Dear Readers,
I just started a new and improved blog: www.karenremusgeniusbillionaire.blogspot.com, and I sincerely hope that you will follow me there.
Every post contains a new drawing or painting and a short story--usually both comedic. Shatner just wasn't doing it for me anymore. I think I have grown.
Thanks again for your support!!
Love,
Karen
Monday, May 13, 2013
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Taking a Break
Dear Readers,
Thank you for following my blog. I wanted to let you know that I'm taking a break for a while. I'm all Shat out at the moment.
I will resume when I think of something worthwhile.
Thanks again,
Karen
Thank you for following my blog. I wanted to let you know that I'm taking a break for a while. I'm all Shat out at the moment.
I will resume when I think of something worthwhile.
Thanks again,
Karen
Monday, December 24, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Support Your Library: Use "Geek" as a Verb
I work as a Public Library Reference Associate, and I LOVE IT! Our library has taken part in a national campaign called "Geek the Library," which highlights the fantastic, free, and incredibly diverse resources that public libraries offer. One hundred and twenty eight people--library employees and local celebrities--were photographed with things we "geek" (or love), which the library supports. These photos are appearing on billboards, in newspapers, and online, encouraging people to visit and support the library. So there I am, above, showing what I "geek."
The website www.geekthelibrary.org, explains in greater detail how "geek" became a verb. "Get your geek on at the library!" is the organization's slogan. There must be a fine line between "geek" and "freak" these days, as sometimes they are used interchangeably.
When I first heard about the campaign, I was skeptical, because I had understood a "geek" to be a carnival performer who bit the heads of chickens and/or snakes. Indeed, this is one of the first definitions listed in Webster's dictionary. However, once I saw examples of the photos, and the wide range of things people "geeked," I changed my mind. It's harmless fun and it supports libraries, so why not? I didn't have to bite the head off of anything.
Monday, September 10, 2012
It is Finished!
How do you know when a painting is finished? Especially an abstract, expressionistic thing for which you had no specific "destination" in mind to begin with?
 |
| "Blue Self Reflection," by Karen K. Remus, Copyright 2012 Acrylic on Canvas, 26" x 53" |
In the case of this painting, I was finished before I knew it. Not that I did it quickly--no-sir-ee! This thing took YEARS, on and off. It started out vertically as a window block intended to cover a depressing, dark, barred, window in a prison-like Chicago apartment in 2003. Then we moved, (window idea out the window), and it turned into a "sun over water" scene, still in the "portrait" position. That went nowhere, so it flipped horizontally, and became the story telling "triptych" that it is today.
I started with the skeletons conversing on the left and the "blue self" looking back on that interaction. I got stuck on that for a while, because I couldn't figure out the "style," or degree of "finish" or overall look I wanted to achieve. I also didn't know what the third "panel," or the area to the right of blue self would contain. That part represented the future. I experimented with different things--heads mainly--that didn't work. Then I got MAD at it. I attacked with ratty brushes and pallet knives, and colors straight out of the tube. I told myself "I don't give a shit!" And then it started to come to life.
Then the "sparkler" idea came to me. I didn't think of it as a sparkler at first, but that's what it ended up looking like, so that's what I call it. I think the sparkler and the dubious environs surrounding it causes my friend Dalton to call this painting, "Fourth of July in Hell." If he sees it that way, more power to him!
But my feelings about this painting are not hellish. Well, maybe a little, regarding the skeleton interaction, but on the whole, I see it as a positive statement. The blue figure looks back on the past and evaluates it, while ahead, waits a bright future where she can use what she has learned.
But back to the issue of "when it was finished." After painting the "hand" beneath the sparkler, I had no idea what to do next, so I put this painting away, frustrated, for months and didn't look at it. Then one day, I looked at it and thought, "I have nothing more to say or paint with regard to this. It is done." At it was! That's what I meant when I wrote, "it was finished before I knew it."
So now, it's hanging in my living room. Sometimes I think it's too busy. Sometimes I think it's too dark--or I should put a blue/violet edge on the hand. Sometimes I tell myself to stop criticizing and just accept it as another experiment. If I want something different, I just need to do another painting.
I'm through with those skeletons on the left. One was me as a young, naive art student, and the larger one was a teacher who should have realized and respected that. Old enough to know better but too desperate and egotistical to care. Now he's just old. A big old phony who ended up in my painting, and now, I'm done with him and all of the crazy mental and emotional tentacles that wove their way throughout my psyche. Eradicated like a heart worm. Have you ever seen a heart worm? Our vet has an advanced one in a jar of formaldehyde in her office. EEEEEEEWWWWW!
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Someone + Someone = Someone Else
by Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2012
Installment #2
Alternate Title: What's Happening to Dr. Oz's Face?
Obviously, the anti-aging guru is getting little lifts & injections here and there, but lately, when combined with heavy make-up, this dude is starting to look Dr. Odd. The photo of him below isn't even the most extreme example. My equation here isn't as dead-on as "Installment #1" (see previous post), but it gives you the general flavor of what I'm trying to express...
Copyright 2012
Installment #2
Alternate Title: What's Happening to Dr. Oz's Face?
