Part 32: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributors:
Edmund Callipeaux – artist, college instructor, lives in St. Louis Park.
Merle Higgins – curmudgeonly outdoorsman, lives in Minneapolis.
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.
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Edmund Callipeaux – 30 September 2009, 8:00am

I got stuck rush hour traffic yesterday.

As I sat and waited, I glanced around at the other cars within my general vicinity while I played with the radio dial in search of some good traffic-jam music. Looking through the rear windshield of the beat-up sedan ahead of me, I noticed something that struck me as unusual. At the wheel of the car sat a man who was silhouetted by the brightness of the exterior daylight. Oddly, he had his right elbow raised into the air with his forearm and hand extending back toward his head. And he was moving this arm rapidly back and forth, horizontally, in front of his face…. almost as if he were scraping frost off the interior of his windshield.

As I tried to puzzle out what the guy could be doing, the DJ on my truck’s radio started to run through the current weather conditions - - exclaiming that it was a beautiful, sunny afternoon with a temperature of 73° that would top-out later in the day at 79.

“Can’t be frost he’s working on in there,” I thought to myself. “Unless he’s got his air conditioning really cranked up!”

I wondered what on earth was he doing in there.

Is he talking on the phone?

Maybe.

Is he eating something?

Who would jab food into their face like that?

Is he having a seizure or a heart attack?

I hope not.

Is he singing along to music while pretending that he’s holding a microphone?

Maybe he’s a famous rock star?

What is he doing in there?

And why does he keep bending forward and crouching down every once in a while?

Just as my disc jokey was moving from the weather to the next top 40 hit, the mystery-man in the car ahead of me leaned forward and over to his right once again, at which time his right hand went up into the air. As his hand went up into the space between the driver and passenger’s seats, I saw that he was not holding an ice scraper, or a phone, or a sandwich, or an imaginary microphone, but rather, clutched within his fist was a toothbrush (with dripping white foam).

Gross!

For about the past ten years, the most unsettling thing I have seen another driver do is to be steering a car while eating a bowl of milk and cereal. Actually, I’ve seen this happen on two separate occasions. Once in the late ‘90s, I saw a guy in St. Paul have a hell of a time making a left-hand turn while both his hands were occupied with a bowl of cereal and a large spoon (I think that he was steering the car with his legs). And recently, this past summer, I watched as a woman made her way through several blocks of heavy Minneapolis traffic…down Lake Street and eventually turning onto Hennepin Avenue, all the while she shoveled spoon-full after spoon-full of Honeycomb into her mouth.

With Led Zeppelin blasting on my stereo, I inched my truck forward while comparing and contrasting tooth brushing vs. cereal eating. What is stranger and more disturbing?

And then I thought, “Hey! That reminds me, I spotted a few more personal hygiene products while I was out and about, on my day-to-day, the other day.”

A toothbrush on the sidewalk at 25th and 1st, in Minneapolis.


A ponytail hair thing at 25th and Lyndale, in Minneapolis.


Then, this morning as I drove home after dropping my wife, LeTigre off at work, I passed a white minivan traveling down the road in the opposite direction. Again, I was listening to the radio, and the DJ was saying, “Good morning Twin Cities! It’s 7:30am and it’s a bit chilly out there…40° in fact. So wear layers today…it looks like fall weather is finally here.”

As my truck passed the white minivan, I glanced over to see that the man at the wheel wasn’t wearing a shirt…he was bare-chested…and possibly not wearing pants (who knows?).

“Nice try,” I thought to myself as I considered the nude man in the minivan.

“But, if your goal is to impress me with your weirdness, then you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that,” I exclaimed to no one in particular as I cranked up both the truck’s heater and the volume on a CCR song rock’n on the radio. – EC
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Merle Higgins – 23 September 2009, 4:00pm

To whom it may concern:

I quit!


Warmest regards,

Merle P. Higgins

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Kidpowertool – 23 September 2009, 12 Midnight

Merle Higgins hand-delivered the above resignation letter to the offices of Specious Reasoning earlier this afternoon. He’s upset and it appears that he is steadfast in his resolve to never write for this blog again. We are disappointed by Merle’s decision to end his tenure with us, but we feel that we must respect his decision. As editor, I can say that Merle’s point of view has been both valuable and unique. He will be missed. When asked why he felt that he needed to sever his ties with us, Merle said one word that seemed to sum up his interactions with Edmund Callipeaux: Frustrating.

When pressed further on the matter, I was able to coax him into sharing with us the reason for his resignation….

“I couldn’t believe my ears,” said Merle.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” replied Merle.

“Humor me,” I said.

“It’s infuriating to think that I’ve wasted so much time hanging around with that idiot…. That Edmund!” continued Merle.

“He’s is a complicated guy,” I said.

“Complicated? More like simple beyond belief!” said Merle.

“How’s that?” I replied.

“Do you know what he asked me yesterday?” Merle yelled.

“Easy, Merle…calm down,” I cautioned.

“That dolt Edmund asked me if I have ever wondered why it is…that when I close one eye…that things don’t appear to be half-size?”

“Seems like a valid question,” I said.

“You’re all a bunch of goofs,” screamed Merle as he stormed out of our offices.

So I guess that’s it for Merle Higgins. Specious Reasoning will never be the same. – KPT

Edmund seen on a beach with two eyes.


