Long Live Antonioni

Nice Cape

Cold and Boring--Thank You Mr.T.S. Eliot for the Weather Report

It's funny how life can become so filled-up and busy, and yet, in the eye of the hurricane, it's so damn boring. What, after all, is boredom. Is it under-stimulation or too much stimulation and overload? (No I think that's being "punch drunk"). I don't really know. I think the existentialists wrote about it, but I cut class when they were being taught.

I have no right to be bored. But what can you do? It just happens.

It is also so cold and icy here. Its about 2 degrees. The weather is the "objective correlative."

Here's what TS Eliot said about the uses of an objective correlative:

"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.''

It's cold and boring here.

Yawn

Prototype Moo Moo Mobile

Who said the Edsel was not a good Idea? Pictured here is the prototype Moo Moo Mobile. This is the 1934 model, which was designed by one Mr. Geddes. Note that the designer held much stock in tire manufacturing companies. Very Smooth, Mr. Geddes!

Everything is Fine

Shame on you! You know who you are! You have been leading your life without a thought of Moo Moo Camus. Yes, I know. (Not much escapes us here at MMC.) You've been going about your daily business, probably making money, driving your car to and from the grocery store, humming to yourself, and when no one is looking, even snatching a quick glance in the mirror to see if you've gotten, miraculously, any younger. I can assure you these are all understandable, even worthy, pursuits (except for the last, which is, of course, entirely futile.) But don't you think you should check in on Moo Moo Camus once in a while, just to see how everything is going?

OK now that you are here. Here's the 'down low': Everything is going unbelievably well. So you can go home now, back to your everyday life, happy in the knowledge that MOO MOO CAMUS is thriving. Thank you very much for visiting. And check back soon, for more good news.

The Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime Theory

So, I figure that I spend about a quarter of my waking time either doing the laundry or folding the laundry. This, and walking the dog, or letting the dog out so he can write his “autograph” on nature. Life is largely composed of some pretty mundane events. Picking up the kid from school. Taking the Kid to guitar lessons. Taking the Kid to Dance lessons. Walking the dog. Moving items from point A to point B around the house, so that the forces of chaos and darkness do not completely overwhelm home and hearth. We only get so many years on this astonishing planet, and what do we do with ¾ of them? Laundry and chauffeuring! Which leaves much too little time for drinking and appreciating art. I have a theory of this sorry state of affairs. I call it the “Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime” theory. Viz. Fun is not evenly distributed throughout our lives. Au contraire, it's unequally distributed, over time. We do not get to have, for example, the same amount of fun each year. Oh no, fun is unevenly distributed, a little bit like WEALTH in the US. (One percent of the population owns 37% of the total wealth. The next 5% own 25% of all wealth. Etc. Etc.) Fun is just like wealth. Most of the fun I was slated to have, occurred in 1974 and 1983, (Oh and that time in high schools in 1968.) Those were huge fun years. The other years are just deficit fun years. Whopee!

Go Forth and Multiply (and Divide)

Ok. It's been a long time since my last post. Dear readers, lest you become demoralized without the guidance and observations offered by Moomoocamus, let's review some important lessons and insights, as these have been recenlty approved by the editorial board. To wit:

1: Should we humanize the economy, or economize the humans? You be the judge.
2: The shortest distance between two points is a crooked line. As the COW flys, anyway.
3. What profitith a man if he wins the world and looses this his shoehorn?
4. Remember, the squeaky wheel gets the shaft.
5. All is fair in love and capitalism.
6 The source of all wealth is labor.
7. "The rich man can afford the luxury of accepting a fair gamble." Brian Berry, Theories of Justice 1989 p.14
And last, but far from least,
8. Most of life is just "cutting and pasting."

Well, that's it for now. Don't say we here at Moomoocamus didn't warn you.

Go forth and divide.

Wannabe Former Has-Been

Great Word!

ostrobogulous

1. (humorous) Slightly risqué or indecent; bizarre, interesting, or unusual.