Obviously, the anti-aging guru is getting little lifts & injections here and there, but lately, when combined with heavy make-up, this dude is starting to look Dr. Odd. The photo of him below isn't even the most extreme example. My equation here isn't as dead-on as "Installment #1" (see previous post), but it gives you the general flavor of what I'm trying to express...
Someone + Someone = Someone Else
By Karen Kay Remus
Copyright 2012
Installment #1
I'm always looking at people and thinking, "He or she looks like a cross between so-and-so and what's-'s-face," and I am always DEAD ON. So I decided to start documenting these observations as I discover them.
The first is entitled, Tom Cruise + Jackie Kennedy = Mary Kennedy (no blood relation)
Copyright 2012
Installment #1
I'm always looking at people and thinking, "He or she looks like a cross between so-and-so and what's-'s-face," and I am always DEAD ON. So I decided to start documenting these observations as I discover them.
The first is entitled, Tom Cruise + Jackie Kennedy = Mary Kennedy (no blood relation)
Friday, April 13, 2012
Bobby Petrino: LUCKY!
Does anyone besides me think that Bobby Petrino should be THANKFUL THAT HIS HEAD WASN'T RIPPED OFF? No one is mentioning this. He should also be thankful that:
1) His mistress got off without a scratch, and
2) His entire face wasn't scrapped off (later to be unveiled live w/ Ophra as part of her continued effort to raise awareness about the dangers of pet monkeys and motorcycles).
This is a modern day miracle, people! What disturbs me most is that this guy didn't deserve it. He couldn't handle his hog, he was riding without a helmet, and he was endangering a passenger! Perhaps he also neglected to tell police that he'd been showing off to his girlfriend by juggling lighted cans of Sterno. "Look Jess, no hands!"
Getting fired and called out on an affair are REALLY SMALL potatoes compared to what might have befallen this red-faced, neck-braced, idiot who now admits to having made “bad decisions.”
I love that buzzword for high-profile philanderers who are busted and forced to confess. Bad decisions. It’s as if these guys receive life-or-death proposals and are pressured to give instantaneous “yes” or “no” answers—only to regret it later. It can happen to anyone, right?
For example, one day, a man in a tuxedo walks into Bobby Petrino’s office, holds a gun to Bobby’s head (for some reason, while sitting at his desk, Bobby is wearing his motorcycle helmet) and says, “There’s a 25-year old, blonde, athletic chick who wants a job, $20k, and your body. Is it a deal, or isn’t it?”
Bobby hears the gun cock against his helmet and thinks, “If sound travels through my helmet, perhaps bullets can too,” and a second later screams, “Yes! It’s a deal.”
Bad decisions. They happen every day.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Duncan and Me
By Karen Kay Remus, © 2012
Chance Meeting in Columbus Georgia
You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. You may find yourself in another part of the world. You may find yourself having dinner with Sir Winston Churchill’s great grandson, Duncan Sandys (pronounced Sands). And you may ask yourself: What do I say to him?
Well, you needn’t worry, because Duncan Sandys, like his g-g-pop, will do most of the talking and do it eloquently. Furthermore, he’s such a dead-ringer for The Greatest Briton of All Time, you’ll probably just sit there, staring at him with your mouth hanging open. And you may ask yourself: How did I get here?
How does anyone find themselves suddenly supping with Churchill’s doppelganger descendant? Well, for me, it was like this: my husband Tom had helped assemble a gallery show featuring the artwork of President “Ike” Eisenhower. Churchill had been one of Ike’s great friends, sharing many of his interests and talents, including painting. Sandys had been asked to speak about their friendship and his great grandfather’s artwork, as part of the Eisenhower exhibit and lecture series. After his speech, the founders of the event took him to dinner, and there you have it.
Dinner with Duncan
So, we’re all sitting there in the back room of the Loft, which, for conversational purposes, has the most horrible acoustics imaginable. The canned music is blaring, the kitchen is clanging, and the collective conversations from the front of the restaurant are bouncing off the tin ceiling, over the partition wall, and onto our table. The home-made potato chip appetizers create a deafening crunch that blots out intelligible speech, and I am located on the end of the eight-top table, several feet and people away from our visiting dignitary.
Duncan is a gin and tonic man. He has two. He orders steak and potatoes—just like me! He’s big and tall, so he holds his liquor well. He’s dignified and well-spoken—a total aristocrat--but he blushes like a little kid and dimples when he smiles. He’s absolutely adorable, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying.
I Cup my Ear
I decide to use physics to my advantage. Cupping a large hand to a large ear, I fashion a flesh gramophone horn and focus it on Duncan. Now I look dorky, but I can hear his lovely British accent, so who cares?
He was going to take his American drivers test tomorrow. He had observed a very large female driving instructor, and thought that perhaps his test could consist simply of driving through a McDonalds and getting a few Big Macs. I ask if they have drive-throughs in England, and he says, “No, that’s a purely American phenomenon.”
Then he tells of going into a Starbucks in Tennessee, where he’s the only customer, but they still ask his name and insist on writing it on his cup. He tells the girl that his name is “Duncan,” and she writes, “D-U-N-K-I-N.”
