This is my wife taking a photo of an approaching elephant. I have to say, I was more than a bit disappointed when our guide said that I wasn’t permitted to exit the vehicle and ride the elephant. Naturally, I filed a complaint with the tour company demanding a full refund.
I have traveled all over the world, to Europe, China, and even to Canada. So, I think I know a thing or two about how to get around in foreign cultures – with the exception of Canada. Those Canucks are a total mystery to me.
Here’s a useful tip: When traveling to a foreign country, it is not necessary to be able to speak the local language. Say you’re in Paris. And the only phrase you know is “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” – a phrase that is not very helpful unless you are trying to seduce your waitress at the cafe. No worries. Just speak in English using a really lame French accent. They will quickly become annoyed with you and start replying in English, “What are you trying to ask, Mister?” Trust me, everybody speaks English these days – except teenagers, who apparently only use emojis to communicate.
I recently returned from a three-week safari tour of southern Africa. You know, one of those “glamping” adventures, where you stay in “tents” that are nicer than my house. Based on my experience, let me share with you a few insights to help you evaluate whether glamping in Africa is your cup of tea.
First of all, to my surprise, I learned that Africa is not a country. It is a continent. And a very large one at that. We visited four countries: Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana, and South Africa. The plan was to hop into Toyota Land Cruisers and drive through the wilderness in search of all sorts of exotic critters and birds. Oh sure, we saw plenty of lions (but not a single tiger or bear, oh my). We also came upon elephants up close, as well as hippos, giraffes, Cape buffalos, crocodiles, and other amazing critters in the wild. But I had my heart set on spotting a giant panda. Alas, during the entire three weeks, the only panda I saw was on a sign at a Panda Express fast food joint at the airport.
The areas I saw were mostly grasslands and woodlands, not the deep jungle. So, we did not see a single gorilla. Again, deeply disappointing. But we did see several baboons and monkeys – at a picnic area where our land cruisers made a stop at for lunch one day. One vervet monkey leapt out of a tree, jumped on the picnic table, knocked over a bottle of wine, and made off with one person’s sandwich. (True.) Monkeys can be so rude – almost as rude as American tourists.
I’ll admit it was kind of cool to see lions out in the wild. One time, a pride of seven of them came up to our land cruisers and lay down right next to the vehicles for shade. I was literally two feet from an adult male (see photo below). But I was more than a little disappointed when the tour guide informed me that it was not safe for me to pat the lion behind the ears – or on the belly for that matter – even though I saw Joe Exotic on the Netflix docuseries Tiger King do that all the time.
One thing that I found rather lame is that, unlike at zoos back home, none of the savanna areas we went had those informational plaques with fun facts about the various critters we saw. All you saw was the animal. I couldn’t even Google “fun facts about leopards” because we had no internet in the middle of nowhere. They really need to look into that.
And yeah, it was pretty amazing when we came upon a leopard that had killed an adult impala and carried it 25 feet up a tree – with only its jaws – so it could enjoy its kill without vultures or lions trying to muscle in on its dinner. Something I had never seen in my life. But I was hoping it would have killed a rhino or a hippo. That would have been way cooler. So, yeah, kind of a letdown.
No, this is not a doctored photo. The lions really got this close to us. I was about to offer up a slice of raw steak to coax one of the lions to jump in the jeep so I could pat him. I mean look how calm and relaxed they all appear. But our guide said no to that too. Some people are such Debbie Downers.
The lodges where we stayed all had tents. And not the kind of tent you might think of for a camping trip back home. These tents came with flush toilets, showers with warm water, ceiling fans, and electricity. But no flat screen TV’s in your room. Come on, guys! This is the 21st century. And they would not let you walk from your tent to the lodge after dark. They had to escort you with an armed guide, in case a lion or hippo might attack. In fact a lion had killed an antelope right outside of our tent the night before we arrived. (True.) That would never have happened had we stayed at the Marriott.
Fun fact: Despite what I had learned from playing the Hungry Hippos game as a child, hippos don’t actually eat marbles. They mainly subsist on grasses, aquatic plants, and the occasional annoying tourist.
I was also unimpressed by the food. For some reason, every lodge we stayed at kept offering us African food with unpronounceable names like Nshima and Ifinkubala and Vitumbuwa. Not one lodge served pizza, let alone donuts. And don’t even get me started about the fact that apparently Mountain Dew seems to be outlawed in Africa.
