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It might help to think of this blog post as a carnival ride. Take or leave all the backstory and poetry, if you wish. At heart it’s an improbable occurrence that may if let mess with your middle earbones a little bit, pleasurably I hope.

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Many years ago I read Cool Hand Luke by Donn Pearce for the first time. It was about a man who found himself in Florida, in the Raiford prison chain gang. Every 4th of July the inmates got the closest thing to a holiday the prison offered, with free lemonade and some latitude, with the thought that a positive association with Independence Day, the springboard of the United States of America, would help instill in the convicts more love of country, and therefore of law and order. Ironically enough, though, in this scene from the book, some convicts were quietly sawing through the wood floor of the building, through which some would escape, thus declaring their independence. It’s a well-crafted scene, but the only reason I bring it up is that Carr the floorwalker at one point announces, “First bell. You done had your fun.”

The sentence “You done had your fun.” has been echoing in my head for over 50 years. I use it every time I need to tear myself away from self-indulgence and get back to chores, work, or other responsible activity. Many is the time “You done had your fun.” has compelled me to walk away from a gambling venue before I put my debit card in the ATM yet another time. (I am a recovering gambling addict, what Mario Puzo called in his too-neglected novel Fools Die a “degenerate gambler.”)

I’ve been in a creative slump of late, and the combination of self-quarantine due to COVID-19 and serial movie-watching and overindulgence in various tasty treats has undermined my creative output further. Finally I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck, figuratively speaking, and said, “You done had your fun.”

Then I realized that with alternative spelling that would actually make the phrase more Southern-sounding, “You Dun Had Yer Fun” was a perfect quintuple acrostic. It would be a bear to write, but the challenge might well pull me out of my slump some. So here we are.

Since it is a quintuple acrostic, and I took on the further challenge of keeping the verbiage to a minimum, with as little sacrifice to rhyme and meter as possible, the logic of the poem’s content goes afield more than once. But that turned out to be serendipitous, because right at the last few words there came unbidden the perfect subject matter for the illustration: an Undressed Toucan. “What kind of clothes would a toucan wear??!” “Why, self-expressive HAWAIIAN SHIRT and HAWAIIAN SHORTS, of course!!”

Nobody else on Earth, except MAYBE the latest, bleeding-edge Artificial Intelligence Artist, could have created this page. Like Peter Pan, I gotta crow about that, though with the subtextual knowledge that no one else on Earth would WANT to.

****
You Dun Had Yer Fun

You’re riding high and then you eyeball stuff
You so doubt what you’re saying off the cuff

Of course your sense can intercede for you
One scene’s unclear and typeset in Urdu

Urbane and sleek, of dearth you’re not a fan
Unless until y’undress a mere toucan
****

About that powder-blue, fizzy effacement: It is sort of a way of marking my territory. When an intaglio plate, or lithographer’s slab, is deemed by the artist to be unworthy of reproduction, the plate or stone may be slashed with an appropriate tool, indicating that any further use of the plate or stone is unauthorized. About 38 years ago I had one of my intaglios professionally printed in a limited edition. The printer included with the prints and ancillary materials the declaration: “The plate has been effaced.” Remembering that, and wanting to jazz up the image a bit, I used photoediting software to efface this too-canny effort.

Maybe it was all for a Bad Pun. In the Arizona Wildcat, the school newspaper for the University of Arizona, reviewer Bryan Johnstone called the comments by my artwork in the solo show I had in the Hall of Fame gallery “self-effacing.”

Thank you, O Reader, for reading my Bad Pun of the Day. (Actually, there are two Bad Puns in this post. Can you spot the other one?)

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One fateful day in the mid-1970s I had the extraordinary privilege of being in the same room with both Ansel Adams and Georgia O’Keeffe. They were in Tucson, where I was a student at the University of Arizona, for the opening of the U of A’s Center for Creative Photography. And they were attending a meet&greet in the lobby of the campus’s Museum of Art, right next door to the Art Building, where I spent a lot of time toiling at Painting and Life Drawing and Printmaking and such.

Ansel Adams was cheerful and accessible, a sort of out-of-uniform Santa Claus. Georgia O’Keeffe was different. Dresed in a floor-length black dress, she leaned tripodally on her blackcane, her deep-set eyes wide and glittering, not saying a word. She was tiny and looked quite frail.

But she did not SEEM frail. She radiated Power. Her gaze was like a wide-beam laser. The vibe was of her being all-seeing and all-knowing.

I was there about half an hour and in all that time the dozens of people in the room respected Ms. O’Keeffe’s space and silence. They made up for that soundless proximal vortex by flocking around Adams and peppering him with questions. He held forth jovially, magnificently. Nicest guy on Earth, in his element and in his moment.

Ms. O’Keeffe was in her element as well, in her realm of observation and contemplation. She reigned.

Not So Frail

Needles point to skin and coif. Omnipresence throws them off. For Truth is Power and talent Soars. A sense of Place is Boat and Oars. I owe this Georgia Peach some Soul.

