Back Home Comes A-Callin'

Not much, you?

30-yard dumpster arrived this morning. That’s about 10 yards per year. I have four days to fill it without incurring extra fees.

We have company coming tomorrow. Fees will incur.

Another Stars software update. I should be able to cover the additional charges with winnings from the 8 Game.

David Ireland 1930-2009

As it turns out, this is old news, but I just found out today.

I was reading my usual blogroll. The son of Jen’s neighbor died. Nancy Spero died.

I attended a lecture by Spero when I was in grad school. And that memory led to another, when I met David Ireland.

It was my first semester of grad school. A couple well-known artists were in town for lectures, Ireland one of them, and had agreed to do studio visits with MFA candidates. There was a sign-up sheet.

At the time I was working the evening shift, full time as a security guard for Helene Curtis, and by the time I made it to my studio on campus, the list was already full for both artists. I was disappointed, yet noticed that another student had signed up for both artists, and sought her out. Would she give up her spot with Ireland?

This woman and I got along fairly well, or so I thought. It must have been the way I asked, subtly patronizing (too subtle for me), for when I did, she let me have it with both barrels. However, a little while later she relinquished the 1/2-hour slot. It was an important 30 minutes.

I had a cursory knowledge of Ireland’s work at the time. Most artists knew of his ‘dumballs,” soft lumps of concrete that he tossed from hand-to-hand until they hardened into spheres. He had a famous house as well, perhaps the largest of “found object” art pieces. I am certain I knew less about him than other students whom had the advantage of a longer time as art students.

David came to my studio. He was a tall man, lanky. We small-talked a bit and then went to look at what I had produced.

Several teachers had looked at my work in the previous months, and, between them and I, we had a hard time conversing about what it was in front of us. I was frustrated, sure of what I was making, but unfamiliar with the artspeak necessary to convey my ideas. Ireland took one look at the pieces and said, “I think they are very literary.” I had no idea what he meant, and I was too unsure of myself to ask. I thought perhaps someone had clued him into my background and, not knowing what to say, he responded with something he thought I might want to hear. Although I have thought about the encounter many times, I still don’t know. Yet, I do know that what he said, he most surely meant.

Some time after that visit, I had an occasion to write Mr. Ireland. I don’t remember exactly why, yet I imagine I was looking for advice on how to navigate the art world. He wrote me a nice letter, and rubber-stamped on the letter was “Nothing Sincere Without This Stamp.” Just an example of his wit that I would come to appreciate as time wore on.

Three years  passed. I was working for an art fair on a part time basis and received a phone call at work. It was David Ireland. He was in town because he was exhibiting at The Arts Club of Chicago and wanted me to help him with the installation. I was honored, and grateful to my current employer for giving me time off. The image on the left in this article shows one of the pieces I helped construct.

Another piece in that show was a bit more involved, yet equally simple. Two cords of oak firewood were delivered to the gallery. There were a couple of us assistants and our task was to brand the initials D.I. into one end of each log. The logs were then stacked between two pillars in the gallery. The piece was called “Ego,” (3/4 of the way through the article) which makes sense in the typical roundabout way of D.I. Why would a person feels the need to brand their initials in their firewood? Exactly.

David and I spent a lot of time together during that week of installation. We ate together and I showed him around town. As it turned out, he enjoyed a scotch as much as I did, and we hit some of my haunts. He met DW when she was still DGF. We kept in touch for a while after that (1997?), for after the exhibit above was over, I was the proud owner of twenty or so logs from “Ego,” and I had a plan.

My son and I were due to go on a fishing/camping trip with my brother and a couple of his daughters. We brought along all but three logs. We walked into the woods with four of the logs and lashed them about five feet up onto a small tree and left them for posterity. The others we used in that evening’s fire, placing them one at a time while recording in a notebook how they were placed and how each one burned until we had used all of them. We then sent our “log” to David. He was touched, and offered to send the pages back to us, and we declined; the log was his.

That was the last time I heard from David. I wrote him one more time after moving to Oregon. He had kin in Washington and we wanted him to know he was welcome to stop by anytime. We heard nothing back. When he had an exhibit at Jack Shaiman Gallery in NYC a few years back, we sent a fax to the gallery to congratulate him. Shortly after that, I heard that he was ill and had to move from his house. It did not occur to me that I might find further details on the web.

So, today, when I read the news, I did a little search, and it wasn’t too long before I began to understand how he had touched the lives of others.

bastinpTV

Boys and girls, moms and dads, it’s time for another installment of “Table Talk!”

(Live audience goes wild.)

Tonight we find bastin at the 8 Game. Since we last saw our hero he’s been spinning his wheels.

Awwwwww. Little boy yells, We love you bastin!

Hehehe. Well, he loves you too! In tonight’s show, bastin once again spends most of his time grinding away, but stay with us, because there’s going to be some fireworks! And for you older folks, some good ol’ fashioned irony. But first, let’s play guess the player type!

(Audience is beside themselves with glee.)

bastin has just sat down at the table. The bad guy is to his left with a middling stack. The game is Limit Hold ‘em.

(Slight murmur of disappointment from the crowd.) Same little boys whispers “Boring!” loud enough for the MC’s mic to pick it up.

