Diva

Monday afternoon finds me traversing The Pueblo doing my usual Monday afternoon houseboy routine: Think delicatessens. Think cosmetics counters. Think coin-operated ponies. Think it strange that in the middle of it all, I order a large plate of sushi well-done, and perhaps both of us will think it no wonder this routine takes so long to complete each week.

At least we shall be on the same wavelength.

As I float about town, the soundtrack to Jean-Jacques Beineix's 1981 action film, Diva, drifting in from the speakers out on the deck through an open window for that "other room" effect I do so enjoy, I think how peculiar that a boy who wanted to grow up to be an astronaut, grew up to be a boy who pilots one of only four privately owned hovercraft licensed for both on and off road domestic servant use in Pima County.

As special as that might seem, at the moment I do not feel particularly special. You see, I am feeling tired and thinking it is probably just as well that I did not become an astronaut because I understand amphetamines are a standard component of first aid kits on spacecraft and on a day like this, well, I am the first to admit, I would be tempted.

Haggard I may be, but it is more of a Joe Walsh haggard than, say, a Keith Richards haggard.

Are you aware that Joe Walsh ran for President of the United States in 1980 and for Vice President in 1992? I look at pictures of the free-spirited and good-natured Mr. Walsh and think life really has been good to him so far. Except for the bit about not winning, because winning is one of the few things -- legal things -- a candidate must do to be remembered as a successful politician. And that perhaps is why I forget about the campaigns until typing his name into a search engine.

Anyhow, I suppose I mention it to underscore that this afternoon's fatigue, not unlike Joe Walsh's public life, is hardly devoid of ambition.

Which is why I am purchasing picture frames for Van Dale. Van Dale is another houseboy, albeit a recently houseless one. Yes, the current situation is touching us all whether we all want to be touched or not. Its reach extending even to the cushy historic sector where, until recently, Van Dale spent his free time listening to quebraditas, dancing carefree jigs, and painting found objects. You know, walls, parked cars, and such.

Regardless of the tableau he chooses, it always ends up looking fantastic. Which is precisely why I was not surprised to see some of his work in a local group show of group members.

I was, however, horrified.

Horrified with a capital gasp. And not because of the violent content typical in his work, but because rather than hanging his work, he tends to tack it up or just fasten it to the wall with old chewing gum.

I know what you are thinking, and you are wrong. He is not a conceptual artist. He is a talented illustrator and hopefully not one who will be angry at me for taking it upon myself to frame his work without purchasing it first. At least not any angrier than I was to see him displaying it in the way that he did.

For shame.

Now if you will excuse me, I must file this Target gift receipt so that I can use it to embarrass him as well as part of some excuse to sue the pants off of him when he is rich and famous.