|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, December 21, 2001 - 06:13 pm: Edit|
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, December 21, 2001 - 05:59 pm: Edit|
he told me he came to the Absinthe Forum seeking art
I did find "Art" ...in Artemis and a few others
|By Artemis on Friday, December 21, 2001 - 02:51 am: Edit|
I didn't post it for praise nor love, I posted it because Vera asked for it, and once I got started on it, I had fun doing it.
Honestly, I hoped Head P. would jump in, but I understand his computer melted down or something. I'm pleased with the forum of late - lots of very good, informative, entertaining discussion.
|By Artist on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 02:49 pm: Edit|
Here, let me put it the way...
I enjoyed your poetic prose...
(Gee, I hope this is not the beginning of the bashing of a deceased equine - ).
|By Lordhobgoblin on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 01:35 pm: Edit|
I suspect that the last thing Artemis wants (at least by posters on this forum) is to be told that he's loved. Let's not waste time on empty platitudes.
|By Verawench on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 12:32 pm: Edit|
Artemis is heading for another forum overdose.
Somebody stroke him gently and tell him he's loved.
|By Artemis on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 12:17 pm: Edit|
The modern meaning of "prosaic" is mundane, boring, ordinary. I couldn't take it as a compliment, because I know what the word means. On the other hand, I suspected that you *intended*, if not a compliment, at least no insult. In any case, you are entitled to your opinion.
|By Artist on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 11:09 am: Edit|
My post was intended as a compliment to you and your writing.
Prosaic may have not been the best word to describe my meaning (although my understanding of the meaning of the word is different - see below):
Essentially, I was saying nice writing, as opposed to a poem.
(Usually my wordsmythe abilities are pretty good.)
PROSA'IC, a. s as z. [L. prosaicus, from prosa, prose.]
Pertaining to prose; resembling prose; not restricted by numbers; applied to writings; as a prosaic composition.
PROSE, n. s as z. [L. prosa.]
1. The natural language of man; language loose and unconfined to poetical measure, as opposed to verse or metrical composition.
|By Artemis on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 06:54 am: Edit|
"I can't drive - fifty-five!"
The glass or three of which I spoke all came out of the 65 bottle. Since they tasted the same, no need to use 1.2 glasses to accomplish the work of 1 glass!!
|By Wolfgang on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 05:42 am: Edit|
Serpis55 taste the same as the 65... But look at the picture, the 65 is almost empty and the other one is full ...
|By Petermarc on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 03:53 am: Edit|
artemis, i get the impression you're not taking this as a compliment...
|By Artemis on Thursday, December 20, 2001 - 03:18 am: Edit|
1 a : characteristic of prose as distinguished from poetry : FACTUAL b : DULL, UNIMAGINATIVE
2 : EVERYDAY, ORDINARY
|By Verawench on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 09:52 pm: Edit|
"god knows what road i could have followed had i taken more of a liking to those big boiled polish sausages"
I could probably speculate on that subject.
|By Artist on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 09:43 pm: Edit|
Thanks, Artemis...very prosaic.
And thanks for a little peek inside the Head...
|By Emmy on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 09:41 pm: Edit|
artemis, thanks for sharing, mate. your words, as usual, are the next best thing to being there. cheers!
|By Verawench on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 08:58 pm: Edit|
I'm content now.
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 05:31 pm: Edit|
"today i prefer the mayonaise spread on two open slices of bread"
See how those bastards the Illuminati work? A corrupted American boy in Paris, waxing reminiscent with a masturbatory description of a smelly sandwich.
Sardines on a hairbrush? Not for Lizzie! Sugar Bush, I say.
|By Petermarc on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 05:11 pm: Edit|
my favorite snack as a kid was 'chicken of the sea', mixed with mayonaise, and directly eaten out of the can, the mermaid staring back at me...this discourse is a psycho-sexual revelation for me, though today i prefer the mayonaise spread on two open slices of bread, the tuna being removed from the can, and not mixed...god knows what road i could have followed had i taken more of a liking to those big boiled polish sausages...thanks for the story, artemis...
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:46 pm: Edit|
We fell back into the chalet and talked and drank. We drank very little, actually, but I did offer Head the last of my Moose Drool Ale, brought east from Montana ("There's little drops of drool around the moose's mouth", quoth Head, looking at the label approvingly). Head later expressed his undying love for the epitome of pubescent female beauty that is the little cartoon mermaid on the tuna can label (he has a label in his vast collection of clippings), and I pointed out that the mermaiden is none other than Lizzie McGuire (Disney channel) about whom I have similar hard felt, erh, I mean, heartfelt, feelings. The revelation that Lizzie and the tuna maid are one and the same, a result no doubt of some foul Illuminati plot, was not lost upon us, both fans of Robert Anton Wilson.
So it went, late into the night, while the wind off the big lake howled around the eaves and snow accumulated on the deck outside, until I, unlike Head not a creature of the night (it still freaks me out that he had no shadow), could maintain no more, and we retired to bed. Separate beds, for those who might be inclined to wonder if we shake that way.