 

I was an Art Major in the mid-70s. Then I was graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of Arizona. Then I became an Engineering student, in a special program for non-tech undergrads. It was fun at first, and I got all Bs in my three semesters of Calculus, and an odd A here and there, but my horrible study habits caught up with me and the fall semester of 1977 saw me taking Incompletes and Withdrawals from my classes. I wrote a letter to Dear Abby, an internationally-acclaimed advice columnist, about my misery, signing myself “Round Peg in a Chi-Square Hole.” I doubt if she got the Prob&Stat reference; she may not even have gotten the letter, since she never answered it publicly or privately, though I think I included a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Then I went rogue, sort of. I entered a drawing I made on an Etch-A-Sketch and signed “Johnny Incredible” in the 1977 U of A Winter Show of Student Art. (My Etch-A-Sketch tied for third place among more than 80 entries.) And for the Spring 1978 semester I took advantage of a loophole in matriculation to take, not engineering classes, but Poetry, Special Problems in Drawing, and Lithography. Somewhere in there I got a letter from then-Dean Robert Svob telling me that Professor Ferrell (Russ Ferrell, smart, great guy, taught ergonomics, published in the IEEE Transactions with his “Models of Man-Computer Interaction”) had expressed concern about me. I answered cryptically and included a five-minute line drawing of a plump man falling off a tightrope at the circus.

Long story short: Got A in Poetry, A in Lithography, and B in SpecProbDrwg. Decided to take a semester off from the stress of the U of A. That “semester off” is now 41 years, 5 months, 13 days, and counting.

Today’s images are an atypical diptych. The title might be “Art and Engineering.”

Unfurled, it is your private shield, protection on a pole

Much needed in a downpour or to give Romance some Soul

Bestow a small one on a drink & let the good times roll

Regardless of how much you’ve had, you’re gonna want Samoa

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That last-word Punchline Pun owes something to my college days in Tucson in the mid-Seventies, and a TV commercial for a Pacific Islands restaurant called Kon-Tiki. They had a Big-Kahuna-type guy say stuff like “Little Chief LIKE Kon-Tiki!” in a fake Polynesian accent. His next to last line was “Little Chief misses his island home!” and the curvy hula-skirt-clad girl by his side asked, “Samoa?”, whereupon Little Chief grabbed at a goodies-heaped plate, dropped the Polynesian accent, and said, Texas style, “Ah don’t mahnd ef Ah DO!”

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In 1977 I did a paper for my Human Factors in Engineering class; its title was “Work’s End.” In it I predicted that, given the advent of industrial robots and the mundanity and ignobility of conventional blue-collar toil, manual labor and “work” in the conventional sense would not last the century. The instructor, University of Arizona professor Russell Ferrell, annotated the B grade he gave my paper with his impression that though my premise was interesting, he didn’t think we’d get all the bugs out of “the Problem of Production” by my deadline.

And here it is, 2013, and part of my current job is folding napkins for an independent-living retirement community, and I am glad I was wrong. Of the many ways to render aid and comfort to the aged, hand-folding napkins to enhance their dining experience is seemingly trifling, but circumstantial evidence that they are special. I feel privileged to fold those hundred per night. They are a lovely purple, which also connotes the specialness of royalty. (I’ve color-enhanced my drawing to make it match that hue as close as I can.)

I imagine some readers smiling and thinking how pathetic this particular napkin-folder must be, trying to make such a drab endeavor out to be noble. I stand by my notion.

Here are the words to the acrostic, changing the spelling of UFO to its phonetic pronunciation to avoid confusion:

Nimble Jack, be deft–don’t goof
As e l u s i v e as an Oof-O
Perfect crease ain’t taught in school
Knappa: foe from Chester Gould
If i n e p t i t u d e ‘ s severe
Nab some cloth & dry a tear

NOTE: Chester Gould was the cartoonist who created Dick Tracy. He also created a multitude of bizarre characters–see the Warren Beatty movie Dick Tracy for samples. Here I’ve imagined Knappa, a villain who employs napkins in the binding of his kidnapping victims.

I hope the subtext of my page and these notes comes across, but I’m not proud: let me explicate. We are all headed for old age, if we’re lucky. We all need taking care of, and we get it, if we’re lucky. Part of being taken care of is life’s assurance that we deserve attention and dignity. The little touches of assurance may loom as large as the big ones, especially for people facing mortality.

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Every year a subset of America goes a little crazy-with-the-flow in a phenomenon called “March Madness.” This is the sixty-four best college basketball teams engage in an elimination tournament so that they become thirty-two, then the Sweet Sixteen, then the Elite Eight, then the Final Four. Alas, the team of my alma mater, the University of Arizona, just got eliminated.

But at least the tragedy was fodder for a journal page, and a deeply allegorical one at that. Even the acrosticization reflects March Madness in its wild interlocking of names and conditions.

When I was a kid there was a show on Saturday called “ABC Wide World of Sports.” Each show had an opening montage with an overvoice declaiming “The thrill of Victory…the agony of Defeat.” (RIP Jim McKay, who was really James Kenneth McManus, host of the show, who was at the 1972 Olympics in Munich when the brutal slaying of Israeli athletes took place. Not to digress, but I think MUNICH is every bit as important a movie to see as SCHINDLER’S LIST.)

This page is in two disproportionate parts: DAYBREAK (The Thrill of Victory) and UPDATE (The Agony of Defeat). Here are most of the words.

— D A Y B R E A K  —

UnDEFEATed is my college
EYELASH batting carnaL knowledge
LOTTEries are won & lost
Battles grim; IMPASSES crossed
Craft REENTERS atmosphere
Gazes STEELY show no fear
Phoenix/TEMPE/Mesa leer

— U P D A T E —

Buzzer-BEATen was my team
OLEO has smudged a dream
BoOKRAcks filled w/tomes of woe
cast aSIDE the Place & Show
Heartbroke horns of DiESEls blow

I’ll be okay in a few days, honest.