Edmund seen on the same beach with one eye closed.


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In honor of Merle’s contributions to our blog, we’ve reprinted below one of our favorite of his many essays. A story we fondly refer to as - - Liberal Blindness.

Originally published on 18 March 2009.

Merle Higgins – 15 March 2009, 11:30pm

Got a flat on Hennepin Avenue earlier today. I steered my truck into the nearest parking lot and got out to take a look at the damage. Tire’s shot…picked up a roofing nail that some liberal bicyclist probably left in the road to mess with traffic!

I cracked open a bottle of homebrew that a buddy and me make and began to get my spare unhooked from under the truck. Looking over my shoulder, I saw what parking lot I was in. You’ve got to be kidding me! This is a co-op grocery store parking lot.

Two seconds later I saw Edmund and LeTigre Callipeaux walking not thirty feet from me.

I yelled, “What are we now, a bunch of Communists?”

Walking over to my truck, Edmund said, “Hello Merle. What a surprise to see you here. We’re just stopping by the co-op to pick up a few things.”

“Hand me that jack,” I said as I threw my empty into the bed of the truck. “It makes sense that you two shop here. I suppose the next time I see you, you’ll be coming out of a dumpster telling me that you’ve turned Freegan.”

Holding up the hubcap so that Edmund could throw lug nuts in as he loosened them from the flat, LeTigre said, “Do you want us to pick you up anything while we’re shopping, Merle?”

I told her that once Edmund was finished tightening all the lugs on the spare, I’d might as well go in there with them to see for myself what this whole co-op business is about.

After inspecting Edmund’s adequate work on the spare, the three of us ventured into the store. They grabbed a basket and we walked into the fresh produce area. I looked around and this is what I saw: people with tattoos; people with radical haircuts and piercings; people wearing bicycle helmets; hippies; freaks; good-for-nothings; liberals and more freaks – all standing around talking about what wonderful organic produce they had!

Organic?

What the hell is that suppose to mean? Organic. Stuff that grows from the ground is organic, right? You can’t tell me that these people think that a head of lettuce is machine fabricated or something. Their brains are all probably all mush from all the pesticides that are sprayed on their precious vegetables. As an outdoorsman, I’ve never eaten any produce that I haven’t either grown myself or bought from a farmer buddy of mine who doesn’t use that crap.

Those damn Callipeaux’s – how did they talk me into this?

I made my way quickly through the produce area. Everyone I walked past was touching five or six things for every one item they placed into these little plastic bags. Don’t these people know how diseases are spread? Those little plastic bags aren’t going to protect them from the woman I watched wipe drool from her baby’s cheek and then proceed to squeeze fifteen or so avocados. Damn.

At the end of the produce area, I found the meat counter. You’ve heard of snow blindness, right? Well, I’m prone to liberal blindness. (It happens every time I bring my cardboard boxes and beer cans over to the recycling center near my house.) It started to happen again as I stood next to the glass display cabinet of butchered meats and a sign that read Organic Beef. There’s that word again – organic – where do these people think beef comes from? A beef machine? What the hell?

Personally, I get all my beef once a year when I go in with a few buddies and buy an entire cow from a farmer up north. The farmer’s son is a butcher who has his own shop, so we can get our cow cut into steaks exactly as we like them. I’ve known their family for years. We hunt on their land, and as an outdoorsman, I’ve rightly advised the old man that the best cattle are free range and corn and grass fed - AND not pumped full of antibiotics and crap. (I was also the one who told him to put up a windmill on his farm, and now he’s off the grid and selling his extra electricity back to the same power company that was robbing him for years with their rising fees and taxes!)

Some guy bumped into me. I stepped to the side as he nudged me again while he tried to get a better view of the meat counter. He was talking on a Bluetooth thing stuck in his ear, he had a bicycle helmet on his head, and he was wearing a full business suit! The liberal blindness was taking hold and my right eye began to completely close down. Adding to my mounting anxiety, it seemed that everywhere I went in the store, someone would try to get in front of me, or look over my shoulder wherever I stood. And the store wasn’t even that crowded!

Even though I was quickly losing my eyesight, I decided to test my new theory. Dairy isle – someone went right for the cheese I was next to. Canned vegetables – someone needed a can of peas so badly they couldn’t wait for me to move past them. Pasta area, same thing happened. Hot dog area, same thing. Laundry detergent. Hair products. Deli area. Bread isle – all the same thing. I began to seek out the most vacant parts of the store, and every time I found a place, someone would come right over to me and practically push me to the ground to get at whatever random item I was nearest. The frozen food isle – that proved my theory once and for all – walking into the frozen food isle, I saw that I was completely alone. I was the only shopper in the entire section. I randomly opened a freezer door and sure enough, some hippy kid appeared at my side and began to reach into the cooler door before I even had a chance to see what sort of crappy microwave dinners were in there.

Dizzily, I found Edmund way down at the end of one isle. I said to him, “Edmund, what are you trying to do to me?”

He replied, “Look Merle! Isn’t this great.”

He then proceeded to show me a can of beans, a can of sliced green olives, a can of soup, and a bottle of dish soap.

Controlling my anger as much as I could, I said, “Edmund, don’t tell me that you’ve never seen canned food before…or a bottle of dish soap. What kind of yuppie freaking world do you live in that you’ve never had to eat food out of a can?”

