Sentential Links #236

Linkage....

:: Sometimes, y'know, you just feel like a frickin' genius.

:: So I am moving out of the glass and steel fishbowl (a nickname for this studio space because people could watch everything you were doing through the floor to ceiling glass walls bordering two sides of the studio) to a space that is both more private and perfect for hosting all manner of events and workshops... a space that will be all mine.... and the possibilities are just ENDLESS. (Many congratulations!)

:: But this is a blog about pulp as much as about art. So you tell me: Jack Vettriano -- art or illustration? Highbrow or lowbrow? Culture or Kitsch? (I don't make a distinction between "pulp" and "art". Ditto "art" and "illustration". It's all art...and to my eye, it's pretty fine art, too!)

:: The new snow had all but covered the blood.

:: Searching Google is now like asking a question in a crowded flea market of hungry, desperate, sleazy salesmen who all claim to have the answer to every question you ask.

“Hey, anyone know how to wire an outlet?”

“Did you say ‘how to wire an outlet’?”
“I can help you with how to wire an outlet!”
“Here is info on how to wire an outlet!”
“Bargain prices on how to wire an outlet!”
“Guide to wiring outlets in New York, right here!”

And none of them actually know a damn thing about what you’re asking, of course — they’re just offering meaningless, valueless words that seem to form sentences until you actually try to make use of them. (Via. The search engine was Google's reason for existing, in the beginning, but now I'm wondering, does Google even really need the search engine much anymore? Has Google's focus on becoming Ground Zero for all this "cloud computing" stuff pushed their original product onto the back burner?)

:: “The other trees are whores. Stupid naked whores.”

:: And how much less fun will there be in a time when we know for sure whether Butch and Sundance survived Bolivia, and where Amelia Earhart's plane went down, and whatever happened to D.B. Cooper, and if Melvin Dummar made up the whole damn thing? (Well, I don't know, really. Mystery is all well and good, but I tend to be the type that wants to know. I'd love it if someone found the wreckage of Earhart's plane and established what happened. I wish somebody would find Genghis Khan's tomb. There are always mysteries, but there aren't always solutions, so I guess I tend to fall into the "If we can solve it, bring it on!" camp.)

:: There is nothing quite so clarifying as standing at the grave of a child who never got to grow up and have her own children, a child who never got the chance to delight her parents by becoming a person in her own right.

More next week!