Robert Williams is an artist of extreme uniqueness. He paints art in such a way that inspires and repels at the same time. He reminds me of those “Hot Rod / Monster” models that I used to make in the 1960’s. You know the type, a big ugly hairy monster with big eyeballs is sitting in this deliciously tiny hot rod trying to drive it around. He’s a talent, for certain, but his work is not for everyone.
I want to explain a bit about what lowbrow art is. The lowbrow or pop surrealism movement began in California among the surfer and hot rod culture and was aimed squarely at that culture; it’s therefore considered a populist art movement, unlike movements such as abstract expressionism and the like, which are often regarded (correctly or incorrectly) as elitist.
The art is characterized by the juxtaposition of “fine art” concepts or styles with kitsch, comics—especially underground comix—cartoons and other pop cultural ephemera, often in bizarre or humorous ways. More recently, Japanese culture and anime-style art have made their way into the movement. The founding father of lowbrow is usually considered to be Robert Williams, who facetiously adopted the title The Lowbrow Art of Robert Williams for his first book of collected art, in response to the fact that at the time no major galleries or museums would display his art, considering it trashy and tasteless.
The name stuck and became associated with the movement as a whole, even though Williams himself has since rejected it in application to his own work. (If Williams is the movement’s father, then its godfather is surely Ed “Big Daddy” Roth, famous for his Kustom Kulture art and especially for the character Rat Fink.)
-Pigtails in paint
Robert Williams paintings are a wild pop-culture pastiche of hot rods, pinup girls, and cartoon sex and violence. For the better part of the last 50 years, Robert Williams has waged war on the mainstream art world with those eye-popping paintings, a best-selling art magazine and a growing flock of like-minded rebel artists.
His paintings are a wild pop-culture pastiche of hot rods, pinup girls, and cartoon sex and violence. For the better part of the last 50 years, Robert Williams has waged war on the mainstream art world with those eye-popping paintings, a best-selling art magazine and a growing flock of like-minded rebel artists. In a Robert Williams painting, there might be blood, fiery hot rod crashes or lecherous robots. There have also been surly tooth fairies in torn fishnets that bear a passing resemblance to Symbionese Liberation Army-era Patty Hearst.
In a Robert Williams painting, there might be blood, fiery hot rod crashes or lecherous robots. There have also been surly tooth fairies in torn fishnets that bear a passing resemblance to Symbionese Liberation Army-era Patty Hearst.
Oh, and don’t forget that sexy and very funny series that depicts half-naked women reclining seductively on giant platters of tacos and enchiladas.
The term “Lowbrow” was coined by Juxtapoz magazine founder Robert Williams in the late 1970s as a way to describe a modern art movement that flew in the face of traditional, gallery-safe, “highbrow” elements and imagery. In this eclectic style, which draws inspiration from punk, metal, and rockabilly music, as well as the tattoo, hot rod, tiki, and monster movie subcultures, all rules are thrown out the window.
Williams later referred to the Lowbrow movement as "cartoon-tainted abstract surrealism,” but it has also been called “pop surrealism” and “underground art,” among other things. It often depicts the vehicles and fashions derivative of the pin-up girls of the 1940s, the greasers and cartoons of the 1950s, the Ed “Big Daddy” Roth custom car builders of the 1960s, the music and lowriders of the 1970s, and the London and SoCal street art of the 1980s.
The kustom kulture lowbrow scene emerged from—and remains most prominent in—Los Angeles, where, on any given weekend, you can find an event featuring amazing cars, top tattoo artists, great food, and lively music. You’ll find Lozeau there, somewhere between the surf, skeleton, hot rod, Poly-Pop, and zombie art, working on a new painting in his signature illustrative style.
-David Lozeau
What do you think about art rooted in underground comix, hot rod cars and punk music? How would you imagine this kind of art? If you wouldn’t even call it art, then you are in line with some critics excluding this so called Lowbrow art that led to Pop Surrealism from “legitimate” art movements. Perhaps they are right. I mean, underground comix are cool for a lot of people, and so is punk music, but would you hang something like that in your apartment?
But in the pages of the ’60s counterculture underground comics, Williams flourished alongside like-minded artists who pushed the boundaries of free expression. He was a founding member of a San Francisco-based comic artist collective that also included Robert Crumb, Gilbert Shelton and the late Spain Rodriguez.
All the while, Williams toiled away on his paintings.
Merriam-Webster dictionary definesthe word “lowbrow” as “not interested in serious art, literature or ideas’ and ‘relating to or intended for people who are not interested in serious art, literature or ideas”. So, you get the idea. It was the late 1970s when Lowbrow started to emerge on the West Coast, particularly in Los Angeles.
Problem was, there was little space for the kind of hot-wired, pop culture-drenched representational paintings he was creating in an art world dominated by abstract expressionism.
