearing a white polo shirt and talking on a cell phone. At the merge point, the homeless guy who’s there every day was there again, with the same sign, same change cup, and same clothes. There was nothing remarkable about that. What was remarkable was that his outfit was comprised of long jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, a beard creeping out and down the front of his shirt. I understood the jeans. I don’t suppose the homeless often have the resources to switch to shorts for the summer. But the hooded sweatshirt seemed excessive, especially with the hood up. Certainly he could take that off in favor of a simple t-shirt. The one I wore to the office today came in a three-pack for $10.

Morning Television

It’s not often that my wife and I are both up and moving at the same time in the morning. My wife isn’t headed to work at her usual time this morning, though. So she’s watching TV in the kitchen while I’m trying to check my email and head out the door. It’s deafening. She always has the volume up like that. I can’t help but hear it. It’s some inane network morning talk-show/news-show kind of junk. There is nothing valuable or intelligent to learn from it, but they “report” on dumb contemporary cultural issues, as if those matter to anybody. My wife loves this shit. She sits at the kitchen table, eats Frosted Mini-Wheats, drinks instant coffee, watches the talking heads and laughs. Sun comes in the window. The dog runs in circles around her feet. They both wag their tails blissfully. She doesn’t take it seriously, which is a relief. She just likes to laugh at it. I can understand, though I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think my IQ drops every second that I’m around it. This morning’s urgent, breaking expose is about office relationships. The “journalist” or “anchor-person” or “personality” or whatever was talking seriously and with conviction about the insanity of people who have office relationships, as if they were raping the elderly, butchering homeless children, or selling their body parts to buy crack. She talked about professionalism, like that’s a worthwhile value. I think professionalism is how wars get started. Professionalism doesn’t mean you’re a Nazi, just a good German. At least my wife is laughing at this shit, but it’s pissing me off that I have to endure it. I think any sort of personal relationship you could possibly have should come before your work. Unless you’re saving lives at your job, what you do for a living probably is not that enriching or important. Your job should probably take a backseat to anything that can possibly enrich your life and make you a more interesting, developed, happy, balanced person.