So, if your idea of a fun vacation is to explore totally different cultures, try exotic foods, see amazing wild animals in their natural habitat, and immerse yourself in a totally alien world, all the while camping in luxury, then, I guess Africa is okay.
Personally, I’d rather go to Disney World and spend the afternoon on their Jungle Cruise ride. There you can navigate you through some of the world’s most treacherous waters, steam past lush foliage and waterfalls, and glimpse lions, hippos and zebras up close. And then finish up your adventure with a pepperoni pizza and an ice cold Mountain Dew at the Pizzafari restaurant. Pretty much the same experience, and far less chance of being eaten by a hippo.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Left: How we all fantasize about car ownership: out in the desert, warm breeze blowing on our face. Right: The reality of car ownership. Not so much a warm breeze as a hot steam spraying up from under the hood, in the desert, in the middle of nowhere. Did I mention that you’re out of cell phone range?
I love cars. But owning a car is a lot like being in a long-term relationship with a temperamental, unpredictable partner. In the beginning, it’s all love and smooth rides; you’re cruising down the highway with the windows down, music blasting like Jerry Maguire singing along to Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin.‘
But then, you hit a few bumps–figuratively and literally. If you’ve owned a car long enough, you’ll eventually learn that a few universal truths exist, no matter how much you try to Dodge them. Here are seven immutable laws of car ownership. If you’re a first-time car buyer, you better buckle up. You’re in for a bumpy ride.
The First Law of Breakdowns
No matter how carefully you maintain your car, the first time it breaks down will occur at the most inconvenient possible moment. You’ll be late for work, or worse, five minutes from the airport with a suitcase packed full of non-refundable destination vacation plans.
The breakdown will happen in the middle of a busy intersection or on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere – with any luck in utter darkness. The car will die at exactly the point when your AAA membership expires, and your phone, which in your haste you forgot to charge, will lose power just as you are attempting to text your neighbor, “Hey Carl my car broke down. Can you get me? I’m at – “
The Law of Mysterious Fluid Leaks
Every car has a secret, and that secret is a small, irritating fluid leak. It’s always the kind of leak that doesn’t show up on a regular service maintenance check, but when you’re least expecting it, turning your driveway into the setting for a small environmental disaster. You’ll detect an oil leak, or a coolant drip, or other mysterious “blue liquid” that’s not covered in the owner’s manual. Of course, this leak will only appear when your mechanic is out of town, and the entire auto parts store will be sold out of whatever overpriced magic potion is supposed to fix it.
Any idea what this purple fluid is that is dripping down from your engine block? No idea? Don’t worry. Your local mechanic will know, and trust me, it’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.
The Law of Unsolicited Advice
Everyone you know will have an opinion on how to fix your car, whether they have any qualifications or not. That guy at work who’s convinced that you can repair any car issue by watching YouTube will tell you to fix it yourself, even if you can’t tell the difference between a spark plug and an alternator.
Your devoutly religious elderly mother will offer to “pray for the car,” as if divine intervention will fix your busted radiator. And don’t get me started on your buddy Norm who says, “Just use duct tape, dude. It worked on my engine once!” No. No, it didn’t! You should never listen to anything Norm tells you. Why exactly are you even friends with him, anyway?
The Law of The ‘Check Engine’ Light
The primary reason this particular dashboard light was created is to generate intense anxiety, in order to send you rushing to the nearest repair shop and opening up your wallet. In reality, no one – especially you – has any idea what it actually means.
When it first comes on, you panic and frantically check the manual to decipher its cryptic message. From what you can surmise it means either that the battery is about to explode or possibly that the transmission is about to completely freeze up.
So, you take the car in for a diagnostic, and they’ll tell you it’s a minor sensor issue and that it’s probably safe to keep driving it… for now. Of course, you’ll still spend the next three months Googling “check engine light causes” and wondering if you’ll be stranded in the middle of the freeway at any moment with yet another warning light that flashes in bright red, “Your car is fucked.”