I was now about 50% in my left eye and completely blind in the other.

Walking with Edmund and LeTigre up to the checkout counter, Edmund set his basket down and walked over to the bagging area. Personally, I never use those cheap grocery store bags…I bring my own canvas bags to the store each time I shop and then I don’t have to worry about some idiot putting my food in some bag made in China or somewhere.

The girl behind the checkout counter turned to Edmund and said, “Sir, could you take your items out of the basket for me?”

I squinted at the blurry basket as it sat right in front of the teller. What in Sam Hill is she talking about? The stuff’s right there! Ring it up so we can get the hell out of here! I can barely see…and the last time this happened, I stayed blind for three days!

Edmund began to remove the three cans and the bottle of dish soap from his basket. My vision dropped to 25% as the teller explained, “Everyone has to take their own items out of their baskets so that we don’t get repetitive stress injury.”

Repetitive stress injury? Repetitive stress injury! Try walking for an hour in the shoes of the guy who picked half the crap you’re selling in this place! Then you can talk to me about repetitive stress injury!

I could barely see six inches in front of my face as we made our way for the door and out into the parking lot. But it was too late, just as we were clear of the doors, a guy wheeled by on one of those recumbent, lay down bicycles and everything went dark – Total Liberal Blindness.

I had to let Edmund drive me back to their place. And it was a tight fit for the two of us. I had the cab of the truck packed pretty full with a couple of cases of homebrew and a stock of material and a new sewing machine. As an outdoorsman, I learned long ago from some friends up north that I can repair the clothes I currently own and make pants and shirts stronger and more durable with my own two hands. And then I don’t have to spend my hard-earned money on any of that cheap crap they make in China or somewhere.

When my vision finally returned, I was sitting in the Callipeaux home. Edmund was placing his cans of beans, olives, soup, and the bottle of dish soap on a shelf near the kitchen ceiling.

“What are you doing now, Edmund?” I asked.

“I’m adding these items to The Strange Food Collection,” he replied.

“You mean to tell me that I lost my eyesight so that you could buy food that you’re not even going to eat?!”

I got the hell out of that house before another attack of blindness could overtake me. That’s the last time I let the Callipeaux’s drag me anywhere with them. The whole afternoon was shot and I completely missed the carpenter I was driving to meet when I got that flat tire. I’m looking at having solar panels installed across the entire south-facing roof of my house. That way, when Armageddon comes and society collapses, I’ll be able to keep the lights on. – MH

Part 31: Certifying Dreams

Contributor:
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.

25 September 2009, 8:00pm

Regular readers of Specious Reasoning may have found themselves questioning the truthfulness of last week’s entry from Leadership 5 - - where L5 recounts the perfect storm of events that led to Edmund's purchase of 3 Powerball tickets at a local gas station. Our team of editors vetted the story and concluded that things went down exactly as they were told: There were indeed 3 people in line, each buying 3 of the same exact item, thus leading Edmund and L5 to the conclusion that the time was ripe to buy 3 lottery tickets.

Sadly, however, upon review of the Minnesota State Lottery website, the numbers purchased on that fateful afternoon were not winners.

This finding once again raises the question that functioned as the thread running through each of last week’s stories - - Will Edmund’s dreams ever really come true?

This remains to be seen, of course, but as of yet, there is no conclusive evidence that Edmund’s dreams will ever really come true:

Thursday Night: Edmund dreams that he paints a masterpiece.

Friday: Doesn’t happen.

Friday Night: Edmund dreams of winning the lottery.

Saturday: His numbers don’t even come close to matching.

Saturday Night: Louis the XIV (The Sun King) appears to Edmund and tells him that when he awakes, he’ll find that his truck (The General) is now made out of solid gold! But unfortunately, because gold is so much heavier than steel, it now gets miserable gas millage and the EPA confiscated it under a new Greenhouse Gas Emissions Act that President Obama has just signed into law.

Sunday: Upon rushing out the house in the morning, Edmund was equally relieved and disappointed to find that his truck was still parked in his driveway, and unlike what he was promised, it was not gold and shiny (like a truck made out of solid gold bullion), rather, it was its usual shiny red color (like the shiny red color of an aluminum wrapper on a cube of beef-bouillon).

Sunday Night: Ancient Egyptian Mummies chase Edmund through the streets of Moscow, eventually catching him and pressing him into service as their laundry-boy. He then toils for an eternity in a sea of darks, whites, colors, and Tide.

Monday: Walking into his laundry room Monday morning, Edmund is disappointed to see that Laundry Mountain still awaits his attention, and that he did not somehow spend the night Sleep-Cleaning.

Monday Night: Edmund dreams that he is a master-mathematician who has the ability to multiply 9-digit numbers in his head and solve unimaginably complicated math equations that eventually win him a Noble Prize.

Tuesday: Edmund awakes to find no evidence of any trophies or awards in the house (apart from his Chili-spoon trophy for winning the 2008 College of Visual Arts Print Shop Chili Cook-Off). There were also no messages from Norway on his answering machine, and in fact, later that afternoon, equipped with only his normal math skills, Edmund struggles to find the center of a 4-foot length of wood while building a frame in his studio - - eventually deciding that half of 48 is somewhere between 26 and 31 inches.