Somebody’s looking for a bad beat! Just kidding! Okay, here’s the hand (20’ x 60’ screen behind MC lights up with a graphic of a poker table and bastin’s cards up): bastin posts blind from middle position with A4h. UTG raises and bastin calls. But then the Big Blind raises it again! (Crowd stirs in their seats.) It folds around to UTG and he calls, as does bastin.

(Audience s obviously pleased with move by fearless bastin.)

Here comes the flop! (Middle of table shows Ad9sTs)

Ooooooooo. Man in his early forties yells, Look there’s an Ace! Go get ‘em bastin!

The Big Blind bets out. Does he have an Ace? A biiiiig Ace? What is bastin going to do?

Two different calls from many of the audience member: Call! Raise! Someone yells, Go all in! and audience chuckles.

He calls. bastin is playing this one carefully. Okay, let’s see the turn! Four of diamonds! (Crowd is frenetic.) Hehehe. Let’s not get too excited yet kids. There are two flush draws on that board, and remember, this is Limit, so anything can happen. Let’s see what the Big Blind does. He bets. And bastin raises! (Cautious applause.) Now what will the Big Blind do? Let’s see. He folds! (Again, crowd goes nuts, all over $2.96.)

Okay, now, here’s your “Table Talk” clue. See if you can tell what kind of player the Big Blind is.

Big Blind said, "hit wrong button"

UTG said, "lol"

bastin said, "oops"

Big Blind said, "prolly had u 2"

This is a tough one, kids, but use your “bastin Lucky Deconstruction Manual” to find the answer.

Woman in her late fifties stands up and yells, Screw the book! He’s a douche bag! Raising bastin’s post, the nerve! (Crowd cheers.)

Well, he might be. But we’ll check in with bastin himself via satellite at the end of the show for his own analysis. (Crowd applauds while MC puts hand to his ear as if he is trying to hear direction through an earpiece.) What’s that? bastin isn’t available by satellite? (Crowd moans.) What?! He’s in the studio?! Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen…bastin!

Enough already.

The douche eventually lost his stack, pissing and moaning the whole way. Meanwhile, I was sweating another table and saw a lot of chatter between two players, one claiming he was drunk at 6 o’clock in the morning, which was an impossible feat, time zone-wise, unless he was in the middle of the Atlantic or maybe Iceland. Okay, maybe Iceland, which would be a first for me. Anyway, I got a couple more pieces out of him and another peenie wagger before it was time to take the dog for her evening duty. I quit out of the room and left the chatty room up. If a seat was available when I got back, I’d sit for bit before my cartoons came on.

A seat was waiting for me to the left of Mr. Chatty Drunk. He and the guy to his right, a shortie, were still yakking it up. Chatty was up about $5 from a buy-in. There was monster stack, a guy I knew to be a solid PLO player, two to my left.

Just a few hands in and in NLHE, shortie limped and I raised the Button five times with Jacks. He called with pocket 3s and I paid him off. Fine. Chatty complimented his sidekick with a “get ‘em killa.”

Shortie now had 3/4 of a buy-in and was slinging them around, which told me he was playing a high variance game. Good to know.

Pretty soon we’re onto PLO and time’s a-tickin’ before I have to go. I’m in the BB with JhJsAcTc. UTG raises the pot, middle position raises the pot again. Whew. I want to see a flop, see? I call. UTG bets the pot again. OK, we know what he has. And we know he’s missing one of his potential outs because I have it. Middle position player calls and so do I. Nothing has changed in regards to odds. The flop is 7hJc9h and the three of us get it all in. Both of them have a heart draw, UTG to the nuts. Middle position catches a straight on the turn and the 7 on the river closes the deal.

Chatty said, "nh"

bastin said, "thx

UTG said, "yeah 3$ call JJAT

UTG said, "very nice"

bastin said, "felt lucky"

Sidekick said, "Chatty can u call for a mop in aisle 3?"

Chatty said, "yea"

As Chatty was responding, another hand was in progress. I limped early with KhQh6dKs (yeah, I know), two more players limp, including Mr. Monster Stack (now not all that much bigger than mine) and the guy I had just stacked, so when Sidekick bet the pot, I was hoping that my call might encourage additional calls. It did.

The flop came pretty: 2d8cKd. Sidekick bet the pot and I called, both hoping that another player might come along, and to see if another diamond was forthcoming on the turn. Sidekick put the rest of his chips in with the 6c and I knew I was good. At the same time this betting was happening, Chatty typed, “mop aisle 3 we have a wah alert code red" River was a blank.

Sidekick said “nh”

bastin said, "I wanna watch cartoons!”

Wooly caterpillars

I believe my barber was glad to see me. Maybe he didn’t think I would be back for another 4 years. It crossed my mind. But I’m groovin’ on the new do. And I have an interview with a prospective client tomorrow, so a little clean-up was in order. If anyone was surprised, it was I, as he remembered much of our conversation three weeks ago.

But this post isn’t about any of that. Although it is about the barbershop.

What I heard. What the barber heard from the codger.

The number of pine cones and acorns that have fallen.

Watch the squirrels.

Never mind the procrastinators, we’re in for a rough one.

The other shoe

So, I track readership, right? Seems BC/BS has taken an interest in my post about horses. Two hits today.

Some days this has to do.