The Law of Unknown Sporadic Car Noises
There’s a sound your car will make. A random squeak. A clunk. An ominous rattling. The noise will occur at the worst possible time, and you’ll immediately think the car is on the brink of a mechanical breakdown. You’ll take it in, and the mechanic will give you that classic shrug: “Hmm. I couldn’t hear anything. It could be the camshaft. It might be the clutch assembly. Or maybe you need a complete engine rebuild. Unfortunately, your vehicle is out of warranty by 100 miles. If it keeps making that sound, bring it back in.”
You’ll drive around for weeks listening to that same unrelentingly unnerving sound, but the minute you bring the car back in, it will stop. It’s like your car is playing some sort of twisted head game with you. And it’s winning.
The Law of Repairs ALWAYS Costing More Than Expected
So, you notice one of your headlight lightbulbs is out. You take it to the local Firestone dealer to replace it. Good news: A replacement bulb only costs $25.00. Should be in and out in about twenty minutes. Forty minutes later a service tech informs you that your vehicle’s model year uses a special non-standard bulb that has to be custom ordered from a warehouse in Stuttgart, Germany. This special bulb costs $150. And they are only sold in pairs, so that’s $300.
It’s impossible to install these bulbs unless you’re a professional mechanic. If you want the dealer to install them, that will be another $200. It takes three weeks for the part to arrive from Germany. Then the earliest date they can squeeze you in for an appointment to install the new headlight bulbs will be two weeks after that. But only if you can leave the car with them all day. And no, they don’t have a shuttle service.
The good news? All your car needed to fix that rattling sound is a tiny widget the size of a spool of thread, which only costs you $5.00. The bad news? Installing it will be another $375.
The Law of Premature Car Replacement
At some point – usually about three years before you were planning to begin looking for a new car – you’ll find yourself facing the decision of whether to fix your car again or buy a new one. You’ll weigh the pros and cons, calculate how much it would cost to keep your 2011 Toyota Camry running, and ask yourself unsettling questions like, “How often do I even use the AC anyway?” and “How important is it that I can’t pull my car into reverse anymore?”
No matter how much you try to delay it, you’ll eventually face the unavoidable day of reckoning, reluctantly accepting that it’s probably finally time to call that annoying radio jingle phone number, 1-877-KARS-4-KIDS, and donate your lemon of a car to charity.
It turns out that the cost of a new car is surprisingly affordable lately, by which I mean roughly the same amount as the cost to send your youngest child to college next fall. And you can’t afford to do both. Tough decision, I hear you. Sure, she got accepted into Princeton. But you really need a new car. Good luck explaining to her how Riverside Community College is a lot like Princeton.
In the end, owning a car is a mix of love, frustration, and myriad unforeseeable expenses. But remember, the next time your car breaks down when you least expect it, don’t freak out when you receive that insanely high repair bill. From what I’ve been reading, community colleges are a much better investment than four-year universities anyway.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I used to stress out over some of the silliest things, like, was I a good enough manager at work? Was I doing enough to be a supportive husband? Would my teenage daughters turn out okay? Would I ever cure my banana slice drives off the tee? (Answer to that last question: No.)
But then I met somebody who helped me put so many aspects of my life into proper perspective. His name is Buddy. I’ve known Buddy for the past eight years. He’s starting to get up there in age. I’m not sure how many more years he has left, to be honest.
I’ve never seen him shave. He seems to wear the same outfit every day. He prioritizes comfort over fashion. Buddy has never been one to be concerned with impressing other people. He doesn’t care if others judge him for his lackadaisical lifestyle. He is comfortable in his own skin. Buddy leads a simple, modest life.
Nowadays, since I’m retired, and I’m pretty sure Buddy doesn’t work anymore either, we see each other often. He’s never been into accumulating tech toys, expensive clothes, or watches. He never pursued getting a driver’s license, so he can’t even legally drive. As far as I know, he doesn’t travel much. At least he’s never mentioned any trips to exotic locations. He’s never been to Disneyland, nor has he expressed any deep desire to visit the Grand Canyon. He’s pretty much a homebody, from what I can tell.
Buddy’s needs are simple. He doesn’t brag about his latest achievement. He never talks rudely or arrogantly around women. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s no gourmet, but he wouldn’t turn down a good New York steak if you offered it to him.
