I think the whole Internet memed the F$@! out of this like all 2009 and $*#t, but I just got hepped to it, and can’t resist passing it on to all you other squares out there.
The cost of developing and carrying the weapon, Dr. Emlen inferred, was outweighed by the greater access to females gained by owning some prized possession like a food source or tunnel where females could lay eggs.
Abagail : Hello Steve . How are you doing today?
Abagail : As per the records with me you are referring to a HP Deskjet 6980 Printer, with MAC OS installed as an operating system on the computer. Am I correct?
steve warrington : hi good, but my printer’s blowing my mind. 🙂
Abagail : Please do not worry; I will take every action possible to fix your issue as quickly as possible with my efforts.
steve warrington : sweet! so why does this tab come up in front of the ink cartridges?
Abagail : I believe there is an issue with the installation of print cartridges.
Abagail : Please remove both cartridges and reinstall them.
steve warrington : hmmm. I took them out and looked and everything looked okay.
steve warrington : okay, I’ll try again.
Abagail : Thank you.
Abagail : Remove both cartridges.
Abagail : Then check if carriage moving?
steve warrington : okay, one moment
Abagail : Sure
steve warrington : they are removed. how do I check the carriage moves?
Abagail : Try to move it manually.
Abagail : Move it to left side if it is in right.
steve warrington : it’s behind the cartridges. I can’t reach it.
Abagail : Try to move it with the pen or pencil
steve warrington : yes, i can move it manually
Abagail : Okay.
Abagail : Now reinsert the cartridges.
Abagail : Then disconnect Power cable from the Printer
steve warrington : ok
Abagail : Press and hold down the power button of the printer for ten second to static discharge the power of the printer, when power cable is disconnected.
Abagail : Then wait for 30 seconds and reconnect only power cord to the printer
Abagail : Then please let me know there is any light blinks on the printer.
steve warrington : nothing blinking.
Abagail : Okay.
Abagail : Press and hold down the check mark button.
Abagail : It will print a configuration page.
steve warrington : how long do I hold it?
Abagail : For 3 to 4 seconds
steve warrington : it’s not printing a config page. nothing.
Abagail : What about the printer light status?
Abagail : Is the power light on?
Abagail : Or blinking?
steve warrington : power light is on. blue antenna light is also on. that’s all.
steve warrington : also, little green thing in bottom right corner is on. not sure what it is a symbol of.
Abagail : Okay, open the top cover and check if carriage is moving automatically?
steve warrington : how do I make carriage move automatically?
Abagail : When you opened top cover, does it move or not?
steve warrington : no, it didn’t move.
Abagail : Well, As per the steps performed and its results, I would like to inform you that this is a hardware malfunctioning of the printer
steve warrington : oh fun!
steve warrington : so what can I do?
Abagail : May I have serial # of this printer, so that I can check the warranty of this printer?
Abagail : It is written either on the rear panel of the printer or on the bottom of the printer (product serial number is of 10 digits alphanumeric number).
steve warrington : my6c79r3jt
Abagail : Thank you.
Abagail : Let me check the warranty of this printer.
steve warrington : oh it’s expired for sure.
Abagail : Yes, it is expired. I would not be able to replace it.
More flagrant than ever before, the garden this spring has been one raucous and debauched carnival of lawless bacchanalian flower sex. Someone asked me how the yard was doing a couple of weeks ago, and the only adjective I could think of to describe it was pay-per-view.
That the bees are back doesn’t hurt: there are more wanton workers barnstorming the sepals, looting the pistils and bracing the stamens than I’ve seen in years. I blush yet at the thought of the countless bodies clumsily adjusting their undergarments, stumbling out of the garden dizzy with the perfume of sex, telltale pollen smeared on their collars.
Of course, that’s nature’s nature every spring. I’m just tuned in to it more acutely this year than any other in memory. I’ve been sublimating pretty hard in 2010, thanks to an especially lusty curiosity and cunning, and an abundance of free time, botanical variety, and midday mead. It all came to a climax today when I realized just how oh-so very badly I want to lay down with this one:
Can that be so bad? Can this particularly innocent instance of polymorphous perversion really have a price? Will Courtney be jealous?
Persnaps, but let this be her consolation: my botanical tryst is short-lived. Alas, this beauty is exceedingly ephemeral: try as I might, I can not preserve these petals. Vivid colors fade, perfect posture wilts, ardor will languish.