Some authors point out that Lowbrow movement has its roots in art movements from the beginning of the 20th century – movements such as Dadaism, Surrealism, and Fauvism; some say that even the development of Lowbrow is similar to the development of aforementioned movements, as were the reactions of traditional art critics on the appearance of these new forms of art, back then.
Williams found an outlet and acceptance in after-hours galleries at punk rock clubs in L.A. and New York. His art work started appearing on record sleeves and concert posters for bands that have mostly vanished. But mainstream success remained elusive.
Since Lowbrow is connected to underground comix, tattoo, illustration and street art, among other things, many Lowbrow artists are not artists by their education – they are self-taught, far away from anything that could be considered and called fine art. These are the reasons why art critics, museums and art galleries have their doubts about the whole Lowbrow movement and Lowbrow art – it’s simply not their world and people that are creating Lowbrow art couldn’t be further away from the milieu of gallery curators and art schools.
Until 1987, that is. That’s when yet another then-unknown band came knocking on his door after spotting what is today considered Williams’ most notorious painting.
A scruffy L.A. glam rock band called Guns N’ Roses wanted it for the cover of its debut album. They also wanted to name the record after the painting: “Appetite for Destruction.”
Formally speaking, Robert Williams, the American painter and cartoonist, took credit for the creation of the term Lowbrow art. About 10 years ago, in his famous magazine Juxtapoz, he said that, back in 1979, it was expected of him to give the title of a book that featured his paintings. He named it The Lowbrow Art of Robert Williams (as opposed to “highbrow”), and explained that “no authorized art institution would recognize his type of art”.
In the painting, which Williams created in the late 1970s, a pretty young woman in a short skirt is selling toy robots on the street. Her kiosk is knocked over. So is she. A menacing robot in a trench coat stands over her.
In its beginnings, Lowbrow art was completely underground, like we have seen. But, as did so many movements before, Lowbrow started to gain some popularity – that mentioned Juxtapoz magazine, as well as Hi Fructose magazine, popularized Lowbrow and helped it to be more visible. The result was that the number of individuals that are using Lowbrow style started to grow. However, the other result was that, with this enlargement of Lowbrow artists, some of them have started to go beyond Lowbrow style – raw, unpolished and simple – and to change it towards more sophisticated and refined one.
Williams told the band fine, use it. But he warned them the cover would probably land them in trouble with religious and feminist groups. It did. One organization famously referred to it as a “glorification of rape.”
The band rallied to his defense, singer Axl Rose telling MTV that he thought people were overlooking Williams’ artistic genius.
A complete new sub-scene has showed up, consisted of classically and formally trained professionals that ruled the painting skills, but were still attached to Lowbrow’s inherent characteristics and motifs. In other words, we’ve got some creatives that were able to produce truly wonderful and beautiful paintings, with underground comix and punk rock motifs within. This style became known as Pop Surrealism, and some consider the artist Kenny Scharf to be the “godfather” of its name.
“I think since it was such an outrageous picture that the skill gets overlooked,” said Rose, standing alongside Williams in an interview shortly after the album’s release. “A lot more people, I think, are turned on to Robert’s artwork (because of the album) than were before, and I’m really glad to be a part of that.”
But the band ultimately caved and yanked the artwork.
A consequence of the creation of the movement was the acceptance by the world of so-called high art, or fine art. With the emergence of Pop Surrealism, the line between Lowbrow and Highbrow art was blurred and became indistinguishable. This new style helped Lowbrow achieve some validation and approval of the fine art world, and, at the same time, these new creatives have brought fine art closer to Lowbrow admirers – their style was so polished that it could have passed easily as something from the Old Masters tradition; however, their inspiration was drawn from counter-cultural icons: this way, Pop Surrealists brought both to high and low art something they’ve missed up until then. Pop Surrealism also had a warm reception and a big welcome from regular, average citizens – for those who were not interested, let alone educated, in high art and its history, or anything even remotely linked to it, but who were at the same time totally into pop culture and its icons.
The painting caused a stir again in 2012 when a reformed Guns N’ Roses used the image in a concert poster and companion DVD. Subsequent copies of the DVD still employ the Williams painting, but in denuded form. The girl is removed, the painting devoid of its original power.
The typical and a bit subversive characteristic of the movement and its artists was to use pop icons, such as Marilyn Monroe or Disney’s characters in order to pass their political or social messages, and at the same time, they’ve used painting style that referenced on Picasso or Van Gogh. One of the most popular artists, who has made the most successful across over between the high and the low art is Mark Ryden. Not only had he influenced many others, such as Ray Caesar and Jeff Soto, but he was also someone whose works have entered the world of the biggest auction houses on the planet and were able to fetch six-figure prices without a problem. Another good example is Yoshimoto Nara who sold seven of his artworks in the price range of $1-$5 million at auctions in 2015 alone.
The 1987 notoriety cemented Williams’ reputation as a major outsider artist with an outsized influence on a new generation of artists — many of whom are now regularly featured in the magazine he co-founded 20 years ago, Juxtapoz.