“Like the doughnuts,” I say.
“Yes,” he says, “I can’t believe how incredibly thick some people are—and I did once get THREE free Dunkin’ doughnuts, because I was 'named after the store'(said in falsetto, mimicking the thick, American doughnut slinger)!”
America, the embarrassing.
Chance Meeting in Columbus Georgia
You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. You may find yourself in another part of the world. You may find yourself having dinner with Sir Winston Churchill’s great grandson, Duncan Sandys (pronounced Sands). And you may ask yourself: What do I say to him?
Well, you needn’t worry, because Duncan Sandys, like his g-g-pop, will do most of the talking and do it eloquently. Furthermore, he’s such a dead-ringer for The Greatest Briton of All Time, you’ll probably just sit there, staring at him with your mouth hanging open. And you may ask yourself: How did I get here?
How does anyone find themselves suddenly supping with Churchill’s doppelganger descendant? Well, for me, it was like this: my husband Tom had helped assemble a gallery show featuring the artwork of President “Ike” Eisenhower. Churchill had been one of Ike’s great friends, sharing many of his interests and talents, including painting. Sandys had been asked to speak about their friendship and his great grandfather’s artwork, as part of the Eisenhower exhibit and lecture series. After his speech, the founders of the event took him to dinner, and there you have it.
Dinner with Duncan
So, we’re all sitting there in the back room of the Loft, which, for conversational purposes, has the most horrible acoustics imaginable. The canned music is blaring, the kitchen is clanging, and the collective conversations from the front of the restaurant are bouncing off the tin ceiling, over the partition wall, and onto our table. The home-made potato chip appetizers create a deafening crunch that blots out intelligible speech, and I am located on the end of the eight-top table, several feet and people away from our visiting dignitary.
Duncan is a gin and tonic man. He has two. He orders steak and potatoes—just like me! He’s big and tall, so he holds his liquor well. He’s dignified and well-spoken—a total aristocrat--but he blushes like a little kid and dimples when he smiles. He’s absolutely adorable, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying.
I Cup my Ear
I decide to use physics to my advantage. Cupping a large hand to a large ear, I fashion a flesh gramophone horn and focus it on Duncan. Now I look dorky, but I can hear his lovely British accent, so who cares?
He was going to take his American drivers test tomorrow. He had observed a very large female driving instructor, and thought that perhaps his test could consist simply of driving through a McDonalds and getting a few Big Macs. I ask if they have drive-throughs in England, and he says, “No, that’s a purely American phenomenon.”
Then he tells of going into a Starbucks in Tennessee, where he’s the only customer, but they still ask his name and insist on writing it on his cup. He tells the girl that his name is “Duncan,” and she writes, “D-U-N-K-I-N.”
“Like the doughnuts,” I say.
“Yes,” he says, “I can’t believe how incredibly thick some people are—and I did once get THREE free Dunkin’ doughnuts, because I was 'named after the store'(said in falsetto, mimicking the thick, American doughnut slinger)!”
America, the embarrassing.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Me and George Takei
I LOVE LOVE LOVE George Takei!! In fact, I'd like to sing a little song in his honor. Eh hem...
Georgie is just alright with me
Georgie is just alright, oh yeah
Georgie is just alright with me
Georgie is just alright--Oh YEEEAAAAAH!!
Georgieeeeeee is my frieeeeend.... (etc. etc.)
OK, so I stole the tune. Sue me, whoever wrote "Jesus is Just Alright."
And I'll have you know, I actually SANG it. I didn't "talk" it, like some bitchy former George Takei co-stars--yes--co-stars. No, I haven't forgotten the title of this blog, but my reverence for the William has suffered some cumulative blows of late--some at the expense of my beloved George--and so my formerly infinite mercy toward Bill is starting to wane. I mean, before these blows, I had even forgiven him for "Rocket Man--" but no more. Now I say, "HEY ROCKET MAN--SWING ME CLOSER TO THE SUN SO I CAN LIGHT MY CIGARETTE & GET PUT OUT OF THE MISERY YOU'VE CAUSED BY BUTCHERING THAT SONG!"
The first major hit came when Bill claimed he hadn't been invited to George's wedding, when in fact, he had. He just wanted to use this fake "conflict" to get attention. This is all well documented on line, with interviews of Takei and Shatner. It's so obvious which one is lying.
You might be saying, "Hey, if you're so down on Shatner, why use his name in your blog title?" I would reply, "I use Shatner's name for the same reason he does: TO GET ATTENTION."
The second hit was this awful video of Shatner telling Carrie Fisher that fitting into her old Princess Leia costume in the present day would require "serious uplift." His evil, contorted facial expression, combined with the way he physically "reels up" to deliver this message (complete with "uplifting" hand gestures) actually made me scream with revulsion. "EEEEWWWWWWW!" I screamed, as I ran from the computer into the living room, where my mild-mannered artist-husband had been peacefully reading. "I can't believe the hideousness of what I just saw!"
"What was it?" Asked my husband. "William Shatner being a BITCH!" I replied.
