Sunday, June 28, 2009

Part 22: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Nelson Boaggs Esq. – Sommelier, taxidermist, lives in Canberra, AU.
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28 June 2009, 3:41 a.m. EST

chor·gan·ize [chawr-guh-nahyz] super-verb, -ized, -iz⋅ing.
1. a super-verb invented by Edmund Callipeaux.
2. to form as or into a whole consisting of interdependent or coordinated parts, in an extraordinary way.
3. to massively systematize: to organize in a super-crazy, extreme fashion.

Edmund Callipeaux never organizes, he always chorganizes! – NB

A globe: A method of chorganizing land and sea into a cool little ball that lights up!



A jukebox: A machine that chorganizes 45s by the degree in which they Rock Out!




An unchorganized counter top!



An unchorganized chair!



Wonder Bread packaging: A way of chorganizing slices of bread!



A mirrored shelf: A tool for chorganizing little toys!

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Part 21: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Merle Higgins – curmudgeonly outdoorsman, lives in Minneapolis.
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19 June 2009, 4:00pm

Don’t ask me why, but I was in an “art” museum, in Chicago a few weeks back.

The band, Black Oak Arkansas, was giving a free concert at the Frank O. Gehry amphitheater, in downtown Chicago at that new Millennium Park they have. So, I decided to make a regular vacation out of it by taking the Amtrak from St. Paul to Union Station, and right into the heart of the city, or what Chicagoans call the Loop.

Back in the day, I would’ve just hopped a freight across Wisconsin and down into Illinois. But these days, the bulls and crazies that work for the Union Pacific make that sort of thing pretty tuff to pull off without getting yourself pinched and thrown into the slammer.

And what's worse is that I had to stay at this hotel called The Intercontinental. (It’s right by the Chicago River, on Michigan Avenue.) It was fancy and all, but they didn’t even have Blatz beer in the room mini-bar OR the regular bar downstairs. And everyone one in the place was all dressed up like they were always on their way to church or somewhere. And when I started blasting Black Oak Arkansas’s hit song, Hot and Nasty, on my tape player in the room, I got myself into a whole heap of trouble. I told them that I was just getting myself psyched up for the concert!



Outside, Michigan Avenue was filled with yuppies; the river wasn’t green – probably because of Greenpeace or someone; the air was hot and humid – like a sauna – I expected it to be windy, but the only thing blowing was the crappy music coming out of the Neiman Markus store I walked past; and when I finally got to this big, fancy Millennium Park, what do you think I found? Yep, you guessed right: Freaks – a WHOLE mess of them.

The park was packed with freaks. Every idiot this side of the Rocky Mountains who is dazzled by the mere thought of looking at a shiny, new penny, was mobbing this giant thing they call, The Bean. I’m not making this up: they call it the Bean because it looks like an upended, mirror-clad Kidney Bean that’s about the size of an Airstream trailer. I’m not making this stuff up: The. People. Were. All. Standing. Around. Totally. Amazed. That. They. Could. See. Their. Reflections. In. This. Bean. Thing.

Correct me if I’m wrong: most bathrooms have mirrors in them, don’t they? Have these people never been in a modern bathroom before? Have they never seen a mirror?

And get this - - and I keep telling you that I’m not making this stuff up - - so you have to believe me when I say that there was a guy milling around amongst the crowd of people...and he was dressed up like…like…. Well, he was dressed up like….

I don’t even know if I can finish this story.

(And I haven’t even gotten to the part where I run into Edmund and LeTigre Callipeaux at that damn museum.)

If I tell you what I saw, you’re going to think that old Merle is all hopped up on goofballs or something. But those of you who know me; know that I don’t do any of that crap. I may be known to polish off a half-dozen oilcans of Foster’s Lager on my drive from Lyndale and 28th to Snelling and Highland Parkway, over there in St. Paul. But, Merle Higgins, son of the famous humorist, Joseph J. Higgins, does not go in for that hippy-freak crap! No, Sir!

Okay. That’s settled. I’ll continue with my story.

There was a guy dressed exactly as Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean. He was signing autographs and posing for pictures right in the shadow of the Bean thing.