Presented for your enjoyment and horror.
Lowbrow art has gone a long way, from not being recognized as art at all, to a respectable and acclaimed style of Pop Surrealism. It had also changed over the years, transforming its style from rough, raw and uncultivated to polished and beautiful. As a true child of its time, it even followed transformation to the digital world of today. What a ride it was, from an unwanted and unloved infant to multi-million dollars sales in the biggest auction houses and galleries of the world!
Movies that Inspired Me
Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.
Stories that Inspired Me
Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.
My Poetry
Art that Moves Me
Articles & Links
You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.
Today I have a very good YouTube video that you all should watch…
We’re Being Moved On Purpose | What If The Mandela Effect Isn’t Random?
What if the Mandela Effect is not a random memory phenomenon, an accidental timeline shift or a harmless glitch in reality?
What if we are being moved on purpose?
In Part 3 of The Mandela Effect: Reality Shift, we explore one of the most unsettling possibilities in the entire mystery: that changes to our reality may be managed, guided or deliberately introduced. Could timelines be stabilised to prevent collapse? Could reality be optimising itself toward particular outcomes? Are dangerous possibilities being contained? Or could the changes be testing awareness—measuring who notices when reality no longer matches their memory?
The strangest part of the Mandela Effect is not simply that people remember different logos, quotes, spellings and events. It is that these changes appear to settle into reality cleanly, while millions of people continue to remember another version.
That does not feel like chaos. It feels like an edit.
In this episode, Mike examines why Mandela Effects often appear strangely contained, why some people remember while others do not, whether the phenomenon is accelerating, and what timeline management could look like without dramatic jumps or visible breaks in reality. Then it is your turn to decide:
If we are being moved, what is the most likely reason?
A — Timeline stabilisation
B — Optimisation
C — Containment
D — Testing awareness
Tell us in the comments when reality first stopped feeling the same to you. This is Part 3 of our seven-part investigation into the Mandela Effect, altered memories, timeline shifts, parallel realities, simulation theory and the possibility that reality itself may be changing around us.
Are there any reasons why mercenaries are better than regular soldiers?
They aren’t.
The only way mercenaries are ‘better’ is that you can have plausible deniability when they do horrible things.
Except since the USA, NATO are doing horrible things and they’re supposed to be the ‘good guys’ (see the bombing of speed boats and then going after the survivors), this is a moot point.
Mercenaries are terrible soldiers because they fight for MONEY.
You can’t spend money when you’re dead. So in a tricky situation? They’ll run away
Karen Meets : JOE COCKER With A Little Help From My Friends 1969 Woodstock | First Time Reaction
Potato Stuffed Parathas
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Ingredients
Dough
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup water
Filling
8 medium potatoes, boiled until tender and peeled
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon red chile (or cayenne) powder (or to taste)
1/2 teaspoon garam masala powder
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 green chile, minced without the seeds (or to taste)
1 cup coriander leaves (cilantro), washed, dried and removed from the stems
Instructions
Mix flour and water with your fingers, adding water gradually, until you’ve formed a soft, smooth dough – as soft as possible without being at all sticky. After about five minutes of mixing, it should be the general consistency of bread dough. Cover the dough with a damp towel and set aside for about 30 minutes.
Mash potatoes by hand; don’t put them in a food processor or they will become gluey.
Stir in all the ingredients for the filling.
Put a large cast iron or other heavy gauge pan over medium heat.
To form each paratha: Roll two chunks of dough in the palms of your lightly floured hands, to form two balls the size of golf balls. Roll each one on a lightly floured surface until it is 4 to 5 inches in diameter. Put a tablespoon of the filling in the center of one disc, place the second disc on top, pinch the edges together to form a big circular envelope, and then lightly roll the whole thing until flat, about 1/4 inch thick. At this point the potato filling and the dough will have become pressed together, they will have merged; it should look sort of like a pancake with flecks of potato and spices in it.
Drizzle a teaspoon or so of vegetable oil on the pan, wait until it’s hot but not smoking, and then lightly brown the paratha; it will take around one minute per side. If desired, drizzle a little more oil on top of the paratha and spread it on the surface with a spoon, just before taking it off the heat.
Serve with plain yogurt and a salad of carrots, cucumbers, onions and cabbage, cut into matchsticks and tossed with a little fresh-squeezed lemon juice.
Serial Killer Finds Out His DNA Was Under Victim’s Fingernails After 45 Years
I close my eyes as I dial the number. I already know, deep inside me, that this call isn’t going to help. My heart speeds up as the phone is answered. I wet my lips. I know this is going to be a tough sell and I am not sure if I am up for the job.‘333 what is your emergency?’My lips are too dry to speak. I wet them but the words won’t come.‘Hello? Can you tell me your emergency?’ the voice speaks again, ‘which service do you require?’‘I… erm… ambulance?’ I stutter. ‘My brother is… is very ill.’‘Have you called 311?’