In our visits, Buddy has helped me realize what’s important in life – and what isn’t. He comes by now and then and, with a gentle glance, reminds me to take a deep breath and relax. If he had a mantra, it would be four words: “Don’t Worry. Be Happy.” The way my friend sees it, nothing on my list of worries is all that pressing, anyway. Whatever it is I’m currently obsessing over, it can’t be that important. Or if it is, it will pass soon enough. Keep reminding me about that, okay, Buddy?
I often wonder how Buddy lets the worries of life just glide over him, like water off a duck’s back. He never complains about any of his ills, even when his arthritic legs are acting up, and it’s hard for him to take long walks. He’s unflappable and takes everything in stride. I admire this about him. I want to be more like Buddy. I need to acquire his indefatigably calm perspective on life’s ups and downs.
Over the past several years, we’ve become extremely close. When I share some of the things I have been working on, Buddy never interrupts me. He’s a better listener than a talker. He never discusses his own troubles. He is the least self-absorbed, most well-adjusted fellow I’ve ever known. When you’re in his presence, his entire focus is on you. And in minutes, all my cares and worries seem to melt away.
Buddy doesn’t move as quickly as he used to. His walk has slowed to somewhere between a saunter and an amble. These days, he enjoys relaxing in his big comfy chair and soaking in the sun. There have been times when I was so busy that I didn’t slow down long enough to reach out to him to say hi. But he never seems to hold a grudge about those sorts of things. When we finally reconnect, he’ll just look at me with the kindest eyes, and I know he’s just glad to see me again.
I don’t know how much longer Buddy will be around. I’ve noticed he’s been moving a lot slower lately. And I can tell he’s in pain sometimes, especially when he gingerly attempts to negotiate stairs. But he never complains. He just accepts his lot in life, never choosing to play the victim. Buddy has taught me to be a more patient, calm, and grateful human being. He has taught me to be more forgiving of others and not to worry about things I can’t control.
I think about the fact that someday before too long, Buddy will probably pass away. When that day comes, I will miss him terribly. But until then, I’m grateful to have him in my life. And at the end of every day, I look forward to lying in bed, knowing that in a few minutes, Buddy will quietly meander into my bedroom, and lie down next to me. And my wife doesn’t mind it a bit. After all, Buddy’s her cat, too.
PS: Oh, about the photo at the top of this article. That’s a dear friend of mine named Charlie. He’s a great guy. Hope that wasn’t confusing.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I’ve never been able to pull off the bearded look. I just look goofy… and old… and crazy. I once misplaced my razor for seven months. People tended to avoid me. On the plus side, I got a few Santa gigs at kids’ Xmas parties.
There have been thousands, perhaps millions, of men throughout history who looked good in a beard. I am not one of them. Over the years, I’ve tried growing a beard several times, but after a few weeks, I always gave up. Because I didn’t like the way it looked on me – not to mention how it felt. Having all those scratchy whiskers on my face drove me crazy.
There are several reasons my face and a beard can’t peacefully co-exist. When I experimented with my very first beard, during my freshman year of college, it came in shockingly salt and peppery, with a freakish amount of white, grey, and even red whiskers. I had not yet had my first college date and already my beard looked like that of a senior citizen. Not a hopeful beginning to my journey into the world of college dating.
I also quickly realized I had developed a nervous tick in that I was constantly, compulsively checking my beard for food remnants any time I ate even so much as a cookie. I’d find myself stroking the whiskers around my mouth fifty times a day, half expecting to discover a piece of fried chicken or a gummy bear mysteriously embedded into my beard. It drove me bonkers.
The few times I’ve stuck with a beard longer than two weeks, the results were always discouraging, Staring back at me in the mirror was what appeared to be a homeless man. Whenever I approached a stranger, say, to ask for directions, I always had this uncomfortable sense they were trying to avoid eye contact, no doubt so they wouldn’t have to give me their spare change.
There was a time during our marriage when I tried to grow a beard again, but my wife was not thrilled about my new look. I remember her complaining after three weeks, “When are you going to get rid of that obnoxious beard…and take a shower… and mow the lawn… and get a better-paying job?”
Many great men in history had iconic beards, like Socrates, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Hemingway, and Captain Jack Sparrow. Their beards gave them all a sense of gravitas and dignity. Oh, wait, I’m told that one of these was not a real person. Not sure which. I’m going with Shakespeare.