In the morning, I prepared pancakes, not forgetting plenty of maple syrple. We sat quietly contemplating Gitchy-Goomee, the big sea shining water, and listening to the crash of the surf, while drinking coffee.
"Lake. BIG Lake!" we muttered.
And then we parted.
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:43 pm: Edit|
"Lake!! BIG Lake!!" exclaimed Head P. in his best Long Dhuk Dhong voice ("16 Candles", the movie, for those at at loss about Long Dhuk).
"Never mind that", was my response as I indulged in my pastime of looking for rocks sculpted into interesting shapes by the waves and sand. I picked up a rock that I thought had a sexual connotation, but Head said it was a Schmoo. He explained that the Schmoo were nothing but Freudian slips, anyway.
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:37 pm: Edit|
Sorry about the "Part 1" in the title, by the way. I should have realized I would have to start a different thread to change that. Anyway, I feel almost successful - two out of three pictures posted okay so far.
I now understood why this forum is the wall that attracts the cybernetic Krylon spray cans of graffito artist Head. He cannot do otherwise. Actually, he told me he came to the Absinthe Forum seeking art, not absinthe. He assumed such a place would have to be an artist magnet, but he was disappointed in what he found. I told him I saw no inherent connection between art and absinthe; that such was just a coincidence of history, and he nodded, but now I can't even remember how I made my point, much less whether it made any sense.
I was also made privy to the secret methodology of the famous "immediately respond with a pertinent graphic" Head P. posting technique (low-tech but effective) AND the sordid details of the birth of the infamous SLERPIS. The latter, I related to Petermarc on the telephone some days later. As a result, he may well reconsider risking robbery or worse in a dark Chicagoland 7-11 parking lot in pursuit of absinthe urban legend in the future. But to his credit, Peter took the revelation in good humor, laughed his ass off in fact.
We took a twilight break for a walk along the big sea shining water
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:34 pm: Edit|
We whiled away the afternoon sipping the red and green fairies of Christmas past, present, and future, bad-mouthing various forum members, and digressing now and then into discussions of art, science, and nubile girl TV stars. Head showed me a number of sketchbooks, slides of his sculptures, and reviews of his work. Never mind absinthe, this was far and away the highlight of our meeting. Head's body of work is impressive, his draftsmanship is formidable, his sense of whimsy delightful.
I was especially taken by a painting of some humanoid figures sitting around a table drinking coffee. All wore the familiar inscrutable head prosthesis, but it was amazing how their individual moods could be read in their *postures*. Later, when Uncle would post a literal account of an evening with Head P., something about chewing toothpicks while staring across the table at each other, I would be thunderstruck: I was familiar with that scene, I had SEEN THE PICTURE of it! Painters and other artists at this point will probably say DUH! but it was a revelation to me. He paints his life. He posts it here.
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:29 pm: Edit|
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:25 pm: Edit|
After a few words of welcome and arrival, we decided it was the Green Hour somewhere in the world (probably on a pirate ship) and we went to drinking. Head put the Serpis challenge to me: Is there any difference between the regular and the ethyl? Definitely, I decided, upon smelling the two bottles he uncapped. No difference but the alcohol, we agreed, after downing a glass or three. They only smell slightly different, and that seems to be due to the difference in proof only. Both of course have the (overwhelming, to my taste) beetlejuice flavor which is the signature of Serpis.
Head also treated me to my first taste of Manguin, which is not bad, although too sweet. It seemed to me like a hopped-up Oxygenee. It louches nicely and has a decent herbal/anise flavor, but it lacks the powerful Artemisian muskiness of really good absinthe. I offered Head the last dregs of the blanche and verte Hausgemacht from Europe that I recently reviewed in this space, along with a local varietal product. He pronounced all the home remedies "heap good medicine".
|By Artemis on Wednesday, December 19, 2001 - 03:21 pm: Edit|
The Book of Change having brought me from west of the Rockies to the balmy eastern shore of Lake Michigan, I wasted no time inviting the infamous Head Prosthesis, inventor of the Slerpis and erstwhile Motor City Madman, to my rented chalet for a weekend visit.
"I'll be the one with the teddy bear and balloons", Head threatened. And I fully expected to see him roll up just that way. He arrived at high noon on a recent Saturday, bearing neither bear nor balloons, casting no shadow under the stump-high solstice sun. But he did bring kisses.
"Oh my gawd! Kiss him for me!", Kallisti had decreed when she heard of our impending meeting, and Head P. , a loyal vassal of Our Lady of Discord, delivered. Apologizing for eschewing liplock, he instead offered Hershey kisses, wrapped in an origami bird of Christmas colors. Not satisfied with merely quoting our elegant forum hostess, Head had literally put words into "her" mouth: a pair of red lips was fastened to the bird, Kallisti's phrase issuing from them like ticker tape.
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