‘I… no… but it’s an emergency… I don’t have time to wait for a GP assessment! Please!’
‘Ok, putting you through!’
Good, first hurdle passed. When I had appendicitis last year, I’d had to jump through literal hoops to even be offered access to the emergency line and that had been life-threatening! I wait a nerve-shattering five minutes – those lines are always busy – and then a voice speaks.
‘Hello, you are through to the Medicare 333 emergency line. My name is Holly. What is your emergency?’
‘Ah yes, hello,’ I manage, ‘M-my b-b-brother… he needs an ambulance!’
‘Can I take your name please?’
‘Sure, it’s Jennifer – Jen.’
‘Hello Jen. Now let’s talk about your brother, can you tell me the problem?’
Thank God, it’s somebody with a bit of compassion in their voice! That will help!
‘He is in a great deal of pain, clutching his ribs and belly… he’s barely conscious and can’t lie down flat due to the pain… he’s.. he’s not communicating.’
‘Ok my lovely, stay calm there… it’s going to be ok, we’re here to help now!’
‘Thank you,’ I murmur.
‘Ok, what is your brother’s name, age and location?’
I give her the address first, hoping she will issue an ambulance whilst I am talking so it’ll already be on route.
‘Name and age,’ she says again, a little brisker. Maybe she knows this trick. Damn. I’m fucked if she does. Maybe she already dispatched it. I can hope!
‘His name is Robin, Robin Chambers and… and he’s… thirty f-four years old,’ the lie burns in my throat.
‘Ok, and is he able to drink fluids?’
My heart thuds. ‘No.’
‘Fevered?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much pain would you say he is in, on a scale of one to ten with one being normal and ten being the very worst pain you have ever felt?’
I think back to my own appendicitis. ‘Eight or Nine.’
‘Ok, sounds like he needs some intervention! Can I have his government-issued Medicare number please?’
‘I… I don’t have it? I can give you mine?’
Silence for a long minute on the line. Please God, let her have already dispatched the ambulance!
‘It would need to be his, I am afraid.’ She finally speaks.
‘He… he lost his card…’
‘I see. You know that we cannot issue ambulances without a Medicare number…’
‘Please, he’s in so much pain! We are waiting on the replacement card, but they said it could be weeks! He’ll be dead by then!’
More silence, then a little sigh.
‘Ok. Let’s try something else!’ she says, ‘Can you describe your brother to me, physically? With a physical description and the name and address I might be able to locate him in the system and check against his photo.’
‘I… I can’t…’
‘Because he doesn’t have a Medicard?’
And there it is, I’m caught out. She’s figured it out. Fuck. Let’s just hope she has a heart! Can turn a blind eye. Probably not worth risking her job on, I already know that. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why couldn’t he have been a girl? Or me a guy? We look similar enough, could probably have pulled it off using my card if we’d been the same gender! I mean, at least until they got him on the table and realised… but then what sort of a medic would open a patient up and then not operate?
That would be unethical!
I feel the tears brewing and glance to my “brother”. He looks about thirty now, side-swept dark hair and handsome face screwed up in pain. Water dribbles down his brow, wetting the hair at the side of his thin face which looks so much like mine. He’s shivering for the fever and there’s a patch of wetness on the duvet that is wrapped around him. Sweat.
His organs are shutting down.
I knew it would happen and yet I never really believed.
‘Hello?’ the voice sounds sympathetic, but I already know she won’t budge.
‘He’s…’ I trail off.
Silence.
‘Jen, be honest now. Is your brother a HG?’ she finally asks, that voice still dripping softness.
There it is. I nod stupidly, unable to speak, then realise that she can’t see me – I purposely dimmed my video – and so I manage to stutter a simple yes.
‘Oh, love.’ Yep, that’s real sympathy. Maybe she has one at home? ‘You know HGs aren’t covered under government Medicare,’ she says, ‘it is part of the contract you would have signed…’
‘I know,’ I concede.
‘You were supposed to take out private cover?’
‘I did…’ I murmur, ‘I did have but you see I lost my job in the big purge last year and… and his cover was part of my private care plan through work and…’
‘I am so sorry for you,’ she says. Again, I feel like she’s genuine.
‘Please, at least some pain shots? Put them on my card? I had appendicitis last year and they gave me meds…’
‘I am so sorry, but I cannot do that,’ she says. ‘Is there anything else I can help with?’
‘A final shot then? To end the agony?’
‘You know I cannot issue those from here – you need a doctor to administer those – for a fee.’
‘Please!’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t!’
‘Oh God! Have a heart! His fucking organs are shutting down! He’s in agony!’
‘I wish you the very best of luck. I will send an info-sheet through this line with details of grieving centres and local units who offer state-benefit disposal but other than that I am afraid my hands are tied.’
I give out a little scream and hang up.
Robin is groaning. I am helpless.