Tuesday Night: Edmund dreams of nothing - - he has no dreams.

Wednesday: Despite his night spent dreaming of nothing, Edmund had to do something on this day…a lot of some-things, actually. He spends the day struggling to meet deadlines, keep appointments, and finding time for lunch.
Wednesday Night: Edmund dreams that he is a stylish undercover agent for British Intelligence who foils an international plot to steal 30 million Pounds from English banks.

Thursday: Late in the morning, Edmund realizes that he had just dreamt of an episode of the BBC television series, MI5…and while standing before his wardrobe, he sees that he only has a pair of grungy Carhartt pants, and a wrinkly Dickies shirt to wear to work that day.

Thursday Night: Edmund re-dreams his dream of eating lunch and painting a masterpiece in his studio.

Friday: After the failures of each of his dreams this week, Edmund decides to skip lunch and forgo working at the studio. Instead, he spends his day drinking Tahitian Treat while doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, and washing dishes. Later that evening, when his wife, LeTigre, returns home from work, she exclaims, “Wow, the house looks amazing!.... And Laundry Mountain is gone! I can’t believe that you actually did something productive with yourself today…this is a dream come true!” – KPT

Part 30: When Dreams Come True

Contributors:
Edmund Callipeaux – artist, college instructor, lives in St. Louis Park.
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.
Guy Cheblo – chef, corn expert, adventurer, lives in New York, NY.
Leadership 5 – woodworker, camping enthusiast, day trader, lives in Missoula, MT.
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Edmund Callipeaux – 17 September 2009, 6:00pm

My dreams came true today.

Last night, I dreamt that I had lunch at a McDonald’s restaurant, after which I went to my studio and painted a masterpiece!

And, believe it or not, today I went to McDonald’s, had a disgusting lunch, AND then, I actually went to my studio and painted a masterpiece! Can you imagine that?!

I guess sometimes dreams really do come true! – EC

The Painting!


Editor’s note: I feel that it is my duty to inform you that the above story is not completely factual. Yes, Edmund had a dream where he dined on crappy fast food hamburgers, after which he spent the day painting in his art studio - - this much is true. However, the painting in his dream, and the one he actually painted are two birds of a different feather!

Sadly, Edmund’s dream did not become reality.

Upon close inspection, the two artworks are indeed very similar, but the term "masterpiece" can only apply to one!

THIS is the masterpiece that appeared to Edmund in his dream:


This salty rogue commands the walls of my living room, in Key West. For me, the painting is a constant reminder that I should never turn my back to the sea. (It is also a reminder that I need to buy a nice hat like that someday.) – KPT
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Guy Cheblo – 18 September 2009, 4:45am

Some say that Edmund Callipeaux is a lair.

Others say that while he may tend toward exaggeration from time to time, he is most assuredly a great lover of the truth, and thus never deviates too far from pure facts while embarking on his long-winded, and often rambling tales.

I say that the truth of the matter lies in a grey area, somewhere between fact and fiction.

For many, the perception of reality can be likened to peering through a glass of Minneapolis tap water. The view is somewhat bent by the liquid, but the image is basically clear. For others, the identification of what is real is skewed by their viewing-glass having been filled with murky dishwater. I myself have always imagined that my glass is filled with Hawaiian Punch fruit juice, thus giving me a rosy outlook on life. In Edmund’s case however, it is as if his glass is filled with thick, impenetrable chocolate pudding - - thereby leaving his wild imagination in charge of filling in the massive voids between actual events and other fictional narratives born solely from his world of dreams.


Given his pretension toward fantasy, and the fact that the poor guy scares easily (real easy), I often receive panicked phone calls from Edmund at all hours.

Tonight, I received one of those calls:

“Guy, I’ve done something…. Something that I’m not sure of…I don’t know! I think it might be bad!”

“Calm down, Edmund,” I said as I switched on my bedside table lamp. His voice was clearly distraught, and I could tell that his merger little brain was stuck in first gear as it whirled around at 60 miles per hour.

“Tell me what happened,” I spoke calmly into the telephone.

“You’re not going to be happy about this…. I feel like Sister Doris from our old grade school is going to come and find me and make me say a ton of Rosaries and stuff like that.”

“Edmund, first off, just tell me: what kinds of prescription drugs are you taking right now?” I said.

“Just my asthma meds.”

“Okay, good. Now calm down and tell me just exactly what happened,” I replied.

“I’m trying to tell you that I’ve made a big mistake…I really messed up…and I’m worried! I’m worried that there may be consequences!”

“Well?” I replied.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what did you do that was so bad?” I said as I began to regret answering the phone.

“Well, Guy, you know how I love to vacuum, right? Well, I sort of did a thing with the vacuum…something with the hose…something that I don’t think that I should have done. Something Sister Doris probably wouldn’t approve of.”

“Calm down, Edmund. What did you do with the vacuum hose?” I said as I tried to imagine what the fool had gotten himself into.

“I just couldn’t stop myself, Guy.”


“My God, Edmund! Are you saying what I think you might be saying? You can’t…that is wrong! Maybe we should send Sister Doris over with her prayer books and that yardstick she carried with her,” I said as I sat up in my bed.

“Oh no! So you think it’s bad too! That’s why I’m so worried! It started out innocently enough…you know how I love to vacuum. But the deed is done, and I can’t take it back. And now God is going to punish me!”