Here is some beard trivia you probably did not know. I’m actually a distant descendant of a man who played a prominent role in the evolution of facial hair: Ambrose Burnside. Burnside, in addition to being an incompetent Union Civil War general – and my Great-Great-Great Uncle on my father’s side (true) – had a highly unusual way of displaying his hair down the side of his face (see the following image). This style of facial hair, which he made famous, was originally named ‘burnsides’ but at some point the word was reversed to become the ‘sideburns‘ we know today. Now compare how I’d appear with the same look. Who wore it better? Be honest with me.
Left: A distant ancestor of mine (true), the Civil War Union general Ambrose Burnside. Right: Me wearing the same look as my 19th century ancestor. I think we can all agree neither of us could pull off this look. At least I had more hair than the general.
There was a brief period during graduate school when I again tried to grow a beard. I actually persevered with my effort for almost five months. The next photo is the only surviving photo of me sporting a beard during this time period.
This photo was taken when I was 24 years old, right after my sister Betsy had insanely convinced me to go skydiving with her. And I, in an effort to prove once and for all that I have no spine, agreed to her deranged scheme. I almost died when my parachute failed fully to open (not making that up). But that’s a nightmare for another time. If you’re curious what actually happened, just click here or on the photo to read the rest of the story.
It was during this time when I started dating a nice woman named Becky, She had never seen me without a beard. Then about a month into our brief, star-crossed courtship, I decided – without consulting her – to shave it off. Upon seeing me show up at her doorstep totally clean-shaven for the first time, she became the only person in my life ever to utter the following sentence: “Oh my! I just can’t imagine you without a beard.” And then she broke up with me to return to her ex-boyfriend.
I know what you’re thinking: “But Tim, why not do the close-cropped beard?” You mean the Don Johnson look that he made popular in Miami Vice? I know many men – and just about all the male Hollywood celebrities – who don this masculine look. It looks good on them. But the few times I’ve tried the five-day stubble, it just looks like someone getting over a serous bender – which is even more depressing because, as a non-drinker, I don’t even have the fun of getting drunk in the first place.
No one has ever uttered the phrase, “Tim, you should grow a beard.” Actually, that’s not true. I remember this one time one of my racquetball buddies suggested it, but that was just so it would “hide your ugly face.”
You might also be curious about how I’d look with just a mustache instead. Turns out I can’t pull off that look either. I only tried a mustache one time. This is the ONLY PHOTO EVER TAKEN of me with a mustache. It made me look like a character in a 1980’s porn film – not that I would know anything about that, mind you.
With no disrespect intended to my LGBTQ+ friends, a mustache just makes me look extremely gay. It’s just that, as a heterosexual, it is not a look I’ve ever aspired to perfect. Also, my girlfriend at the time hated it. However, several attractive men did ask me for my phone number, so there’s that, I guess.
My point is, don’t expect to see me show up at the pickleball court sporting a beard or a mustache. As I have reflected back on my life, there are several things I’ve long ago accepted I will never master. I’ll never master playing the piano. I’ll never become fluent in a foreign language. I’ll never understand how cryptocurrency works or how to cure my slice in golf. And I’ll never figure out how to pull off a beard. I’ll leave that challenge to George Clooney.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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A widower friend of mine recently decided to jump back into the dating pool. He wanted to spruce up his Match.com profile in hopes of receiving a better response from women. He made one small mistake: He came to me for help.
Recently, a longtime widower friend of mine concluded he’d been alone and lonely for too long. He decided to take the plunge and get back into the dating pool. He created his Match.com profile, with several photos and posted them. Alas, he’s not been thrilled with the response he’s received thus far.
He told me he’d seen far too many similar, lame profiles posted by other men seeking female companionship who annoyingly employ the same hackneyed profile lines, like “I enjoy yoga, Pilates, hiking, walks along the beach, a playful French wine, the feel of the salt air in my hair, or whatever else it is you chicks are looking for these days.”
He knew that as a humor writer, I have a certain way with words. So, perhaps against his better judgment, he asked if I could assist him. Being notoriously generous by nature, I told him I’d be happy to help him out. He thought that I might be able to come up with a few attention-grabbing starter lines to make his profile stand out from the crowd.