I move to sit by his side and brush the wet hair out of his eyes. They move up to drink me in. Childlike. Innocent. Trusting. Full of love. They said he wouldn’t be a child but in so many ways, they were wrong.
‘Is the medic coming?’ he manages to gasp out.
‘Yes love, they will be here soon.’
‘They won’t… for me…’
‘I know they shouldn’t but… but I persuaded them.’
His hand grips mine and hope shines on his face. My “brother”, my darling. My heart feels physically bruised. He gasps again and lets out a little murmur. It’s always the abdominal organs that go first. The contract warned of that. It was the first sign. If you were lucky, they’d die from that, or of a heart-attack, before the rot started to take the brain.
‘Help me,’ he whispers, ‘please!’
With a groan I move back to the phone, still holding his hand with one of my own, and dial the emergency line again.
‘333,’ a cheery voice speaks, ‘what is your emergency?’
‘Ambulance please.’
‘I am sorry, this number is temporarily banned from using the emergency health line.’
What?’
‘I am afraid you have been reported for attempted Medi-fraud, your line is barred for 24 hours.’
‘Bitch!’ I scream, losing it, ‘That bitch!’ and slam down the receiver so hard that the following morning I find it cracked. 24 hours. Long enough to be sure my darling Robin will be gone. I guess can always go out to find a phone from a neighbour or something but that would mean leaving him and I already know that it would be useless.
And so I have no choice but to just sit with him until the end.
I return to his side and try to imagine what my life will be like without him. Empty. Lonely. Dull. Just as it was before him. Robin and I live in “hamster box housing” – cheap government apartments which gained their nickname for the tiny, cramped conditions they offer. I sit in a grey-painted room which holds a fold-out bed: currently down and occupied by Robin, a pull-out kitchen unit and a single screen which is set into the wall. The bathrooms are communal but they have a permanent janitor, so they are at least clean.
There are no windows. Windows cost more.
There are no frivolities, no knickknacks, or ornaments. I sold all of those when I lost my job in the purge. I sigh. The purge as it was called – where so many of us were suddenly outed from our jobs due to the cheapness of hiring HGs instead – after all, they can do everything we can, and they are known for being more pliant, more trainable. You don’t need a wage for a HG, just make sure you feed and clothe them, and they will do as you wish. Almost as good as a robot but with more personality and – these days – a cheaper outlay.
HGs are cheap, that’s the other bonus of them. That’s how I managed to afford Robin (with a decent amount of saving and careful spending).
I run my fingers through the damp feathers of my darling’s hair again. He’s crying openly now, the pain which is ravaging his body obvious on his now-bloody, twisted lips. It’s like watching a child die, a beloved puppy.
My tears come.
Sorrow for the incoming loss, but also anger for my own stupidity! How could I not have considered this? Why had I not thought to have a back-up plan? I cast my mind back, sitting in that clean white office in front of a girl who looked about twenty but who likely wasn’t – white teeth and perfect hair. You can tell a HG if you know what you are looking for!
‘So, your chosen model will be grown from cells from your own body, is that right’ she asked me, grinning and writing it down.
‘Yes. Will it be female? A sister?’
‘Not necessarily! The initial process is much like fertilisation – only the result will be all your genes! Gender is optional at an extra fee but most people on your budget take the surprise.’
‘But it won’t be a baby?’
‘No, not unless that is the chosen form – in your case not! Yours will be grown. The process of aging is sped up “in-utero” – as we call it – so after the three-month incubation period, your new brother or sister will be born fully grown – we estimate they will look and act about twenty-five years of age once they are released.’
‘And then the aging slows down?’
‘Yes. They will look and age normally after that until expiry.’
‘Ok,’ I said, naïve and stupid, ‘Perfect! Let’s do this!’
Robin interrupts me from the memories, his eyes flying open suddenly and his face twisting again. He grumbles and bends over, his fingers gripping mine so hard they hurt. A HG, a home-grown human companion. You could get all sorts of models: baby, child, adult, elder. They are the biggest breakthrough in modern science. They have potential to change the world… and yet we use them as novelties. Toys.
They have approximately a five-year lifespan.
Of course, you are warned not to get too attached from the beginning. “We call them brothers and sisters, but it is better to see them as like a pet rather than like a friend”, my sales assistant had suggested. (Did she even know what she was? Who knows.) “They don’t last long enough to get really attached to in a human sense.”
And there it was. There was the problem with them. Short lifespans and childlike innocence due to not technically having lived most of their lives. The official word is that the tech can’t sustain life for a long period of time, but conspiracy theorists say it is done on purpose to keep customers coming back for new ones. Who knows.
Either way, in terms of HG my Robin is an old man, at coming on six years.
And I’ve known all along he was going to get sick.
I’ve known all along he will die.
In agony.
With no medical help.