“He probably will, Edmund. What on Earth were you thinking? I know you love vacuuming…but this is really taking things far afield. And actually, why are you telling me this? Why involve me? Can’t you ever keep this crazy stuff to yourself?” I said as I began to raise my voice over the phone.

“I didn’t know who else to call!”

“Alright, alright,” I said as I brought a measure of calmness back into my speech, “Let’s just back up a bit and go over this. You say that you were vacuuming.”

“Yes.”

I continued to speak calmly, and at an even pace, “You were vacuuming and you did something with the vacuum. Something bad. You did something (or preformed some act) that caused you to relive one of your greatest fears in life. Fears that center on punishments administered by Sister Doris.”

“Yes.”


Those of you not familiar with Sister Doris will be folks who did not attend the same Catholic grade school that Edmund and myself graduated from in 1984. However, if you were a schoolboy, or schoolgirl, at any other Catholic grade school within the Untied States, then you will have memories of you own personal version of “Sister Doris.”

Sister Doris was a Nun who was our third-grade teacher, back in 1978. She was a larger-than-life figure, who was tuff as nails, and mighty handy with a yardstick. She struck the fear of God into us kids as she also tried to imbue our young minds with the knowledge of artistic techniques, like gluing pebbles to milk cartons, and finger-painting, and stuff like that. She was also our science teacher…so, it could be said, that at an early age, Edmund equated the fields of fine arts and the sciences with terror - - terror of Sister Doris and her yardstick.

(Sister Doris also taught us how to play 5-Card Draw Poker one afternoon, in art class. A rare happy day for Edmund and myself in Sister Doris’s classroom - - she actually had us third-graders playing with real money, and Edmund and I cleaned out the whole class.)

Thinking back to it now, that yardstick that Sister Doris had wasn’t just one of those thin, floppy ones - - it was extra-heavy-duty. It was broad and straight and maybe 3/8 of an inch thick…and it was shiny with lacquer. In Sister Doris’s hands, it barely made a sound as it was wielded through the air like Excalibur. But when it met its target, the impacting sound was that of 10,000 screaming children who were caught passing notes, giggling, or dilly-dallying.

That yardstick was a force unto itself. It was if a Saint had cut it from an ancient tree, in an ancient land. He or she benevolently worked it to be flat and sturdy - - after which, it was blessed by a Pope with the power to keep eight-year-olds walking the straight and narrow. And as it was passed down through the ages, and finally into the hands of Sister Doris, it was disguised from its true function by painted on numbers and dashes that marked off inches and feet. To the outside world, it appeared as a useful tool for classroom instruction. However, to every third-grader, it was the reason why we fully understood the tale of the Sword of Damocles long before we ever heard of Greek Mythology.


“Yes, I’m guilty.”

“Now, I know that I’m going to instantly regret asking you this, but what exactly did you do?” I said while wincing and gritting my teeth in preparation for Edmund’s inevitably disturbing answer.

“You’re going to be mad at me, Guy. I don’t know if I can tell you now. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Edmund, you’ve woken me up and you’re going to tell me what happened…whether you (or I) like it or not! Just get it over with and then we’ll discuss just exactly how many years of weekly psycho-therapy it’ll take to put this episode behind us,” I sternly said into the phone.

“Well, I was vacuuming the floor…. I got the whole place looking real nice; and once I had finished, I took the vacuum hose in my hand…and…and I vacuumed the vacuum.”
“You did what?” I responded.

“The vacuum was all dusty, and so I vacuumed the vacuum with its own hose. Doesn’t that seem wrong?”

“Edmund, you are right…I am going to be mad at you. In fact, I am mad at you. I hope a thousand Sister Doris’s show up at your doorstep tomorrow morning, each armed with a Rosary and a yardstick. It’s 4 in the morning and you call me with this? Vacuuming a vacuum? Are you insane? I’m going back to sleep!”

“But,”

“But nothing. I’m hanging up now, goodbye.”

And with that I slammed down the phone. I pulled out my daily planner from where it was resting on my bedside table. Jotting down these words: have telephone number changed tomorrow; I soon thought again and crossed the entry out with a solid line. If that deluded sod doesn’t have me to call, then what will he do? I can’t have him out there in the wilderness all alone. He’d be fishing around in that murky pudding-water, bumping into things, walking off cliffs, and God only knows what else.

I’ll just mark it down in the book to pack a yardstick in my bags when next visiting Minnesota. – GC
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Leadership 5 – 19 September 2009, 6:53pm

Today, I tagged along with Edmund Callipeaux while he was out and about, running around town, doing this and that.

The morning agenda was filled with stops at Menards, an antique shop, and the city dump. Eventually, we swung into a gas station to fill up his truck and pick up a few supplies before heading over to Edmund’s painting studio.

“I’m running a little hot today, L5…I’d better make sure that I have enough refreshing soft drinks to keep my motor running,” Edmund said as we stood before the massive array of beverages at the back of the store.

Opening up one of the glass cooler doors, Edmund said, “This should do it.” After which he selected three 20-ounce bottles of Hawaiian Punch fruit juice that were nicely chilled.