Oh those crazy scientists! What will they think of Next?

"Libido Meter" May Be First True Sexual-Arousal Gauge”

Click on the Link Button Below, to Read all About it.

Better Than the Real Thing

Not a Pretty Picture

Nice Shirt & Blues Brother Gangster

Moo Moo Monet--Sun Glasses and Un-glasses

Quote of the Day

Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.

— Albert Einstein

Happy New Year, Humphrey Bogart

"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind. "- Humphrey Bogart

Happy Holidays from Moo

MMC has not made an entry for quite some time. You, dear reader/viewer/cybernaut, have probably been wondering, "Will Western Civilization continue in the absence of the pithy observations by Moo Moo Camus?" Your inner voice quickly responded, " Sure, No Sweat!"

Of course when Ghandi was asked what he thought of Western Civilization, he replied, "I think it would be a good idea."

Alas, the season of mass consumption, or more accurately, even more mass consumption is upon us, and the hospitals are filled with overdosed shoppers and depressed in-laws who, despite their wildest dreams of lavish gifts, received only a new tie or knit socks.

But Fret not.

Santa is Dead.

Long live Santa!

Winner of Moo Moo Camus Caption Contest #2

Bush to Putin: "Did you have to give a, you know, a 'sample' too?"

Pneumonia in August

Just returned from 8 days in sunny California. Ahh, the sun, the surf, the wall-to-wall built environment. Nothing quite like it "under the sun"!

The day after our return, MMC finds himself in the Emergency Room. 103 Temp and shakes like a withdrawing heroine addict. Not good.

So what's the diagnosis?

Pneumonia.

Ahh, nothing like Pneumonia in August.

I now feel like my body is like one of those old fashioned deep diving suits with the metal helmets. Thick and creaky and barely able to move. Additionally, it's astonishing how many varieties of discomfort and pain our bodies of capable of producing. If I wasn't so darn uncomfortable, it would be interesting to enumerate all the ways that I feel bad. It feels like a kind of symphony of aches and groans and pains.

Glub, Glub, Glub

A Matter of Trust--The Beginning of a Story

Karen had been driving nearly all night, with the heater turned way up. She’d forgotten how cold the desert could be at this time of year. The smell of Yucca, Saguaro, and Sage pushed in through the dashboard vents. In the back seat, her small suitcase, pile of manila file folders, and tiny black PDA, slumped over in a mound, like an unconscious body. Whenever she left like this, which was only every few years, or so, she found that she had to remind herself of the route west. The turns seemed foreign, almost the reverse of the way they should be, and the Interstate looked different than she remembered, as she passed strip malls and fast food palaces that, the last time she fled this way, had not yet blossomed in the flat vacant terrain, where no one really wanted to live. She found herself clenching her teeth, locked in some inner debate that seemed simultaneously important and trivial, “Was it a mirage or was it a delusion?” She grew more irritated with herself, “What difference did it make, now?”

The car headlights illuminated the white lines that stretched out ahead. The lines were intended to keep the vehicles and their occupants in their designated places. But now, in the early morning cold, just a few minutes before dawn, there were no other cars, no other drivers. Nothing on either side of her, but the blur of desert brush. Nothing behind, but the first half-glow of dawn. Nothing ahead, but some kind of future.