George would totally understand this. He suffered with it for years. I feel like I know George, having read his awesome autobiography (which, unlike Shatner's, did not require a ghost writer) and basically grown up watching him on TV. He is honest and brave. His contributions to Man-kind extend far beyond his acting career. He has class. He's funny. He's smart. Plus, he has a cool blog and a great Facebook page. And finally, no one but George Takei can generate so much love simply by saying, "You are a douche-bag."
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Me, Paul, and Elvis
Dear Reader,
As of this writing, I can tell you this about me, Paul McCartney, and Elvis Presley: Paul and I are alive, while Elvis is dead. I believe this, despite rumors to the contrary about both Paul and Elvis. No one makes rumors about my death, as far as I know.
Back in the 70s, when Paul was perhaps at the pinnacle of aliveness, rumors surfaced that he was dead. "Clues" as to his death were supposedly hidden in Beatle songs and album covers. "Oh No!" We rabid Beatle fans screamed, "Paul is dead. We miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im..." We played parts of songs backwards (because we could, back in the good ol' vinyl days), and searched the Abbey Road album cover, finding such evidence as "28 If (he hadn't blown his mind out in a car)" on a license plate, and the metaphorical pose and dress of the Beatles crossing the road, wherein John = God, Ringo = undertaker, George = grave digger, and Paul = Dead. Everyone knows, of course, that "bare feet = dead."
At the time, I found this mystery darkly intriguing, but looking back as an adult, I can't help but notice the vast lameness and implausibility of it all. I mean, if Paul had really died in a car crash at that point in history, we survivors would have been inundated with ALL PAUL ALL THE TIME for a year or more--just like with Lady Di--only worse. You could not have picked up a paper or magazine, or turned on the radio or TV without having seen or heard the latest about Paul's tragic death, his gigantic funeral, and the horrific toll his loss had taken on fans the world over. Girls would have been leaping off bridges en mass. I would have thought about it, but if I had actually reached the railing thought, "I am doing this WHY?"
Paul's death would not have been covered up and then "leaked" with stupid ass "clues." If it had been covered up and leaked, the clues would have been a lot more blatant. The music would have conspicuously lacked a melodic bass line, and the chorus to Yellow Submarine would have been, "We all live in a yellow Paul is dead."
So now, about Elvis, who John Lennon once said that Paul McCartney resembled. Elvis died in 1982 (I think, correct me if I'm wrong. I'm too lazy to check Wikipedia), but shortly thereafter, rumors started surfacing that he was still alive, and his death had been faked. The "clues" to this rumor included the misspelling of his middle name on his headstone (no one ever fakes death and spells their name correctly on a headstone; it's unlucky), and poorly recorded audio tapes of slurring Elvis impersonators blathering on about how they'd been hiding out in cabins, going to diners, talking to sobbing waitresses, eating fried food, and what not. I must say that "Elvis is alive" was a tad more believable than "Paul is dead."
At that time in the 80s, I really wanted to believe that Elvis was still alive, because it gave me some kind of weird hope. I reasoned that Elvis had become so famous, that his only option for having a "normal existence" at that point was to fake his death. I even wrote a song about it entitled, "EIA." The song was actually kind of catchy.
The idea of Elvis having risen from the dead is consistent with the religious power many people associated with him. Some fans had elevated him to sainthood, perhaps due to his musical crossover into the gospel genre. Religious Elvis fans looked right past his pulsating pumping pelvis into his eternal God and Mama lovin' soul. A righteous man like that simply cannot OD on the crapper!
I guess I should tie this all together now, since I have to go to work. Hmmm... Paul was alive but they said he was dead. Elvis was dead but they said he was alive. I am alive and I have to work at five. And some day we'll all know the root of this jive.
As of this writing, I can tell you this about me, Paul McCartney, and Elvis Presley: Paul and I are alive, while Elvis is dead. I believe this, despite rumors to the contrary about both Paul and Elvis. No one makes rumors about my death, as far as I know.
Back in the 70s, when Paul was perhaps at the pinnacle of aliveness, rumors surfaced that he was dead. "Clues" as to his death were supposedly hidden in Beatle songs and album covers. "Oh No!" We rabid Beatle fans screamed, "Paul is dead. We miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im, miss 'im..." We played parts of songs backwards (because we could, back in the good ol' vinyl days), and searched the Abbey Road album cover, finding such evidence as "28 If (he hadn't blown his mind out in a car)" on a license plate, and the metaphorical pose and dress of the Beatles crossing the road, wherein John = God, Ringo = undertaker, George = grave digger, and Paul = Dead. Everyone knows, of course, that "bare feet = dead."
At the time, I found this mystery darkly intriguing, but looking back as an adult, I can't help but notice the vast lameness and implausibility of it all. I mean, if Paul had really died in a car crash at that point in history, we survivors would have been inundated with ALL PAUL ALL THE TIME for a year or more--just like with Lady Di--only worse. You could not have picked up a paper or magazine, or turned on the radio or TV without having seen or heard the latest about Paul's tragic death, his gigantic funeral, and the horrific toll his loss had taken on fans the world over. Girls would have been leaping off bridges en mass. I would have thought about it, but if I had actually reached the railing thought, "I am doing this WHY?"