There. I said it. I know what I saw. You can say what you want.

Damn.

All I know is that I had to get the hell out of there.

The guy had the hat, and the sword, and the boots, and the whole insane getup. People’s minds must be all mush – because it looked to me like they were paying him money to get a photo or two.

In fact, I’ll make a bet with you: I'll wager that the reason there was a whole flock of folks gathered about that mirrored Bean thing is because the actual Kidney Bean they each have residing between their ears sees that big shiny thing as some sort of god. And that Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator must of been their St. Peter, or someone.

I had to get the hell out of there!

Turns out that the Frank Gehry amphitheater was just across the way from the Bean thing. So, I wandered over and found a big grassy area with a stage at one end that looked like it was in the shape of a pile of sheet metal that had been thrown off of the top of the Sears Tower. I looked around and thought that it was odd that the place wasn’t more crowded for the big concert that night.

“Oh, well,” I said to myself, “I must be early.”

So, I strolled about. Eventually, I found this walking bridge at the opposite end of the amphitheater’s grounds. I followed another crowd of people up onto the bridge, and over a street, and right up into the third floor of this new art museum they had just finished building.


And that’s where I ran into the Edmund and LeTigre Callipeaux.

“Oh, hello Merle. What a surprise to run into you here,” LeTigre greeted me.

“I’m a bit surprised that I’m here too,” I replied as I waved off shaking Edmund’s hand. The idiot had an ice cream cone that was melting and running all over the place and making a terrible mess.

“Don’t touch me with that sticky hand of yours, Edmund,” I said as I looked back across to the amphitheater, “Are you two here for the big Black Oak Arkansas concert?”

They looked at me like they didn’t understand English. But, I wasn’t surprised, those two yuppies probably only like Jazz music or something.


“So, Merle, are you heading into the museum? You can join us, if you’d like,” Edmund said.

“I might as well. It doesn’t look like things are going to get going out here any time soon,” I replied as I waited for Edmund to open the door to building for me.

Once inside the museum we bought our tickets to the exhibitions and I had to check my sportsman’s bag that I carry with me on my travels. Luckily, I had decided that I didn’t need to travel with all the guns I generally take with me on trips. I figured that it’ll take longer than five months before things completely go to hell after eight years of safety with George Bush steering the ship.

As an outdoorsman, I appreciated all the new, Green technology that went into building the new wing of the art museum. It was a nice place – well lit with natural sunlight. It had a huge, huge three-story atrium and a huge gift/bookshop and a huge fancy coat check room. $300m sure does buy a lot of atrium space and hangers to hang your coat on. Evidently, it doesn’t buy a lot of stairs or elevators though. About twenty tired looking people were camped out for the lone elevator and some idiot had stopped midway between the first and second floors to consult his visitor’s map on the narrow set of steps, blocking any movement past him.

We finally made our way up the stairs and into one of the galleries on the second floor. We walked by a bunch of quote/unquote: art that looked like somebody’s kid had spilt something on a board or something. Then we walked into a room where some videotape showed three or so clowns having nervous breakdowns. (I kind-a like that one; always have hated clowns for some reason.) And then we walked by a whole bunch of white panels that were hung on a few walls.

“This guy has done nothing but paint white panels or canvases for the past fifty years, or so,” Edmund beamed. I thought to myself: When I get home, I’m going to Menards and I’m going to buy a piece of that crappy white bathroom particle-board and I’m going to take it to a gallery and sell it for a million dollars.

I think that the directors of this museum must be worshipers of that shiny Bean out there.

Then we walked by this big sculpture of an old Cypress tree. And I must admit, it was something. As an outdoorsman, I have a certain fondness for trees, and I don’t know if the thing was art: some guy had just cast a big old hallow tree with some sort of plastic, but I liked it for some reason. I don’t exactly know why.

I asked a museum guard who the artist’s name was.

“Charles Ray,” said the guard.

“I didn’t know that he was also a sculptor,” I replied.

The guard looked at me blankly. “Dumbass,” I thought to myself. Nobody talks in these museums...everything is so important. The guy probably went home and had a heart-attack because someone dared ask him a question.