For whiners like me, there’s always Autumn. The fruit borne this fall will be just another form of the same biological ecstasy, though more visceral and less hysterical, more nourishing and more sustaining, and far more enduring.
Thank you, pesto, for making winter worth living through.
I’ve spent a lot of free time this week looking at page after page of a few new (to me) sites devoted solely to images (ffffound and dethjunkie and yimmys yayo) and while I’ve got my complaints (yawn, steve, when do you not?), I have been so inspired that I started to wonder late last night if I wasn’t meant to be a visual artist, that while I started out with an obsession with language I really have been much more visually oriented these last few years, and that maybe I oughtn’t start making pretty stuff that exists off the page.
I ought, but, I know in the light of day, not at the expense of language. So while I’ll return to the regularly scheduled programming next post, that doesn’t mean I can’t throw up a few pretty pitchers sans the chit-chat right hereandnow.
Thirty years later, this hook is still caught in my brain.
I’ve been slogging through back issues of the New Yorker while on the treadmill lately, and couldn’t help feeling the chunks rise in my throat when I read this quote from Peter Schjeldahl about Gabriel Orozco:
“I vividly remember being outraged in the proverbial manner of a philistine exposed to modern art when, for his first solo gallery show in New York, in 1994, Orozco displayed, on the walls of the main room at Marian Goodman, nothing but four Dannon yogurt lids. I recovered, by and by, to take the artist’s point, which amounted to disappointment as aesthetic therapy. The transparent, blue-rimmed, date-stamped, price-labelled little items were—and are, at MOMA—rather lovely, when contemplated without prejudice. Are they art? No. They are Dannon yogurt lids. The art part is a triggered awareness that the world teems with vernacular loveliness. If you overlook that, it’s sad for you.”
The “artist’s point” may be well-intentioned, but implies that expectant gallery visitors are dum-dums. To find the time, make arrangements, get dressed up, make your way down to the gallery, and therein expect something inspired or inspiring from the artist — something crafted, something loved, something that demonstrates that he has reciprocally invested his own time in exchange for your time and energy getting and being there — is an assumption that precludes you from noticing all the while that the vinyl on the back of the cab seat was the most wonderful shade of green, or that the babysitter you will pay $100 at the end of the night had the most interesting Marilyn Monroe piercing, or that the wind cries Mary or whatever other little vernacular lovelinesses you might have missed in your mad consumption-driven dash to devour his art. How sad for you.
Maybe I just don’t cotton much to being schooled, but if I want aesthetic therapy I’ma call my therapist (and my aesthetician).
Howzabout this analogy: if you spent $75 on Rolling Stones tickets and they came out and played dannon lids like juice harps to show you that you had inordinately limited your consciousness by expecting Brown Sugar would there maybe be a riot?
Or this: if you asked an architect to design you a new building and after a month he brought you a model made out of four dannon lids would you not maybe break them in half and try to slice him with the jagged pieces?
Or if you went to see David Blaine (like I do every other night) and he surprised you with a magic act comprised entirely of making four dannon lids stay exactly where they were, would you not want to dress him in a pink sequined jumpsuit and run him up and down the strip until he cried for his mama?
Or how about you give your money manager $100,000 and he invests it in credit default swaps and then, when you’re bankrupt, tells you that this has all been an elaborate reminder, compliments of him, that you ought not be attached to the value of things, that life is not a commodity. Actually this sounds pretty familar.
Speaking of money, here’s the best part: the lids actually sold. The four lids in the MOMA are stand-ins.
There are ways to manipulate form in order to manipulate consciousness, but it would be far easier to trust in the good faith of the artist if it took him longer than five minutes to think of and execute his point. Expectations cloud our experience of events it’s no secret, but where else or with whom else would we put up with such profligate claim on our finite resources? Our time and energy has value and the artist thinks it’s cute to get us to come down to a gallery so that he can remind us that valuing time and energy robs us of the value of time and energy.
Here’s an idea I find infinitely less offensive: why doesn’t he just hand out tabs of LSD at the door, and we can all stare at those dannon lids for eight or ten amazingly unplugged decommodified transcendental hours. Why do we let artists (and no one else) get away with this fatuous game of made you look?
Actually, architects do it too, just less so because they have to find someone to build their buildings.