Paul's death would not have been covered up and then "leaked" with stupid ass "clues." If it had been covered up and leaked, the clues would have been a lot more blatant. The music would have conspicuously lacked a melodic bass line, and the chorus to Yellow Submarine would have been, "We all live in a yellow Paul is dead."
So now, about Elvis, who John Lennon once said that Paul McCartney resembled. Elvis died in 1982 (I think, correct me if I'm wrong. I'm too lazy to check Wikipedia), but shortly thereafter, rumors started surfacing that he was still alive, and his death had been faked. The "clues" to this rumor included the misspelling of his middle name on his headstone (no one ever fakes death and spells their name correctly on a headstone; it's unlucky), and poorly recorded audio tapes of slurring Elvis impersonators blathering on about how they'd been hiding out in cabins, going to diners, talking to sobbing waitresses, eating fried food, and what not. I must say that "Elvis is alive" was a tad more believable than "Paul is dead."
At that time in the 80s, I really wanted to believe that Elvis was still alive, because it gave me some kind of weird hope. I reasoned that Elvis had become so famous, that his only option for having a "normal existence" at that point was to fake his death. I even wrote a song about it entitled, "EIA." The song was actually kind of catchy.
The idea of Elvis having risen from the dead is consistent with the religious power many people associated with him. Some fans had elevated him to sainthood, perhaps due to his musical crossover into the gospel genre. Religious Elvis fans looked right past his pulsating pumping pelvis into his eternal God and Mama lovin' soul. A righteous man like that simply cannot OD on the crapper!
I guess I should tie this all together now, since I have to go to work. Hmmm... Paul was alive but they said he was dead. Elvis was dead but they said he was alive. I am alive and I have to work at five. And some day we'll all know the root of this jive.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Me and Al Gore
First of all, when I typed the title just now, I wrote "Bore" instead of "Gore." Honest to God! No one would believe me, though, because it's too obvious a joke. Supposedly, one of Al's professors called him "the wooden Apollo." How many times has this poor guy been called "lackluster, dull, uninteresting, bland, (fill in your favorite synonym for 'boring' here), etc?" How many times? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....drool.... zzzzzzzzzzzz...
Oh, excuse, me, Dear Reader, I seem to have nodded off while typing! Sorry. Uh... what was I typing about?
Oh yes. The entity known as Al Gore. Some folks find him boring, but I think that's irrelevant in his case, because he's smart, brave, and has done so many positive things with his life. He speaks the truth and drives Republicans crazy, which in my book, trumps "exciting" any day.
So why am I typing about Al Gore at all? Because I'm PISSED AT HIM, that's why! I'm also semi ticked at Nancy Pelosi, but Al is my whipping boy tonight, because he was the most hyped "prize" in the "dinner contest" which I LOST with a capital "L." To Al Gore, I am an unknown loser. I voted for him. I prayed for him. I gave him cash. I watched his little documentary. I read parts of his books (couldn't get into them--too boring).
Even as I type, Al Gore, Nancy Pelosi, and the "winner" of the contest, "Sarah from CA," are sitting down to a dinner in Menlo Park CA, sans Karen Kay Remus. Actually, it's 3 hours earlier there, so the guests are probably just walking through the body scanners at this point. You see, Dear Readers, DCCC.org ran a "contest" last Thursday, wherein if you contributed to the DCCC that day, you'd be entered to "win a chance to meet Al Gore and Nancy Pelosi" tonight.
All expenses would be paid for the lucky winner, including hotel and airfare. That means, if you were from the OTHER SIDE OF THE NATION, like me, they'd fly you out. I figured, "what have I got to lose (besides my contribution)?" So I entered.
I dug deep into my shallow pockets, and gave a generous (for me) contribution of $20.12. Get it? "DEMS 2012!" I figured that the sheer genius of the number should have made me "winner." But NO! I lost. My genius alone was not enough to win dinner with Al Gore. I had to be a rich genius. By the way, I still plan to change my last name to Genius-Billionaire; it's just too expensive right now. I'm pretty sure that it would have also helped to live in California, like the winner, who, depending on where she lived, might not have need airfare or hotel? Hmmm... Oh well, far worse things have been rigged.
Did anyone besides me give $20.12? I don't know, but I'd bet GOOD MONEY (as much as $5) that some rich Democrat(s) gave $2,012.00, and I have a sneaking suspicion they would have been closer to the winner's pool. Rich Democrats? That sounds like an oxymoron. In my 47 years on the planet, I've only met a handful of rich Democrats (using my definition of "rich;" not John McCain's), and I think it's sad that Democrats--the historically poorer of the two parties--are now being begged for money in an attempt to counter the unlimited political contributions allowed for corporations. How can we poor Dems compete?
But back to the dinner. Who came up with the idea initially? Who decided that meeting Al Gore = prize? Al himself? As in, "Pay me enough money, and you can WIN meeting ME!" And, "Pay a bit more, and you can win drinks with me afterwards." And, "Pay me just a little bit more, and..." Wait a minute. This is sounding less "Al Bore" and more "Al Whore." Hey, that's sort of weirdly exciting. Sort of.