Medicare – the government funded medical service – simply cannot treat HGs. They’d be swamped, more overrun than they already are. At first they tried but something had to give as hospitals drowned in casualties and people died in droves. HG’s are just “toys” after-all, not “real people”, so it was an easy choice for the voting public. Most HG’s last four or five years. As Robin passed his fifth birthday, hope grew, took up root in my heart and spread through my body. Maybe he was different, maybe he was of a better build!
I guess I was wrong.
Robin’s writhing gets worse, his moans turning to little barked screams. I stand and go to the counter to crush up another three paracetamol. I’ve already given him the daily dose, but it won’t hurt now. I mix them into a glass of scotch and cheap orange and then think fuck it, and add a bunch more, nearly a whole tube. My heart tears open but I force my face to remain calm. I put the glass to his lips. He coughs and splutters, but he gets most of it down at least. Enough to stop the pain for good.
‘There, my sweet one,’ I say, ‘it’s nearly over now.’
‘When will the medic come?’
‘Soon,’ I whisper.
A siren sounds in the distance even as I answer and his eyes grow wider, joy showing in them. Gullible – that is the thing about HGs – they are so gullible. Like children who never learned to live forced into the bodies of adults.
‘They really are coming!’
‘Yes! See, and they are going to make you better!’
‘It hurts!’
‘I know darling,’ I whisper but I can see that he’s growing drowsy from the paracetamol and whiskey I have been feeding him. ‘Not long now baby…’
No, not long now.
Not long at all.
Outside I hear the ambulance go past. Not stopping. That’s ok. I already know it’s not for us.
At least Robin is still now.
Col 22-Book 380 – Spreadsheet Zen: Taxman Ted Meets the Irie Inventory (A Tale of Ledgers, Pebbles, and the Peace That Cannot Be Filed)
Ah, dear reader—prepare your soul. Today’s story does not begin with a quack, a snort, or even a kazoo blast.
It begins with a click.
The sound of a golden clipboard snapping shut—too tightly.
Followed by the sigh of a man who has forgotten how to breathe without a Form 1040 in hand.
So settle in. Loosen your tie. And step gently into Spreadsheet Zen.
The Audit That Wasn’t Supposed to Happen
It was a Tuesday—golden, still, humming with the lazy buzz of bees and the distant thump-thump of Jah-Mew’s bongos.
Taxman Ted arrived at the farm not in a car, but in a process:
Suit pressed to hospital corners
Golden clipboard gleaming like a sacred relic
Folders color-coded: Red (Urgent), Gold (Pending), Emerald (Spiritual Liabilities—Under Review)
His mission: “Farm Inventory Audit, Q3. All assets, tangible and intangible, must be logged, valued, and cross-referenced.”
He found Jah-Mew seated beneath the old fig tree, dreadlocks catching the light like spun gold, hands resting on a small, woven satchel.
“Good morning, sir,” Ted said, adjusting his glasses. “I’m here to inventory the farm’s non-traditional assets. Starting with… you.”
Jah-Mew didn’t open his eyes.
Just smiled.
“Welcome, brother. The breeze said you were coming. It also said you’re overdue for a nap.”
“My inventory,” Jah-Mew said, placing the pebble gently in Ted’s palm. “The ocean’s ledger. No receipts. Just resonance.”
Ted stared.
The pebble was cool. Smooth. Utterly unfileable.
The Collapse of the System
What followed was not resistance.
It was unraveling.
Ted pulled out his digital scale.“I need to measure… spiritual weight.”
He placed the sand on the tray. Error: “Input exceeds metaphysical tolerance.”
He opened his tablet, typing furiously:Column A: Asset Type → “Pebble (Round, Existential)” Column B: Market Value → “?” Column C: Depreciation Schedule → “…”
Jah-Mew began to drum—soft, steady, thump… thump-thump… thump.
The rhythm didn’t rise.
It settled.
Into Ted’s shoulders.
Into his clenched jaw.
Into the frantic tap-tap of his stylus.
And then—
A gust of Zephyr’s making swirled through the yard.
Ted’s color-coded folders lifted—not in chaos, but in harmony—spiraling upward like doves, rearranging mid-air into a perfect, silent mandala above the fig tree.
Ted dropped his clipboard.
It landed in the grass—open—for the first time in seventeen years.
“My forms…” he whispered, voice raw. “They’re… unsorted.” “Unsorted!” echoed Ditto, who had been napping in the satchel.
Jah-Mew placed a paw on Ted’s wrist.
“Some things, brother, are not meant to be filed. They’re meant to be felt.”
The Non-Filing Asset
That evening, as the sky blushed rose and apricot, Ted sat beside Jah-Mew—not as auditor, but as guest.
Sir Whiskerton joined them, kilt rustling, Tam o’ Shanter slightly askew.
“You tried this with the Moonlit Melon,” he said, pouring tea. “And the Sentient Refrigerator. And Ferdinand’s ego. You always lose, Ted. Not because you’re bad at your job—but because some truths refuse to fit in columns.”
