“C’mon, Harris, we’re going on a trip!”
She gave him a blankie and some juice to sip.
She took him back to the Sibling Store
Where she proudly marched right on through the door.

She told them of her dissatisfaction.
They promised to take some immediate action.
“Pick out another and you will not pay.
Leave him here. Take the new kid away.”

She then examined their wide selection
Hoping there was one that would pass inspection.
“I’ll take a look. There must be something better.
I want to act before his diaper gets wetter.”

“That blue-eyed babe?” “Well, he likes to bite.”
“Moptop there?” “Cries throughout the night.”
“Chubby cheeks?” “Sorry, puke galore.”
“Sleepy head?” “What a total bore.”

“The one with the hat?”
“Is particularly snotty…
Not only that,
He’s as mean as John Gotti.”

“This just in: a perfect pair!”
“Twins?” she said, “I could not bear.”
“Dimples may be the best in group.”
“You won’t think so when you smell his poop.”

Emily thought and came to this conclusion:
A perfect brother is just an illusion.
“I guess I’ll stick with the one I know.”
So she took him back and off they did go.

She feared the noise going up the stoop
But nobody noticed they had flown the coop.
She placed him back in his tidy crib.
Leaving not a sign of what she’d done did.

Not my usual style. Based upon a model at Thursday night life drawing at The Society of Illustrators. They often wear spiffy costumes—although I changed this a bit. What good is sitting alone in your room? Sit in a room with a bunch of other people and draw, listening to live music. You can even buy a drink, which will make your line flow a bit better.

Even though you truly think
That Valentine’s Day’s dopey
Don’t you dare forget it
Or you’ll make your lady mopey

True, it’s mostly an excuse
To jack the price of flowers
Dare to just ignore it
And her mood, it surely sours

The restaurant that you both like
Will have a special menu
Which costs much more than usual
Although it’s the same venue

Now if you wait another day
A box of chocolate’s cheaper
But that would just be tacky
Result is anger deeper

Suppose you think it’s all a trick
To get you to spend money
This is what I would advise
To satisfy your honey

Celebrate the happy day
Else you’ll risk resentment
A simple gesture does the trick
Resulting in contentment

Colored paper, Elmer’s Glue
(Not a brand endorsement)
Plus a doily or some foil
Respect romance enforcement

Make a card that’s from the heart
Using your own fingers
The payoff will be worth it
A loving feeling lingers

Handiwork is sure to look
Like something from first grade
Yet with this touching gesture
You’re certain to get laid

For Cyclecraft bike shop in New Jersey.

I’m starting a new series of portraits of Interesting-Looking People Who Do Interesting Things. This is the first one: Evan Michelson of Obscura Antiques and the delightfully offbeat reality show Oddities. She’s also been on Craig Ferguson. Which means she is getting rather famous—at least amongst the weirdo intelligentsia. If you have any suggestions for future subjects, please comment!

Make no mistake about it, I have no intention of backing up my opinions with any objective findings but instead will raise my voice to an even more annoying pitch and volume, and hope that I tire you out.

For all intents and purposes my smug, self-satisfied pontification is of no more consequence than the vapid bleatings of a simple-minded gaseous bovine, except that I receive a paycheck in return for spouting repetitive talking points in an endless loop of partisan, steadfast stubbornness. Clearly, insistent oratory based upon preconceived notions pays—and pays well—although the equally blustery assertions of mercenary blowhards from the opposing side probably means that we all cancel each other out.

It is imperative that my position in this controversy is unwavering, lest I consider opinions other than my own, and therefore potentially experience a shift of some sort in my outlook, which would spell most certain doom for my complete and total confidence in the validity of my dogmatic assertions.

In the spirit of full disclosure may I say that I am not a fanatic, for a fanatic exudes tiny balls of spit, and occasionally froths at the corners of the mouth. I, conversely, always carefully control my saliva levels.

In precise terms, my tactic of not registering what anyone else is saying is essential and unavoidable, as I am at all times busy consulting the talking points that incessantly run through my mind like a pompous tickertape of self-perpetuating, mutually reinforcing thought.

The bottom line is that I hardly realize when my insistent antagonism and shameless shilling borders on the delusionary, and often find myself wondering what I have become and whether this life of self-perpetuating bullshit has wrung the last drop of human empathy from my soul, but then the thought of another balloon payment due on my pretentious McMansion quickly sets me back on track, and I realize that emotion has caused me to mix metaphors and compose run-on sentences, and I recapture my lust for initiating unambiguous, unequivocal, uncompromising attack-dog rhetoric, a task for which I am most well-suited, for that is truly where the rubber meets the road (unofficially a point about fifty miles northeast of Akron, Ohio).

In a very real sense my pompous pumped up punditry could use a little less alliteration.

It is interesting to note that some of these rhetorical tricks are less egregious than others, i.e. prefacing a statement with needless verbiage is not in itself an intentional attack on such concepts (alien to me) as open-mindedness, skepticism and sincerity. Irregardless (and if you tell me that “irregardless” is not a word I shall joyously accuse you of being an elitist), spouting platitudes is my way of avoiding a real job, like packing groceries or digging ditches.

It goes without saying that I will use very long words in an attempt to appear of superior intelligence. Furthermore, I am going to repeat myself incessantly. And furthermore, I am going to repeat myself incessantly.

It boils down to this: Honestly, I am not honest. To tell you the truth, I am not telling the truth.

At the end of the day all this spewing of empty rhetoric has become such an integral part of the public discourse that people have ceased to notice how its baroque irrelevance obfuscates any underlying scraps of actual information, makes reasonable debate impossible and inevitably results in verbal ping pong with no possible outcome other than tiresome bickering of a long-winded nature, especially when strung together in an endless blathering tirade of unsupported argument, as follows:

The fact of the matter is that to be perfectly honest in the final analysis what you have to understand, make no mistake about it, for all intents and purposes clearly it is imperative that in the interest of full disclosure in precise terms, the bottom line is that in a very real sense it is interesting to note that, irregardless, it goes without saying that furthermore it boils down to this: honestly, to tell you the truth, at the end of the day I am right and you are wrong. Nah nah nah nah.

On the other hand…

I recently stopped by the Times Square Visitors Center to take a peek at the old Peep-O-Rama neon sign, reinstalled in this family-friendly tourist rest stop. Read my Roadside report.

I have strangely fond memories of the old and sleazy Times Square. When I was attending art school, I put in time handing out flyers at the half-price TKTS line, back in the era of such classic shows as “Oh, Calcutta”. My favorite store in New York City in the 80s was The Paradise Bootery (immortalized in Josh Alan Friedman’s Tales of Times Square). And I spent many nights dragging large props along the sleaziest block of all (42nd between Seventh and Eighth) on my way to Chucklehead shows at the West Bank Cafe. No sleazoids ever approached me when I was armed with a giant foam-core Ten-O-Win wheel.