But seriously, Dear Reader, Al is one of my heroes--right up there with William Shatner. Both Al and Bill are great in their own ways--and I'm sure they'd be the first ones to agree with that. Don't get me wrong. I truly respect the work Al has done on behalf of the planet and the Democratic Party, but he is really missing something. Me. I am the least boring person on the planet. I could give him lessons on how to be exciting. The last time I entered a contest to meet someone, I WON. It was in 1987. It was BILL SHATNER, and he didn't need lessons.
Oh, excuse, me, Dear Reader, I seem to have nodded off while typing! Sorry. Uh... what was I typing about?
Oh yes. The entity known as Al Gore. Some folks find him boring, but I think that's irrelevant in his case, because he's smart, brave, and has done so many positive things with his life. He speaks the truth and drives Republicans crazy, which in my book, trumps "exciting" any day.
So why am I typing about Al Gore at all? Because I'm PISSED AT HIM, that's why! I'm also semi ticked at Nancy Pelosi, but Al is my whipping boy tonight, because he was the most hyped "prize" in the "dinner contest" which I LOST with a capital "L." To Al Gore, I am an unknown loser. I voted for him. I prayed for him. I gave him cash. I watched his little documentary. I read parts of his books (couldn't get into them--too boring).
Even as I type, Al Gore, Nancy Pelosi, and the "winner" of the contest, "Sarah from CA," are sitting down to a dinner in Menlo Park CA, sans Karen Kay Remus. Actually, it's 3 hours earlier there, so the guests are probably just walking through the body scanners at this point. You see, Dear Readers, DCCC.org ran a "contest" last Thursday, wherein if you contributed to the DCCC that day, you'd be entered to "win a chance to meet Al Gore and Nancy Pelosi" tonight.
All expenses would be paid for the lucky winner, including hotel and airfare. That means, if you were from the OTHER SIDE OF THE NATION, like me, they'd fly you out. I figured, "what have I got to lose (besides my contribution)?" So I entered.
I dug deep into my shallow pockets, and gave a generous (for me) contribution of $20.12. Get it? "DEMS 2012!" I figured that the sheer genius of the number should have made me "winner." But NO! I lost. My genius alone was not enough to win dinner with Al Gore. I had to be a rich genius. By the way, I still plan to change my last name to Genius-Billionaire; it's just too expensive right now. I'm pretty sure that it would have also helped to live in California, like the winner, who, depending on where she lived, might not have need airfare or hotel? Hmmm... Oh well, far worse things have been rigged.
Did anyone besides me give $20.12? I don't know, but I'd bet GOOD MONEY (as much as $5) that some rich Democrat(s) gave $2,012.00, and I have a sneaking suspicion they would have been closer to the winner's pool. Rich Democrats? That sounds like an oxymoron. In my 47 years on the planet, I've only met a handful of rich Democrats (using my definition of "rich;" not John McCain's), and I think it's sad that Democrats--the historically poorer of the two parties--are now being begged for money in an attempt to counter the unlimited political contributions allowed for corporations. How can we poor Dems compete?
But back to the dinner. Who came up with the idea initially? Who decided that meeting Al Gore = prize? Al himself? As in, "Pay me enough money, and you can WIN meeting ME!" And, "Pay a bit more, and you can win drinks with me afterwards." And, "Pay me just a little bit more, and..." Wait a minute. This is sounding less "Al Bore" and more "Al Whore." Hey, that's sort of weirdly exciting. Sort of.
But seriously, Dear Reader, Al is one of my heroes--right up there with William Shatner. Both Al and Bill are great in their own ways--and I'm sure they'd be the first ones to agree with that. Don't get me wrong. I truly respect the work Al has done on behalf of the planet and the Democratic Party, but he is really missing something. Me. I am the least boring person on the planet. I could give him lessons on how to be exciting. The last time I entered a contest to meet someone, I WON. It was in 1987. It was BILL SHATNER, and he didn't need lessons.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Incubus
Incubus
A New Drawing by Karen Kay Remus, Copyright 2011
Conte crayon on paper, 8.5" x 10"
Incubus: 1) an evil spirit supposed to descend upon sleeping persons, esp. one fabled to have sexual intercourse with sleeping women. 2) A nightmare. 3) Something that oppresses one like a nightmare.
Friday, September 9, 2011
ME AND GOD
Me and God
By Karen Kay Remus © 2011
I’m on a first name basis with God. I talk to Him every day and I say, “God this and God that…” and He doesn’t have a problem with it. He doesn’t give me that, “It’s Mr. God to you,” or “Sir God,” or “Dr. God.” No, just “God” is fine. So I figure we’re pret-ty tight. Right? Pret-ty tight.
So the other day I’m talking to my best buddy, God, and I say, “Hey God, if we’re such great friends, how cum I always have to do all the talking?” And you know what he says? Nothing. Complete, utter, silence. And I say, “Oh, You’re giving me the silent treatment now, right?” Nothing. Not a peep.
