The Arts!

I may not know art...

Though I can hardly claim to qualify as an art expert, I feel comfortable stating that the vast quantity of so-called "contemporary" art is, in a word, crap. Seems like a lot of taking pictures of one's body parts so one doesn't have to leave the apartment, squatting in front of a video camera for 45 minutes, or forest-floor-looking mixed media abstracts. However, there is one contemporary artist working today to whom I must give the propers.

His name is Marcel Dzama, and this series is currently on display at the MOMA. I especially dig "Scheme of the Circles of Battle," which appears above in reduced-size. Can't get enough of rabbit with gun and smoking cat-thing. So anyway, I can no longer say that all contemporary art is crap. Big ups, Dzama!

Go Ahead, Count 'Em

Another installment of "Short Story in 25 Words or Less":

For the second time that day, Rodney found himself saying, "But officer, she looked 18." He regretted his decision to see the Albanian optometrist.

Time is Money

We at Expecting Rain have recently learned to appreciate the simple pleasures in life, such as using the Internet to follow Felix Hernandez one-hitting the Royals through five. With this in mind, we present our newest feature, "Can I Get It For Free?".

Let's take three possible activities, all easily within reach, and see how they stack up.

A Trip to the MOMA:
Intellectually Stimulation: That Marcel Duchamp just slays me.
Time spent: I could be here all day!
Cost: $25

The new Wong Kar Wai film:
Intellectual Stimulation: love those modes of alienation!
Time spent: 129 minutes
Cost: $10.75

Taxi cab fire on 7th Ave.:
Intellectual Stimulation: fumes may kill brain cells
Time spent: 15 minutes
Cost: gloriously free


Taxi cab fire it is!

Next week in our New York adventures, we play "What's That Smell?"

The Soldiering Life

While no member of the brass has met with substantial punishment for any of the Iraq/G-WOT debacles, apparently getting a little on the side is dealt with swiftly and harshly. Got to love those priorities. Perhaps he was reprimanded for giving her the ol' "rear admiral", a clear violation of separation of the branches.

The Paper of Record, Biyatch

If I may, I'd like to toot my own horn.... Been in New York a week and I already warrant a (final) paragraph in the Times. This nearly makes up for the self-esteem drubbing I took at my internship when I was asked to take out the office's trash.

Know Your Rodents

All this attention on nose size creates
unrealistic expectations of body image
among female shrew populations.

Thought I'd bring back another old favorite, so heeeeere's "Know Your Rodents"! The Louisville Zoo is home (among other things) to the Elephant Shrew (Elephantulus rufescens), a particularly amusing little creature. When not in a zoo, the shrew can be found in Africa (what you were expecting something more specific?) The shrew's stilt-like legs vault it to a precarious height, where its agile nose probes the leaf-clutter and undergrowth far below, searching for, I dunno, grubs or something. Whatever it is shrews eat. But look how funny!

One might think there's an evolutionary rationale for this shrew's bizarre physiognomy, but then one would be an idiot who hasn't heard that God made all the animals and that Charles Darwin is a big fat joke.

Auto-eroticism

Flee before my might, earthlings!

It's been a while for Expecting Rain's biennial feature on cars, but this week we're reviewing the 2005 Ford Explorer. Once upon a time (1991), this first-generation SUV sat five, handled more like a car and flipped over with ease (just ask Chris Shim). Like most Americans in the ensuing decade and half, the Explorer has become heavier and less-agile, but is still fairly easy to flip. It now sits eight, or 4/5 of little Madison's soccer team.

This particular rental had the main purpose of transporting the majority of my possessions from Washington, DC to Brooklyn; let's see how it performed. The Ford's a junior monstrosity compared to the Sequoia, Excursion or Navigator, with a narrower trunk clearance than you'd think and deceptively little room for rear storage. That's the reason that I'm typing this on a converted Ikea bookcase and not a desk (desk last seen on the curb of Constitution Avenue).

Having driven a Honda Civic for the last three years, there's an alarming pleasure that this driver took ensconsed on high in the Explorer. The engine has a good deal of pick-up as well, and the ride is smooth, even through the many potholes that I just couldn't seem to avoid. I was starting to like driving this SUV, well on my way to becoming everything that is wrong with America. Part of this Zenlike sense of well-being stems from the feeling of impregnability in an automobile this size. With the cruise-control locked on 70, I moved up the New Jersey turnpike with the implacable presence of an Imperial starcruiser chasing that wimpy vessel Leia was on.

It was a difficult transition back to the underworld of the Civic, but the pain of giving up a vehicle the size of Sherman tank was somewhat tempered by the fact that the cost of gassing up the monster was nearly three times that of the rental itself. Despair.

Juiced

I'd like to go on record as saying that I've never liked Rafael Palmiero. Other than his being a Viagra pitchman, I didn't have a good reason to (unless one considers that moustache). Until now that is; because if there's one thing that makes me mad it's congressional perjury. Grrr. These guys like to talk up their hard-work, chalking the positive tests to flaws in the testing or dubious supplements, but lifting weights isn't going to help you catch up to a 95-mph fastball after age 40. Anybody who watched Edgar Martinez's chasing high heat in his final season know what an aging slugger's swing looks like.

Ryan Franklin picked a good week to get caught "shopping at GNC," but like every other caught ballplayer he hasn't copped to it. It'd make me feel a little better about Palmiero's 15-year assault on Mariner pitching if an M's starter wasn't juicing, but this does demonstrate that it's not just the stars but the guys trying to stay out of AAA, as well. It's too widespread to be shocking.

I hope a star finally being nabbed causes baseball commentators to stop playing coy on this issue. When asked about Barry Bonds and steroids on a recent "Daily Show" appearance, Bob Costas mumbled something about it being highly irregular for a player to add thirty pounds of muscle after age 35. I'd moving more toward the nuclear option suggested by Frank Robinson("Wipe it out...No numbers. It's like they didn't play."), but only if it's applied retroactively.