Ted looked at the pebble in his palm.
Then—at the shell Jah-Mew had given him: “For your desk. A Non-Filing Asset.”
“What do I do with it?” “You listen,” Jah-Mew said. “It sings in C-sharp—the same key as rest.”
From the barn, Mr. Waddle waddled over, clipboard in wing.
“Ted! I’ve developed a new metric: Vibrational Quacks per Minute. We can rate the dreadlocks!”
He held up a tuning fork. “Standard: 440 Hz. Optimal Zen: 220 Hz. Dreadlock Drift: -15%.”
Jah-Mew played one soft thump on his bongo.
Mr. Waddle’s clipboard floated gently into a nearby bush.
He blinked.
Smiled.
“Huh. Maybe lunch first.”
The Moral of the Story
That night, under a sky dusted with stars, Sir Whiskerton addressed the gathering—not from the roof, but from the circle.
“The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Not everything valuable can be measured, quantified, or scheduled. Ted came to count the farm’s worth. He left understanding itsworthiness—in the weight of a pebble, the curve of a shell, the rhythm of a breath un-rushed. Breaking free from repetition doesn’t mean quitting. It means remembering why you started: not to file the world, but tofeelit.”
And Ted?
He slipped the shell into his breast pocket—beside his pen, his badge, his heart.
For the first time in years—
He didn’t check the time.
Post-Credit Scene
Later, in the hayloft, Ted opened a new spreadsheet.
Title: Zen Ledger (Draft v. ∞)
Columns:
Vibe Quality (Scale: 1–10, or “groovy”)
Chant Duration (Units: Brews of Tea)
Pebble Market Value (“Priceless (But Accepts Biscuits)”)
He saved it.
Then—deleted the file.
On the desktop, he placed a single photo:
Jah-Mew, Ted, Ditto (wearing the pebble on a string), and Sir Whiskerton—
All napping in the fig tree’s shade.
Caption:
“Balance Sheet: Fully Balanced.”
Jingle on. 🐾🐚✨ (Or, in rhythm: Thump… thump-thump… thump.)
The End.
Pictures
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81 Year Old Killer Realizes She’s Been Caught After 39 Years
“Why two personalities?” Char didn’t want to have this conversation, but he loved Sarcoo too much to ignore it.”You might as well ask how the stars got here.” Char’s dad answered. “It’s just the way we are.””But my Frawn personality keeps breaking up with her, and if he keeps it up, I’m going to lose her. She’s at her breaking point.”
“I didn’t say it’s easy. Believe me, there’s nothing easy about being a Binal. There isn’t another species in the entire galaxy like us.”
“I hate him,” Char spat, his fist slamming against the wall, pain shooting up his arm.
“You’ll get used to him. It just takes time. When my Norcan personality developed, I felt the same way—like he didn’t belong. But could you imagine me without him?”
“Well, just because it worked for you doesn’t mean it will for me! You two aren’t tearing each other apart like we are—sometimes I feel like I’m drowning.”
Char’s dad chuckled. He had said something similar to his father when he went through his change of life.
“It’s not easy being a teen. I remember the confusion and awkward feelings. But they make us unique. One day, you’ll appreciate Frawn. After all, he’s as much you as you are.”
“But he keeps breaking up with her. How do I stop him?”
“If your girlfriend likes you, she’ll understand. Who knows, maybe she’ll win him over like your mother did with Norcan.” Char’s dad bent over and whispered, “However, when I feel him trying to take over, if I want to, I can stop him by pinching my butt. I don’t know if it will work for you, but you never know.”
“And it works every time?”
“Yes, and he doesn’t know about my trick, so don’t tell him.”
“So, if you can stop him, why do you ever let him take over?”
“Norcan is a hard worker, unlike me. I’d rather sit in my cozy chair and read. So, when it’s time to read, I keep him away with a butt pinch, but when it’s time to mow or your mother has chores for me, I discovered that if I pinch my butt twice, he’ll take over and knock my unpleasant work out of the ballpark. It’s a great arrangement.”
“So, once keeps him away, and twice allows him to take over.” Char thought about Sarcoo. Maybe this could work for him. Maybe a well-timed butt pitch can save their relationship.
Char went up to his room and discovered the butt-pinching technique worked. Armed with this new weapon, he went to school the next day with a newfound confidence.
“Hey, you,” Sarcoo called out to him from across the hall. “Where have you been? I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“Oh, I wasn’t feeling good.”
“Is this because of Frawn?” She asked, her voice tight with disgust.
“I’m sorry he keeps breaking up with you. You know it’s not me? And that I love you?”
“I guess so. I just don’t understand why he’s so mean. The other boys are developing more agreeable personalities.”
“Are you blaming me? You know I can’t control it. No one can.”
“I know. I just wish he’d be nice to me, that’s all.” She pouted in that irresistibly cute way Char loved. “Anyway, are we still on for tonight?”