The next day, I’m at my psychiatrist’s office—and this guy is “Dr. Dude.” No way would he ever let me call him “Jeff.” It’s totally professional—not all cozy and informal like with God. And he asks me, “Have you been hearing voices?” And I say, “Uh, yeah…otherwise I wouldn’t know you just asked me a stupid fucking question, now would I?”
He says, “I mean voices that other people can’t hear?” And I say, “Well, you’re my doctor, and we're in a session, and if anyone else besides me can hear your goddam voice right now, I’m gonna sue your Freudian ass.”
Then he gets all huffy and says, “If you continue to use that language with me, I’m going to dismiss you from my practice.” And I say, “English is the only language I know, so I guess you’re going to have to dismiss me.”
Then HE starts giving me the silent treatment. After about 20 minutes I say, “You’re about as chatty as God,” and you know what he says? Nothing.
So I say, “Fuck this, Jeff, I’m outta here.” And he says, “Indeed, you are.” And a few days later, I get a letter saying I’m dismissed from his practice.
So then I get to thinking about God, and I wonder if He’s going to pull the same shit. So I say, “God? Are you giving me the silent treatment as a prelude to dismissing me from your practice? Am I speaking the wrong language or something?”
And you know what he says?
“Shut thou the fuck up!”
By Karen Kay Remus © 2011
I’m on a first name basis with God. I talk to Him every day and I say, “God this and God that…” and He doesn’t have a problem with it. He doesn’t give me that, “It’s Mr. God to you,” or “Sir God,” or “Dr. God.” No, just “God” is fine. So I figure we’re pret-ty tight. Right? Pret-ty tight.
So the other day I’m talking to my best buddy, God, and I say, “Hey God, if we’re such great friends, how cum I always have to do all the talking?” And you know what he says? Nothing. Complete, utter, silence. And I say, “Oh, You’re giving me the silent treatment now, right?” Nothing. Not a peep.
The next day, I’m at my psychiatrist’s office—and this guy is “Dr. Dude.” No way would he ever let me call him “Jeff.” It’s totally professional—not all cozy and informal like with God. And he asks me, “Have you been hearing voices?” And I say, “Uh, yeah…otherwise I wouldn’t know you just asked me a stupid fucking question, now would I?”
He says, “I mean voices that other people can’t hear?” And I say, “Well, you’re my doctor, and we're in a session, and if anyone else besides me can hear your goddam voice right now, I’m gonna sue your Freudian ass.”
Then he gets all huffy and says, “If you continue to use that language with me, I’m going to dismiss you from my practice.” And I say, “English is the only language I know, so I guess you’re going to have to dismiss me.”
Then HE starts giving me the silent treatment. After about 20 minutes I say, “You’re about as chatty as God,” and you know what he says? Nothing.
So I say, “Fuck this, Jeff, I’m outta here.” And he says, “Indeed, you are.” And a few days later, I get a letter saying I’m dismissed from his practice.
So then I get to thinking about God, and I wonder if He’s going to pull the same shit. So I say, “God? Are you giving me the silent treatment as a prelude to dismissing me from your practice? Am I speaking the wrong language or something?”
And you know what he says?
“Shut thou the fuck up!”
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Attack of the Overly Made-Up Horse-Faced Bleached Blonde
Original Paintingby Karen Kay Remus Copyright 2011
9"x12" Gouache on Paper
While browsing the news today, I saw a photo of a famous woman considered "beautiful," by a large segment of the population that does not include me. I actually winced, because I could see that undernethe all of that processing, she was not attractive at all. In fact, I saw several photos of other female stars employing the exact same look, presumably in an attempt to be sexy, but actually (in my opinion) appearing cliche and frightening. It's the super-skinny, sun-baked, boob-boosting, ultra made-up, bleached-blonde look, and it's been around for AGES. Seriously, any woman can look this way, if she so desires (just add chemicals and subtract food)--but why would she want to? Am I the only one who's getting tired of this?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
What's Next in Wienerville?
What's Next in Wienerville?, Gouache on Paper, 9"x12"
by Karen Kay Remus, Copyright 2011
If you're like me, Dear Reader, you've been following the Wiener story with relish. Now that he's stepped down, my question is, "What will he do next?" I think he should become a comedic left-wing pundit like John Stewart. He's got the wit, the ego, and the political background--he'd be a shoe in! Yes, entertainment is the next logical career choice for this tantalizing tube steak. What do you think?
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Wiener Effect
By Karen Kay Remus, Copyright 2011
Dear Reader, if you have read and enjoyed this spotty, on-again-off-again blog, I would first like to apologize for its being mostly "off" in nature. Part of that is due to the fact that my head exploded (please see 4/1/11 entry). I would next like to apologize for what I am about to write...
The Multifaceted Wiener Effect and The Wienerization of Modern American Culture and Politics.
Eh hem... First, we all know that everybody loves a wiener, and especially a wiener scandal. Everyone also knows that a Congressman named Wiener twittered his boxer-clad wiener into digital immortality.
We cannot blame the congressman for his action, because his surname predestined him to do so. Furthermore, the begging and pleading of numerous women online to "SHOW US YOUR WIENER!" left him absolutely no option but to do just that. It is a confirmed law of nature that a man who is given such a request MUST comply or die trying.