Walking back to the front of the store, we took our place in line at the checkout counter. Edmund proceeded to peruse the store’s offering of Beef Jerky and Celebrity magazines that resided on the shelves at our waists, and I watched as the elderly gentleman in front of us placed his purchases on the counter. “1, 2, and 3,” I overheard him say as he lined up three 20oz bottles of Grape Crush next to the cash register.

“That’s a bit odd,” I thought to myself.

I looked from the 3 bottles of Grape Crush, to Edmund’s complementary set of red-colored bottles, which he had cradled in his arm while he mumbled to himself, “Hickory-smoked, extra hot, Louisiana Voodoo Fire Turkey-Jerky. Hmmm, interesting.”

Then, I looked over my shoulder, and to the woman who had taken her place in line directly behind us. I watched as she reached over to a display of Hostess fruit pies and selected an apple pie.

I continued to watch as she studied the package briefly, and then, after a moment of hesitation, she reached out her arm and placed her fingers on a second apple pie. My eyes widened as she deposited the package into the hand that still held the first pie. She then proceeded to eye over the entire rack and its variety of fruit filled pies in colorful wax paper wrappings. (Flavors such as, lemon, cherry, blueberry, and strawberry, as well as the apple.) And as the gentleman with the Grape Crush was fishing around in his pockets for the exact change to complete his purchase, the pie-woman sheepishly reached out once again and removed a third apple fruit pie from the display.

“How interesting,” I thought to myself as excitement began to brew in my blood vessels. There were three parties in line, each of whom were making their purchases in triplicate: 3 bottles of Grape Crush, 3 Hostess apple fruit pies, and Edmund’s 3 bottles of Hawaiian Punch!

Leaning forward slightly, so as not to call attention to myself, I nudged Edmund and whispered, “There’s something going on here. When you get to the counter, buy 3 lottery tickets…3 Powerballs. I think that this may be our big chance!”

Emerging from his daydream of the promise of spicy Turkey Jerky, Edmund looked past my shoulder and saw the woman with her apple pies. His expression went cold as he then turned to see the old man licking his lips as the clerk placed his purple soda pops into a plastic bag. Edmund then proceeded to absentmindedly set down his Turkey Jerky in with the magazines as he whispered under his breath, “Leadership 5, you are a genius!”

Walking up to the counter, and barely able to conceal the excitement in his voice, Edmund asked the clerk for 3 Powerball tickets in addition to ringing up his bottles of Hawaiian Punch. Completing the transaction and handing Edmund the lottery tickets, the clerk said, “Good luck.” To which Edmund replied, “I’ll send you a postcard from my own private Caribbean Island after the drawing tonight.”

Back in Edmund’s truck, the two of us celebrated our good fortune with a series of high-fives, as well as repeated exclamations of the word Huzzah! - - Followed by a few boisterous toasts with Edmund’s Hawaiian Punch.

“You know L5," Edmund said, “I think that I may have dreamt about this last night. Yes.... Yes, I think that I did dream about this same exact thing happening…only you were a smiling alligator who was wearing aviator sunglasses and an Adidas tracksuit. I can’t believe this is happening...we're going to be RICH!!!”

“Well, Edmund, it’s hard to imagine that anyone could have predicted the perfect storm of events that led to this fateful moment. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that your dreams really will come true. That will be a story to tell!” – L5

Part 29: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Sean Kensington – Freshman art college student, video game enthusiast, currently living in Minneapolis, hometown: London.
_________________________________

10 September 2009 – 4:00am




“Don’t look the baby in the eyes!”

These words were the first thing Edmund Callipeaux told my art history class as we approached Portrait of the Gaspard Moeremans Family at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts.

Mr. Callipeaux proceeded to explain, “The baby in this painting has mystical powers. She’s not evil or anything…but she can hypnotize you nonetheless. And I have big plans for us today, so I’ll be requiring your full attention!”

He then added, “Some say that the baby and her supernatural mind powers are the only reason why the museum hasn’t had a major fire or flood for over 10 years!

“The painting was a gift from an anonymous donor who, after having been locked up in an insane asylum for the better part of his adult life, gave it to the museum as a condition of his release from the hospital,” Mr. Callipeaux explained as we stood before the massive work.


Mr. Callipeaux had told our class on the first day of school that we would be treated to a tour of the museum led by none other than himself. And here we were, it was the second day of class, and we were on our first fieldtrip to view the notable collection of artworks at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (MIA).

Not only was this my first visit to the MIA, it was also 1) my first week as a college student, and 2) it was my very first week living in America. From an early age, growing up in London, it had been my dream to travel to the States to study under the great Edmund Callipeaux. And here I was: tuition paid, bags unpacked, and backpack brimming with newly purchased school supplies. Everything was falling into place in exactly the way I had envisioned it as a youngster in Merry Olde England.

Mr. Callipeaux met our class at the museum entrance that morning, whereupon he led us at a quick pace directly to the magical baby painting. Zigzagging through the cavernous halls of the MIA, he rushed past and ignored a great many masterpieces, telling the class, "We don't have time to see all of this stuff. Today's only going to be about the Greatest Hits!!!"

Finally approaching the magical baby painting, I eagerly tried to imagine what the day held in store for me. I wondered what genius lay behind Mr. Callipeaux’s planned tour.

After a few seconds of glancing at the baby painting, Mr. Callipeaux quickly led the class to another gallery. “Let’s not linger here people! We have much to do today! Much to do!”