My friend went on to explain that Match.com offers starter phrases for you to fill out to paint an appealing picture of you for prospective matches. Below, before the ellipsis dots (…) are actual starter phrases provided by Match.com. My friend (for the moment at least) shared these with me, and I took it from there. After the ellipsis dots are the responses I’ve come up with so far:
I spend my free time…. searching for a cure for cancer. I’m THIS CLOSE. Soon the Nobel Prize will be mine. All mine!
I would never ever… join Al-Qaeda or ISIS. I hope I don’t have to explain why. If you ask me, the reasons should be obvious.
My happy place… is my 7,000 sq. ft. mansion on the shore of Italy’s Lake Como – just as soon as I can convince George Clooney to sell it to me in a swap for my 850 sq. ft. mobile home.
Things I’m thankful for…. include the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, I’m not on ANY major airline’s No Fly List. (I don’t consider Spirit Airlines a major airline.)
The most influential person in my life… is probably my parole officer. He holds my freedom’s fate in the palm of his hand.
A dream I would like to come true… would be to win People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Heck, I’d be honored just to make it to one of the top five finalists.
If I am in a bad mood… I know it will usually quickly pass – unless you stole my chocolate chip ice cream, in which case, you are dead to me.
The one thing that always cheers me up… is seeing high school classmates who thought they were better than me get convicted and sent off to prison.
If I need advice, I’m calling… the Psychic Hotline. They have never steered me wrong – if you don’t count that one time they advised me to put all my retirement savings into Blockbuster Video. That one stung, I’m not going to lie.
Something that always makes me laugh… is when a rambunctious cat bats a priceless vase off a table, and it crashes into a thousand pieces – especially if the vase belonged to someone I don’t particularly care for, like my one of my four ex-wives.
An odd habit of mine… is that I sometimes have this uncontrollable urge to press all the buttons for every floor just as I’m exiting the elevator – but I only do that when I’m off my meds.
Five years from now… if everything goes as planned, and I get that raise I’m overdue for at McDonald’s, I will be just six years from paying off the last of my graduate school student loans.
A perfect day for me… starts and ends with a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream while falling asleep on the recliner after having watched the film Caddyshack for the 125th time. (That movie never gets old to me.)
I should do this more often… I’d have to go with remembering to brake for pedestrians in crosswalks. Come to think of it, I probably shouldn’t be driving so much anymore, now that my driver’s license has been revoked – for almost running over pedestrians in crosswalks.
My most unforgettable travel story… was when, as a young child, Somali terrorists kidnapped me while on a family vacation and I was taken to their hideout deep in the Ugandan jungle. My parents debated for two weeks whether to pay the $500 ransom. Now, that was a CA-RAZY vacation!
I spend much of my free time… trying to beat my record time at Rubik’s Cube. My personal best: 5 days, 4 hours, 11 minutes.
I would really like to meet in person… Homer Simpson because everybody keeps telling me he reminds them of me. Or maybe Jesus. But I doubt I’ll ever meet Jesus in my lifetime – unless I can work out the kinks in the time machine I’ve been building in my basement since 2nd grade.
The first thing people often notice about me… is that I’m not wearing pants. Don’t worry. I almost always wear them on the first date – and always at work – unless I’m working from home, which is most of the time now… ever since my employer insisted I stop coming into the office… because I forgot to wear pants.
Well, what do you think? I believe there’s a good chance, thanks to my creative suggestions, that my friend is going to receive more responses than he ever imagined from scores of women. Of course, it’s possible some of those responses might be along the lines of, “Whoever you are, NEVER EVER contact me again.” Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the love of his life. The way I see it, it could go either way.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
Hey, friends. Tim Jones here. You may know me as a humor writer. But now that I’ve mastered that field (unless you ask my children), I’ve decided to embark on a new creative journey – life as an artist. I have a good feeling about this (even if my wife does not).
Ilove my wife, Michele. She’s a very smart, incredibly talented artist. We can be competitive in some ways, but the truth is, our talents tend to lie in totally different arenas. For example, she can make incredibly tasty, nutritious meals, and I …. cannot. On the other hand, there’s not a sport you can name at which my wife can defeat me. That’s because she has about as much interest in learning how to play, say, pickleball, as our cat Zippy has in learning about the intricacies of cryptocurrency.