“I can’t wait. Do you know which holo-chamber movie you want to walk through? Possibly an action one?” He crossed his fingers. He was sick of romance.
“I was thinking ‘Hope Hovers.'” She batted her eyes and pouted.
He melted and almost said yes, but Frawn started to take over. Char moved quickly and pinched his butt.
“What was that about?” Sarcoo asked. She didn’t know whether to smile or be jealous.
“Umm, a fungaroo bit me.”
That night, Char and Sarcoo walked through “Hope Hovers.” She enjoyed the holographic love story, and he enjoyed holding her hand and stealing kisses. They began to walk through the credits.
“I’m surprised Frawn didn’t show and ruin our date,” Sarcoo said.
Char nodded. He forced a weak smile, remembering how many times during the movie he’d had to pinch himself each time a romantic scene played. He got the strong impression Frawn hated romantic holo-chamber movies even more than he did.
Sarcoo smiled and kissed him. Not a quick peck like he expected, but a long, passionate kiss. Suddenly, Char felt Frawn angrily try to take over. Char quickly pinched his butt.
Sorcoo pulled back with a coy smile, “Hey, that’s my job,” and pinched his butt faster than he could stop her, turning his single pinch into a double.
“Get off. What’s wrong with you?” Frawn spit and sputtered, wiping his lips with his shirt sleeve.
Sorcoo jumped back, startled by his venomous response. She looked around, embarrassed by Frawn’s scene, and wondered to herself, Did anyone else see that? She could feel tears forming, but she closed her eyes tight and refused to let them fall.
“Frawn, I’ve had it with you. You’re not going to get between us. You hear me!”
“Yeah, what are you going to do about it?” His face, although the exact same as Char’s, looked hideous and contemptible.
She racked her brain to find a way to deal with this beastly personality, and then it hit her. Maybe there is a reason Char has been pinching his butt. She stared at Frawn with an evil smile, making a pinching motion.
She pinched, then Char would show up for a second. She pinched again, then Frawn took back control. This happened several times before Char retained control.
He looked around and winced when he saw Sarcoo, dreading to hear what Frawn had done. But she answered before he could ask. “You won’t have to worry about Frawn anymore. We made a deal. He won’t interrupt our dates if we don’t go to romantic holo-chamber movies. I guess we’ll just have to go to action holo-chamber movies from now on. The sacrifices I make for you.”
He sighed in relief, then winced in pain. “My butt is killing me.”
Sarcoo pouted, “Sorry, it took me a while to figure out the one pinch, two pinch thing.”
They left the holo-chamber with Char holding Sarcoo with one hand, and rubbing his over-pinched butt with the other.
Tamatar Chutney (Spicy Tomato Chutney)
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Yield: about 1 cup
Ingredients
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
6 to 8 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped
4 to 6 green chiles, halved and seeded
1 pound ripe tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 teaspoon paprika
Cayenne pepper, to taste
Salt, to taste
Instructions
Heat the oil in a skillet over high heat.
Add the cumin seeds and fry for 10 seconds.
Add the garlic and halved chiles and cook for 1 minute.
Add the remaining ingredients and stir to combine.
Reduce the heat and simmer uncovered for 1 hour, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes are reduced to a thick paste and the oil has separated.
Cool and serve at room temperature.
Notes
This freezes well, so go ahead and make a double or triple batch.
Will keep covered and refrigerated for 1 week, and frozen for several months.
Recipe Goldmine is now a legacy site. Please visit our sister site, Simply Great Recipes, for new recipes.
What is the difficulty level of China Gao Kao（高考）and Singapore A level?
The material for the natural sciences is broadly similar, but the math (and probably science) papers approach the Special Paper level of difficulty in some provinces (the Gaokao is not a homogeneous examination, according to my friends who went through the system).
Chinese students, on average, spend far more time preparing for examinations than Singaporeans. Even primary school students attend full-day school so by the time they leave for Secondary school, their school contact hours are way higher.
The other consideration is the scale of competition. There are perhaps 10–15,000 JC students in Singapore today. Close to 10 million Chinese students take the Gaokao yearly. It’s a totally different ball game. You can have thousands of students competing for a single spot in top-tier universities.
I took a look at several math papers from a Nanjing (or Tianjing) student once. I confessed I didn’t think I could finish the paper even in double the alloted time. I told him I probably needed a whole year to get up to speed just to finish the paper—never mind distinguishing myself—and that is if the paper was translated into English for me. I was a graduate by then so four additional years of advanced technical mathematics training did not give me any advantage. The kicker? He deflated my confidence even further when he told me the questions I’d seen were not the most difficult—the Shanghai ones were worse!
Give me the A Levels anytime.
There are reasons why Chinese students in their thousands are welcome with open arms in institutions world-wide, even though they are handicapped by language.
They are really high-quality, for one.
FIRST TIME HEARING “WILD CHERRY” – Play That Funky Music