In the neighboring room, we found a painting of this woman:


Upon gathering around the painting, Mr. Callipeaux immediately exclaimed to the class:

“And by God, don’t even think of looking into this woman’s eyes!"

“In fact, turn around...turn around and face the other direction! I don’t want any of you looking at any part of this painting!”

With that said, the class hesitated briefly, but eventually turned their backs to the painting, as well as to Mr. Callipeaux, who was now standing just to the right of the artwork. Later that night, as I was recalling this event with some of my fellow students, I found that I was not alone amongst my peers in thinking that Mr. Callipeaux has unconventional, if not unusual teaching methods.

Within the echoing gallery, we listened as Mr. Callipeaux described the painting further:

“Never look at this painting! The woman in this painting is the one who’s always trying to start fires and cause floods around here…she and the magical baby have been fighting each other for years and years! And you can't afford to get mixed up in this epic battle! So don’t ever look at any part of this painting...if you get caught within her steely gaze, you’ll be finished! She has a cold, vindictive soul that you’re not ready to deal with yet!”

A few other museum visitors looked toward our group with somewhat confused expressions on their faces, and a museum guard quietly told Mr. Callipeaux to not shout in the galleries.

Moving to the next room, we gathered around this painting.


“This is the best painting in the museum…which is saying something,” said Mr. Callipeaux. “I want you each to write a 15-page paper on this painting, single-spaced with ½” margins, due to me by noon tomorrow,” continued Mr. Callipeaux, followed by, “That’s all I’m going to say about this painting. No questions, please.”

Pulling us into another room, we momentarily found ourselves in front of this painting.


To which, Mr. Callipeaux said, “A lot of paintings have cows in them.”

Barely stopping at the cow painting, and while in the process of darting into the next gallery, a student asked if we could pause to take some notes and maybe use the restroom.

“No,” was Mr. Callipeaux’s reply as he pointed at this painting.

At a brisk pace we galloped past a Rembrandt painting, a Monet painting, a famous portrait by the artist Chuck Close, and a 5th century BC Roman sculpture that evidently the museum purchased for over 5 million US Dollars.

I began to wonder what sort of logic was at play in Mr. Callipeaux’s mind. We had been in the museum for only a short time, and perhaps it was too soon to place any doubt on Mr. Callipeaux’s intensions...but I found myself thinking that this was a very different experience of museum going - - especially when compared to my long afternoons of wandering the halls of British museums back home.

Our next stop was in front of this portrait.


Mr. Callipeaux proceeded to explain that this clown is the reason why the Lady with the Eyes wants to destroy the museum all the time. Evidently (according to Mr. Callipeaux) the clown and the Lady with the Eyes were once lovers, but the clown dumped the Lady with the Eyes abruptly one night so that he could focus his attention more on the craft of clowning.

Several students with raised hands were ignored as we were then ushered into the next gallery and quickly past the painting shown below as Mr. Callipeaux said, “Severed heads are cool.”


Then pausing briefly at a balcony, Mr. Callipeaux pointed to a large glass sculpture that was suspended from the ceiling. “This will result in the downfall of Western Civilization,” he exclaimed. After which he yelled, “Let’s keep moving people!”


As we made our way, almost at a run through the next 15 or more galleries, Mr. Callipeaux stopped us briefly here and there to tell us to move more quickly. It was at this time that I really started to feel confused and somewhat frustrated. By my watch, we had only spent 12 minutes in the museum, and yet we had covered three floors and walked (or ran) past innumerable priceless art objects. This was very different from the sort of college education that I had imagined during the long flight to America from the UK.

In fact, I thought back to earlier in the week, when we met as a class for the first time, and it occurred to me that that was also a rather confusing experience. Mr. Callipeaux had arrived to class 20 minutes late, took attendance, assigned a class captain that he told would be responsible for the administration of all punishments to students - - and he then put on a PBS video about French Impressionism, took a seat at the back of the classroom, and I could swear that I thought that it looked like he was sleeping after about 15 minutes.

At the end of the class, a student asked him what he had been doing back there, to which he responded, “I was just doing what anyone does while looking at French Impressionistic painting. Art is supposed to have an effect on you, right? Painting like that makes most people tired and sleepy. I’m surprised no one else took a little nap. What do you think that I was trying to teach you?”

Back at the museum, we breathlessly chased after Mr. Callipeaux as he zoomed through gallery after gallery. As I ran, I thought back to all the other college acceptance letters I had received…and of the expense I had undertaken in uprooting and moving thousands of miles away from my family.

Finally, stopping at the painting below, Mr. Callipeaux said, “This marks the end of our tour, I’ll assume that there are no questions. Class dismissed.


“Oh, and by the way…the hand soap that they have in the bathrooms on the first floor, by the main entrance, is quite nice. Make sure that you make a point of checking that out as you leave the museum!”

And with that he disappeared down a set of stairs, leaving us standing and bewildered in a gallery full of Folk Art. A new kind of anxiety that I had never experienced before overtook me as I tried to remember just exactly where that Monkey painting was in the museum. “How on Earth am I going to write 15 pages by noon tomorrow?” I thought to myself.