I crouched down and peered through the length of the hallow tree. “What do you know? A fake plastic tree right in the middle of some big-buck museum,” I said, as that same museum guard scolded Edmund for being too close to the tree-sculpture.


Edmund then started half humming, half singing this high-pitched melody, and I told him to shut up, because he was annoying me. (Edmund has a terrible singing voice.)

“And don’t touch this thing with your sticky, ice cream hands!” I said, trying to control my anger.

After we left the room with the fake plastic tree, we ended up in a room with a pile of candy on the floor, in a corner. After pausing to look at the candy for a few minutes, Edmund approached one of the museum guards. He actually asked him if he could take a few of the colorfully wrapped candies.


“Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?” I whispered through clenched teeth as I grabbed his sticky wrist.

“Yes, you may take as many pieces as you like,” replied the guard – to my surprise.

What the?

“What do you do if everyone takes all the candy,” I quickly asked before the guard walked away.

“We just add more to the pile at the end of every day,” was his response.

“Weird,” I said as I looked back over at the colorful pile, “What kind of art is that?”

“The artist’s name is Felix Gonzalez-Torres, and his artwork is like this. You can take it home with you if you want,” Edmund said as he walked toward the corner of the room.

“This feels strange,” Edmund said as he looked around to see that everyone standing in the gallery was watching to see what he would do next.

LeTigre pulled out her camera to take a few photographs of Edmund picking a few pieces off of the pile. He said that he was going to try to get one of every different wrapper color.


After Edmund had selected his candy pieces, he showed them to LeTigre while a few other people walked up to the pile to remove some candy themselves. In a way, it struck me as kind of sad. I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was, because any little kid could throw a pile of candy into a corner and charge a million bucks for it.

But, for some reason though, when Edmund encouraged me to take some candy for myself, I agreed. And as I bent down to take a piece, it felt strange. I felt strange. I didn’t like how people were watching me. And I wanted those yuppie freaks to do something else and leave me alone.

It was odd…and I still can’t quite put my finger on what was that was going on. It just didn’t seem right that something, even something as trivial as a pile of candy, would just disappear, taken, only to be restocked by the museum staff like nothing had happened.

I took some of the pieces of candy, but I sort of wish that I hadn’t. I don’t even like eating those sorts of hard candies anyway.

I don’t know.

That’s why I like splitting a six-er with my friends while we play a couple rounds of cribbage, or we take a boat out and throw in a few lines. Times like that, things just aren’t that complicated: I know my buddies are rotten cribbage players, and I enjoy taking their money.

It’s easy.

But there was something about that tree and that pile of candies that still vexes me like an itch I can’t scratch - - and it’s been over a month - - like my Mom used to say, “It’s put a thinking spell on me.

Those damn Callipeaux museum lovers. Why do I keep finding myself either over at their house, or running into them on the street?

They drive me crazy!

Oh, and by the way, not only did I waste my whole afternoon in that dumb museum. Turns out that the whole trip to Chicago was a complete bust anyway! Somehow, I misread my ticket, and Black Oak Arkansas wasn’t playing at the Millennium Park/Frank Gehry amphitheater after all.

Those hell-raisers played that Saturday night, just south of Chicago, at Fletcher’s Mile #1 Roadhouse, in Gehry, Indiana! And I missed it!

How the hell did I get that mixed up? – MH

Merle's candy


Saturday, June 6, 2009

Part 20: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributors:
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.
Guy Cheblo – chef, corn expert, adventurer, lives in New York, NY.
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Kidpowertool – 6 June 2009, Midmorning

Strange Food Collection Update: NEW ACQUISITION!

corn – Corn – CORN! – KPT
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Guy Cheblo – 6 June 2009, 11:30 a.m.

As a corn expert, I was impressed with the product. And it only makes sense that an entertainment company would eventually find their way into the corn business. Corn is entertaining…I’ve been telling people this for years! However, I feel that the below package design would be less confusing and move the product more quickly off the shelves!

Edmund snorkeling sells corn! – GC