If we cannot blame the man then who can we blame? Let's blame his ancestors who bore the name Wiener. Why would anyone keep such a name? Pride? As in, "I come from a long line of Wieners." Or, "I am Wiener, son of Frank." Or, "Polish the silver and get out the best china: the Wieners are coming," or "Weiner takes all." Personally speaking, if my last name were Weiner, I would change it. To "Smith" or something. Would somebody named Smith ever voluntarily change their name to Wiener? Not a chance. But there are those who claim to "wish they were an Oscar Meyer Wiener," so "everyone would be in love" with them (and eat them--but that's a whole nuther can of psychological worms). There is definitely a connection between name and destiny. Perhaps I should change my last name to Genius-Billionaire.
But back on the wiener track... What if Congressman Wiener's daughter grows up to marry a guy with the last name Schnitzel and chooses to have a hyphenated last name?
OK. Enough for now about the name. Let's look at the man. I mean REALLY SCRUTINIZE him and notice that he has a nice body and a decidedly goofy-looking face. The only things that can override a face like that in the attractiveness department are: power, money, success, popularity/fame, intelligence, and humor. Wiener has all of those things now, but back in high school, with his hormones at their raging worst, you can bet it was a different story entirely. He probably couldn't get a date to save his life. So now that he's paid his academic and political dues, worked hard, buffed up at the gym, gotten some nice suits, and attained all of those face-overriding qualities, he IS MAKING UP FOR LOST HIGH SCHOOL TIME. He has in fact regressed to high school mentality, sexting, and enjoying those naughty pleasures he'd been denied as a teenage dweeb named Wiener. This happens all the time.
To be continued...
Dear Reader, if you have read and enjoyed this spotty, on-again-off-again blog, I would first like to apologize for its being mostly "off" in nature. Part of that is due to the fact that my head exploded (please see 4/1/11 entry). I would next like to apologize for what I am about to write...
The Multifaceted Wiener Effect and The Wienerization of Modern American Culture and Politics.
Eh hem... First, we all know that everybody loves a wiener, and especially a wiener scandal. Everyone also knows that a Congressman named Wiener twittered his boxer-clad wiener into digital immortality.
We cannot blame the congressman for his action, because his surname predestined him to do so. Furthermore, the begging and pleading of numerous women online to "SHOW US YOUR WIENER!" left him absolutely no option but to do just that. It is a confirmed law of nature that a man who is given such a request MUST comply or die trying.
If we cannot blame the man then who can we blame? Let's blame his ancestors who bore the name Wiener. Why would anyone keep such a name? Pride? As in, "I come from a long line of Wieners." Or, "I am Wiener, son of Frank." Or, "Polish the silver and get out the best china: the Wieners are coming," or "Weiner takes all." Personally speaking, if my last name were Weiner, I would change it. To "Smith" or something. Would somebody named Smith ever voluntarily change their name to Wiener? Not a chance. But there are those who claim to "wish they were an Oscar Meyer Wiener," so "everyone would be in love" with them (and eat them--but that's a whole nuther can of psychological worms). There is definitely a connection between name and destiny. Perhaps I should change my last name to Genius-Billionaire.
But back on the wiener track... What if Congressman Wiener's daughter grows up to marry a guy with the last name Schnitzel and chooses to have a hyphenated last name?
OK. Enough for now about the name. Let's look at the man. I mean REALLY SCRUTINIZE him and notice that he has a nice body and a decidedly goofy-looking face. The only things that can override a face like that in the attractiveness department are: power, money, success, popularity/fame, intelligence, and humor. Wiener has all of those things now, but back in high school, with his hormones at their raging worst, you can bet it was a different story entirely. He probably couldn't get a date to save his life. So now that he's paid his academic and political dues, worked hard, buffed up at the gym, gotten some nice suits, and attained all of those face-overriding qualities, he IS MAKING UP FOR LOST HIGH SCHOOL TIME. He has in fact regressed to high school mentality, sexting, and enjoying those naughty pleasures he'd been denied as a teenage dweeb named Wiener. This happens all the time.
To be continued...
A Coed Writes Her Congressman
by Karen Kay Remus, Copyright 2011
Dear Congressman Wiener,
I am writing you with regard to sexual harassment policies at my university that are not stiff enough...please advise...
Sincerely,
Susie Q. Public
Dear Ms. Public,
Thank you for writing me about the troubling lack of stiffness in your university's policy. First, if it's stiffness you want, look no further than my boxer briefs (see attached photo)...
Sincerely,
Congressman Wiener
Dear Congressman Wiener,
I am writing you with regard to sexual harassment policies at my university that are not stiff enough...please advise...
Sincerely,
Susie Q. Public
Dear Ms. Public,
Thank you for writing me about the troubling lack of stiffness in your university's policy. First, if it's stiffness you want, look no further than my boxer briefs (see attached photo)...
Sincerely,
Congressman Wiener
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Must-See Shatner Music Video
I wish I could take credit for the above, but I can't.
"Common People," Original Song by Pulp
From the William Shatner Album, "Has Been," Produced by Ben Folds
Video by You Tube User, KirkSlashSpock
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