At their apartment, Rory was dreaming he was awake. The sunlight filtered in through the cheap drapes and he had the same recurring feeling he had every morning. Slight disappointment with a trace of regret. He was once again back in the unfamiliar routine that was his life. As if he belonged somewhere else. Same thing, every day. How could it be light so soon? He rolled over and pulled the blanket over his shoulders and wondered why the air felt so cold. Just then, the smell of burnt toast drifted in from the kitchen and seared his nostrils. He let out a sigh and was annoyed at her for being careless again. Why did it bother him? He tried to call out to her but the effort was too much. Why couldn't he find his voice? He thought he heard water running, but his mind couldn't focus on what was happening. Something didn't feel right. His thoughts dulled over and he felt his mind slip over the dark void into deep sleep when he suddenly jerked awake. The room was brightly lit and he had trouble opening his eyes, like someone had ground sand into them and added lead to his eyelids. Eyelids, he thought to himself. Stupid. It hurt to squint at the clock. 2:00 a.m. Shit. He'd fallen asleep with the light on. Again. The window was wide open. That was odd. He leaned over to reach for Karen at the same time he glanced over, but she wasn't there. Frowning, he tried to put the pieces of last night together...but nothing came. He tried to pull himself more awake. Then came a sinking feeling, a gnawing grip at his stomach that got stronger. A wave of disgust that preceded what he dreaded to remember. He instantly tried to suppress the thought, but that made him instantly clear headed and wide awake, unable to fend off the memory of last night.

“My God, Karen, what took you so long? We had just about given you up for dead. I mean…” Her sister’s voice hesitated for a moment. “You know what I mean,” she looked both embarrassed and annoyed.

Whitney stood in the blanched, cement driveway of her home. The sun was warm and the Valley air was already smoggy, well before noon. Although a year and one-half older, her sister looked like her twin, but in the two years since the sisters had seen one another, Whitney seemed thicker, everywhere, like the retraced outline of a child’s crayon drawing.

Karen slid out of the car’s front seat, and the two sister’s perfunctorily embraced for second, a bit like a shrug of the shoulders. Karen opened the driver’s side rear door of her car, as her sister stood to one side, waiting for her to unload her belongings from the back seat.

“We got your e-mail four days ago. I thought you’d be here by Tuesday. You didn’t call. I thought maybe you had an accident.” Whitney seemed more put-off than alarmed.

“I did,” muttered Karen, half-smiling and hoping her sister would get the sarcasm that she never seemed to fully appreciate.” She must have understood this time, because Whitney didn’t inquire any further.

The two sisters walked to the imposing front door, and into the house. Whitney’s kid’s were at school and the place looked astonishingly neat for the home of two elementary-aged children. Karen noticed that the walls had been newly painted a faint peach color that was now thought to mean sleekness and enlightenment in the post-modern suburbs, where her sister had come to rest after a tumultuous decade of trying to succeed as an actress in an unyielding and unwelcoming Hollywood. Multiple parental loans, an occasional appearance in locally shot TV commercials, and periodic parts in community theaters, had dimmed her Vassar-acquired expectations for the dramatic arts in contemporary America.

Her husband, Jack, was gone; at work in one of the exurban financial brokerage companies that helped retirees and well-heeled suburbanites shuttle their money into Eastern establishment, WASPy sounding mutual funds, based in the Bahamas. Karen was relieved that Jack was gone, although in a small, furtive way, barely conscious to her, she always looked forward to seeing him.

Karen dropped her luggage in the hall, and the two sisters settled into the cool air- conditioned light of the house’s large kitchen.

“So what did he do this time?” Whitney asked. “Did he hurt you?”

“No… I mean, yes, but not that way.” Karen set her coffee mug down on the chrome and glass kitchen table. She was dressed in an elegant gray business suit that much belied the swiftness of her flight and the disheveled origins of that first night of escape. Her straight dark hair offset her blue eyes. “He’s too smart to be violent, at least towards me. No, it’s about the money, ‘our’ money. Shit, all of it is gone. Gone.”

“How much was it?” Whitney asked.

“More than Jack will make in ten year’s of trading,” Karen said with a slightly indignant sneer at her sister’s question.

“Where, for God’s sake, did Rory get that kind of cash?”

“Look, you know what he does. He’s paid very well for his work, if you want to call it ‘work’.

Just then, Karen’s cell phone chirped. She paused, reached into her gray suit coat. She knew who it was without looking at the screen. She decided that enough time had passed since her escape—and anyway, Rory knew exactly where she would be. She answered the phone with a curt, “Yes.”

Rory’s voice sounded …….

©B. Rose 2006