But there’s one area where, if I’m being honest, I must grudgingly admit my wife has the edge – anything to do with art. She went to art school. I, on the other hand, graduated from a liberal arts program with a degree in Communications – which, upon my graduation, opened up a universe of exciting possible entry level job opportunities – mainly in the food services industry.
For the past 25+ years, Michele has painted incredible, lifelike portraits of judges, university presidents, orchestra conductors, military generals, philanthropists, and snotty rich children posed next to their prissy Irish Wolfhound named Prince Tuckahoe.
If you’re curious about how talented a portrait artist my wife is, check out some of her portraits here. (And no, those aren’t photographs. Those are oil paintings.) But her real passion is painting landscapes of lakes, coastal areas, flowers, mountains, and birds – in other words, chick stuff. See what I mean here. I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I recently found out that I am the co-owner of the largest private collection of original Michele Rushworth artwork in the world.
Watching Michele create her masterpieces has inspired me to explore my own latent artistic potential. I retired a couple years ago from a career in sales and marketing, so I have more time on my hands lately. I believe there’s room for more than one artist in this house. So, I put down my writing pen, picked up the paintbrush, and am now well on my way to challenging my wife for household artistic supremacy.
I’ve only been at it a couple months – three, if you count my color-by-numbers coloring books initiation. I recently completed a painting of a horse prancing around in a field with a red barn in the background. When I showed it to a complete stranger for their reaction, they had no idea what it was, thinking that it might be an octopus or perhaps a school bus or maybe a mutant platypus, with a red barn in the background. On a positive note, I appear to have totally mastered how to paint a red barn.
Lately I’ve seen a marked improvement in my technique. Within less than three months, I had already progressed from finger painting to drawing with crayons, then colored pencils, and now I’m using actual paintbrushes – just like da Vinci used to paint the Mona Lisa. Check out the side-by-side comparison of da Vinci’s masterpiece vs. my own below. In case you’re uncertain, mine is the painting on the right.
Left: The Mona Lisa, by Leonardo da Vinci. Right: My own interpretation of this subject. I felt she needed a party hat and a bowl of popcorn, to make her feel happier. Okay, so I took some artistic license. Still, I think I nailed it.
Oh sure, my technique is a bit primitive, but I’m still in the early stages of my artistic renaissance. Eventually, I anticipate it will be difficult to tell the difference between an original Rushworth painting and an original Jones – assuming you’re drunk, can’t find your glasses, or are a dog.
But I have one thing going for me that my wife doesn’t have. I obtained a graduate degree in marketing, not to mention having spent over a decade in advertising. So, I know a thing or two about how to promote my work and generate some buzz. I just came up with this brilliant promotion: With your first purchase of an original Jones artwork, I’ll give you a punch card. Buy ten Jones originals, get all ten circles on your card punched, and voilà , your eleventh painting is half price. That’s called marketing, buddy.
I thought briefly about trying to create a media stir like the famous graffiti street artist known as Banksy does. He’s built almost a cult following by creating bold, sometimes controversial, works of street art in secrecy without asking permission. I tried doing this last week, painting over several area stop signs with the edgy word “GO” where the word “STOP” used to appear. It was done extremely tastefully. Alas, I was unable to explain to the arresting officer that this was just artistic expression, protected by our Constitution.
One idea I had was to offer a free lifetime subscription to my View from the Bleachers column, to any customer who purchased one of my original paintings. But one kind person suggested that instead, perhaps the incentive should be that the purchaser could request to be permanently UNSUBSCRIBED from my column. If it will help sell my work, I’m open to that suggestion.
My wife’s landscape paintings typically sell for thousands of dollars. I might have to start out a little lower initially until I build up a following. I showed a buddy of mine some of my most recent paintings. He suggested I start at Five dollars – or Best Offer. Hmm. This could be a tougher nut to crack than I thought.
Left: My wife’s oil painting of lily pads. Right: My own interpretation of the same subject matter. At first blush, it’s easy to mistake my wife’s artwork as superior. But notice how she totally left out the frog in her image – a glaring oversight, if you ask me.
I have no idea whether my artistic gifts will ever rival those of my artist wife. But one thing’s for sure – she will never match my prices. I accept cash, check, Venmo, and Dairy Queen gift cards.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