That night, I ended up pulling my first official all-nighter as a college student while I worked to complete my paper on the Monkey painting. Handing it in on time, I went back to my dorm room to get a little shut-eye. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought back to how my father had cautioned me about pursuing my education abroad. He accurately pointed out to me that there are many world-class art colleges within the London city limits. Good advice that I ignored while dreaming of studying under the tutelage of Edmund Callipeaux.

Later that evening, I was surprised to find my paper (with Mr. Callipeaux’s notes) resting in my school mailbox. Standing in the hallway alongside my dormitory roommate, I flipped through the pages that were now mostly covered with heavy red ink markings...with huge sections crossed out (and covered in coffee stains). Scrawled across the bottom of the last page, I found my grade along with Mr. Callipeaux’s comments:

D-

Your grammer is terrible!

You totally missed what this painting is about!

Get help!

Turning to my roommate and asking him if he thought that the pages held the slight odor of Irish Whiskey, I said, “We weren’t even in the museum 20 minutes and the guy doesn’t even know how to spell the word grammar correctly. If this first week of class is any indication of the semester ahead of me, I don’t know if December can come fast enough.” – SK

However, the hand soap at the MIA was indeed quite lovely.

Part 28: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributor:
Kidpowertool – unemployed dairy professional, lives in Key West, FL.

3 September 2009

The drawing below was recently unearthed from within a stack of books, deep within a long ignored section of the Callipeaux home library.


Regular readers will recognize this genteel-looking fellow by Chili Pie’s description of Edmund and LeTigre’s neighbor (part 4 of the ongoing accounts of the life of Edmund Callipeaux, 31 January 2009). Within his story, Chili Pie paints an accurate picture:

Currently, a man who they referred to as The Chud had taken up residence in the little house. The Chud was a hulk of a man who looked like a chunky Duane Allman, with long blonde hair and a scraggly beard. He had this huge old, broken-down pickup truck from the ‘70s that he was constantly trying to repair and keep running. It had more rust and primer on it than paint, and The Chud’s tools were strewn throughout its open bed. They said that every morning at 7:30am, The Chud would fire up the beastly machine to go to work. And because the truck had no muffler, and owing to the acoustics of the alleyway and apartment building, the roaring engine would sound like a 747 jetliner was taking off in their dining room. Ironically, on the weekends, the intense smells of exhaust and sonic booms from The Chud’s truck would be replaced by beautiful electric guitar music. Evidently, The Chud was also a virtuoso on the guitar and spent his Saturday afternoons playing classical music, like Bach and Vivaldi.

Given the historic nature of this find, our team of investigators have gone to work authenticating the drawing. E-mails have been sent, interviews have been conducted, and phone calls have been made. Yet, the authorship of the drawing remains a mystery.

Upon first seeing the sketch, LeTirge Callipeaux stated that WestCoast (a longtime friend of the Callipeaux’s) was the artist behind the likeness. However, after intense questioning, WestCoast claims total innocence, stating that he had never seen the work of art before.

When placed under the hot-lights of interrogation, Edmund too claimed that it was not a drawing of his - - stating for the record:

“I don’t think that I would make lines like that! I could see that maybe I could have drawn the mouth and the beard, but not the hair or the shirt…but maybe I drew the eyes and the nose. I don’t know - - I definitely did not draw that chin!”



Edmund proceeded to add:

“The likeness is so realistic looking…. perhaps no one drew it. Maybe it’s a photograph?”

Could this drawing actually be a photograph?

Edmund claims that the likeness is exact. So exact, in fact, that only a camera could capture so much detail and accuracy. He went on to say that perhaps the simplicity of the image is due to the photographer using one of those cheap disposable cameras. However, we pointed out to him that the linear quality of the image contradicts his argument. These lines are clearly the result of a ballpoint pen pressed against a scrap of paper. Furthermore, the image is flat and two-dimensional, whereas Chili Pie’s description of The Chud clearly alludes to his heft and volume when he writes:

“The Chud was a hulk of a man who looked like a chunky Duane Allman.”

A camera surely would have captured a more three-dimensional image of The Chud.

To all of this, Edmund replied:

“You know, Kid…. you know this won’t work on me - - THIS using facts and actual observations to prove your point. I’m immune to your twisted logic. I’m saying that the image is so real-looking that it can only be a photograph! Maybe the sun was behind The Chud, or the picture is over-exposed, or something. Or, maybe The Chud himself wants you to think that it’s a drawing...to trick you for some reason!!!

“What I’m saying is that no man, woman, or child could render such an accurate, lifelike image of The Chud. Think what you want to, but I was that guy’s neighbor for over a year, and I’m telling you that this looks exactly (not a little) exactly like him!”

And with that said, Edmund told us that his lawyers would field all further questions.

So, it remains a mystery.

Who or what created this image?

We may never know.

It could have been the product of several hands, each drawing and adding to the image. Thus explaining why it cannot be solely attributed to only one artist.

It could be a photograph (as Edmund suggests).

Or, given Edmund’s claim that no man, woman, or child could possibly compose such an accurate likeness, perhaps the culprits were woodland creatures who got hold of a BIC pen one afternoon, whereupon they crudely, yet accurately sketched The Chud under the midday sun while singing and dancing to the fanciful melodies that emanate from the soul of the Southern Minnesota prairie?

We may never know the truth, and perhaps that’s for the best. A good mystery does tend to liven things up a bit, doesn’t it? – KPT