John Seabrook’s article in the New Yorker on Zaha Hadid talks of the fire station she designed in Germany: “the interior layout mixed rooms and passageways in such a way that it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began.” Zaha Hadid’s disorienting buildings are “forward-thinking” and she’s hailed as a genius. Try that at home and it’s homicide.
But just so that you know that I’m not a total fuddy-duddy, contrast all this crankiness with an example of modernism succeeding. Here’s Paul Goldberger’s appraisal of Jeanne Gang’s new Aqua tower in Chicago: “For all its visual power, Aqua is mostly free of conceit. In an age in which so much architectural form—even, sometimes, the best architectural form—has no real rationale beyond the fact that it is what the architect felt like doing, there is something admirable about the tower’s lack of arbitrariness. It reclaims the notion that thrilling and beautiful form can still emerge out of the realm of the practical.”
It’s true, Aqua is an amazing looking (and functioning) example of modernism gone right. It is gorgeous, and it’s design elements serve purposes that make it in many ways a better building than other towers in its class. Goldberger then goes on to say “In this sense, Gang could not be more different from Zaha Hadid, who is the most famous female architect around. Hadid is a brilliant shaper of form, but her buildings are nothing if not arbitrary”
So how and why do artists and architects get away with all this arbitrariness? I have to fight the feeling is that it is for nothing more than the sheer sake of keeping the pace of the treadmill of the art of the industry rapidly turning, though that seems both trite a paranoia and too simple an explanation for such a complicated machine that captures so many imaginations and stimulates so much pleasure.
After all, someone loved those Dannon lids enough to buy them. And while the outrage at Orozco’s cockiness was loud enough, the majority of critics trusted that he wasn’t just sitting in his studio counting his money laughing with contempt at our gullibility.
I’m not that trusting. Or maybe I miss the point entirely.
I never said I wasn’t a philistine.
How sad for me.
in the shower: why is that I every time wash my fundament just before I wash my face?
How strange is it that in our country we are constitutionally entitled to carry around devices whose sole purpose is to tear holes in bodies to destroy vital organs or spill enough blood out to kill? They are designed and manufactured to kill other human beings and we carry them around in our pockets with that express intention as our only motivation.
I am struck by how strange it might seem to someone from another planet that if I took a bag of money from a man with a gun he would be in his rights to shoot me dead, that that bag of money, no matter it’s value, is worth more than one or possibly more human lives. (I don’t think about that one as often as back when I was a bona fide criminal, only just occasionally now.)
I woke up recently from a dream of a man pulling the trigger of a gun pointed at my face and after that I can’t buy the fear of guns actors show. They just can’t pull off the sheer wall of terror pushing the scream squeezed from every cell of resistance backing it.
We are all vulnerable to the random (street) and patterned (state) violence that is perpetually right around the corner. We are all walking over pavement poured over dirt in which lay buried the bones of old wars, pavement with new blood just hosed clean so that we can go on with the business of living.
We’re all half animal, savages with a thin veil of civility transforming our teeth into a social ambition and our claws into a litigious lust that keeps the cogs of civilization smoothly moving. But if you breathe deep you can smell the fear and if you look close you can see the anger in the eyes.
The shooter mowing down dozens on a U.S. army base plus the powder keg strapped to a boy’s leg on a plane on Christmas day plus the Mexican border drug wars plus radical generals in the Pakistani army w/keys to nukes, plus I.E.D.s, plus cetera, it is all adding up to serious unease. It always sounded trite when I heard it before but I am in actual fact losing sleep wondering if it’s right to bring a new human into a world that if it doesn’t blow up will most likely melt away.
I am pretty sure that this planet will not be left habitable for my grandchildren.
I am here to protect the new boy. I am old and strong and wary and know all the tricks now. But I can’t stop a bomb or cool the planet. If anything bad should happen to the new boy then I will be destroyed and I am felling slightly preemptively destroyed knowing full well what may be in store.
Even just getting into the car I am all nerves, driving down streets entertaining horrible fantasies of what I would do to anyone stupid or careless enough to hurt any of the soon-to-be five people I love more than myself.
I am by most accounts passably successful: I am married to a beautiful wicked smart woman; I make enough money; my daughter is (strangely) morphing into an over-achiever; and my dogs have coats so shiny you could fry eggs on them. In mere days I will have a newborn son. But these thoughts are the brooding of a victim, the last thoughts looking into the barrel of a gun. This rumination is all about a sad ending.
I am at odds with my context.[audio:https://stevewarrington.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/12-Weapon-World.mp3]