Zen and the Art of Dog Walking

Every night at exactly 8pm, my dog (Figure 1) starts poking his nose into my leg and staring at me with his big, brown, soulful eyes. You ignore his gaze at your peril. Those limpid, brown pools have a way of boring into your very soul and melting your resistance like Ron Sexsmith at a dessert buffet.

This behaviour indicates that it's time to go for a walk. Sometimes a walk is the last thing I feel like, but all in all, it's a good thing. It keeps me from sitting around and:

a) having another glass of wine

b) watching insipid, soul-killing t.v. shows

c) drawing silly cartoons (Figure 2)

d) all of the above

Figure 1

Figure 2

This week our nightly sojourn has allowed me to witness:

a) A truly awesome thunderstorm. And I mean that in the traditional sense of awesome, "to inspire awe," rather than the "Dude check out the awesome eyebrow piercing I got to express my individuality" sense.

You can't really experience one of those big, nasty summer thunderstorms until you're standing in the middle of it, drenched to the skin and half-blinded by the retina-burning lightning strikes. Good fun all around.

b) A stunning sunset sky filled with Maxfield Parrish clouds (Figure 3). A better man than me would have brought a camera and taken pictures, but that's not the way I operate. So far, I've never been mistaken for Ansel Adams, so you're not missing much anyway.

Figure 3

c) A majestic full-grown buck with an impressive set of antlers. For a split second there was a scene of heart-stopping, pastoral beauty as the great beast reared his head, silhouetted against the evening sky, and then my faithful dog (Figure 1) chased his sorry ass right back into the primeval forest.

Attaboy!

Speaking of Maxfield Parrish, it kind of pisses me off that guys like him and Norman Rockwell are considered mere "Illustrators" while hacks like Jackson Pollock are given the lofty title of "Artist". I saw the largest collection of Rockwells ever assembled at the Guggenheim a couple of years ago and, take it from me, that bastard could paint!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that all art should be realistic – far from it – but I do think that a great deal of modern art is a scam. Particularly the "blackish square above greyish square" variety.

Yeah, I'm talking to you Mark Fucking Rothko.