The Price of Monkeys

 Longtime readers of this blog...

...wow, thanks, I can't believe you still come around. I'm overwhelmed.

Anyway, for not-so-longtime-readers: the oldtimers know that I'm somewhat obsessed with singerie. Basically, art depicting monkeys in clothes doing people things.

Yep, it's a whole thing. 

Over the years I've done numerous posts highlighting various singerie artists. Like this one. And this one.

Go check them out. They'll make you happy. Because monkeys wearing clothes, you guys.

Today I'm going to highlight a subset of singerie that is very cool and also totally freaking awesome to say: singerie chinoiserie.

It's pronounced "Throatwarbler Mangrove."

Chinoiserie is a French term meaning "in the Chinese style," specifically referring to embellishing Western art or decorations with Eastern motifs. Singerie, of course, is French for "monkeys wearing plumed hats." No! It's even better: It actually means "monkey trick," which is totally going to be the name of my Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution tribute band (look it up, kids - I can't link to everything).

But I digress. Put it all together, and singerie chinoiserie is decorative art featuring monkeys dressed up in Chinese-style clothing. This is a thing that exists, and I am here for it. In these times of global pandemic and the heretofore fucked up response thereto, monkeys in Chinese-style clothing doing people things is the joy we all need. Trust me.

This is an entire rabbit hole that can be dived into (into which can be dived...dove...forget it), so I'm going to focus on decorative figurines today. Oh, you can get monkeys painted on vases:

You can even get vases that are mostly made of monkey:

This one is by a South African artist
and will set you back 2,750 euros.

You can also get bowls to hold your lemons.

$150 on eBay; doesn't say if the lemons
are included, which seems a significant
omission.

Now, monkeys carrying bowls on their head is a notable theme in chinoiserie.

When life gives you monkeys,
make lemonade.

Don't like lemons? Fortunately, the possibilities are endless.

Believe it or not, this one is from Walmart
and sells for $178.
You OK, Walmart?

I mean, monkeys with bowls on their head is a really popular theme.

A bargain at ninety bucks.

Vintage monkeys with bowls on their head fetch a premium - this one goes for almost $400.

I'm worth it, bitch.

No matter the price, they're just cute as the dickens, and functional. They'll hold your lemons, your spare change, your weed...monkeys don't judge (of if they do, they keep it to themselves, which is a lesson some people could stand to learn).

Some monkeys prefer to hold their bowl in their lap.

While others get really creative.

Sometimes monkeys hold other things, like candlesticks.

Swanky boys.

Or tiny vases. I saw this one for 98 dollars on Etsy.

But he must suck at his job, because this very similar and more primitive example will cost you $12,500 (not a typo), and I have no idea why.

Here's a tricky proposition: monkeys holding vases that are candlesticks!

The vases are adorable.
And I'm pretty sure those monkeys are high.

This monkey is minding his own business and reading a book.

And goes for $900.
Reading is fundamental.

On the other hand, this little guy is totally putting on a show and is a bargain at $99. 

I don't really understand monkey economics.

That's enough for one day. I don't want to spoil you, and I should probably do something more productive with my day than Googling singerie chinoiserie.

Just kidding, there is literally nothing more productive I could do today. 

I hope you enjoyed the show. There will be sequel if this proves popular. And probably even if it doesn't. Because, once again, monkeys wearing clothing.

It's a thing.

An Open Letter to Paul Simon

Dear Paul Simon:

I have something I want to say. And I'd like to say it the way your song lyrics taught me things could (and should) be said: With softness, strength, wry humor, and an economy of language that belies a wealth of emotion.

So here goes:

Godammit, Paul, you can't fucking do this to me!

Do you mind if I call you Paul?

No, your disarming smile won't make it all better this time.

Look, I don't know how often you read my little blog. In my humble opinion, you really should keep up with it. You would learn about monkey art, and how to make pea soup and sweetheart balls and how to grow beans. You would be introduced to my poetry, which sometimes is (I think) truly poetic and sometimes is just about penises. The way poetry is, as you know.

You would also see that I'm a longtime and devoted fan of your music and of you personally. To me, there's only one person in the world worthy of receiving the coveted "Left-Handed Jewish Singer-Songwriters Married to a Former Member of New Bohemians" tag, and it's you, Paul.

Even Artie misses by that much.

The point is, way back in high school - a long, long time ago, even before you released Graceland - I said in a high-school writing assignment that one of my greatest goals in life was to see concerts by Bob Dylan and Paul Simon (that's you). I've seen Bob in concert twice, as you surely know if in fact you do read my blog. Or if Bob reads my blog and has told you about it. If you guys ever get together and chat about blogs you enjoy. Maybe over some nice pea soup. 

But I digress.

But while I've seen Mr. Dylan perform, I've never seen you. I've actually seen a number of my 60s musical heroes live: Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, the Moody Blues, Ringo Starr, Brian Wilson. Yet if all these talented artists are like stuffed heads hanging over the mantel of my heart, then one mahogany plaque is still missing its lovingly amputated and painstakingly preserved trophy: Paulsimonicus harmonius newyorkicus.

If that's not, you know, pushing the metaphor too far.

Anyway, today you announced on social media that your upcoming tour will be your last. Thankfully, this will bring you to Dallas one final time, on June 1. Your retirement is not immediate, unlike Neil Diamond's, who just jerked the fucking rug out from under all of us who have spent their lives hoping to you see sing in person, just once, even while their sister has seen him multiple times, not that I begrudge her that joy.

You know?

Paul, I love you and Neil almost as much as I love
my sister. Can I call you Paul?

I don't hold out great hope that I'll have the opportunity to catch your final Dallas show. Or the means. My Precocious Daughter graduates in June, and apparently it now costs as much to graduate from high school as it cost me to get an entire college education. She's my priority, emotionally and financially, but believe me, if I could save enough money for front-row tickets to your show by not eating between now and June 1, I'd totally do it. I can always eat on June 2, right?

I'm sad, is what I'm trying to say. Sad that you're in the twilight of your illustrious career, sad that we can't always tick off all the items on our bucket lists, sad that time merely shrugs at our best efforts to slow it to an endless waltz instead of a headlong jitterbug through life.

Fucking time.

But I'm happy to hear your voice - on my records, my CDs, my streams, and of course, in my head.

Still, that long-ago invitation to come to my place and sing "Mother and Child Reunion" to me is always open. You can bring Edie. I'll make some sweetheart balls.

Love,

Chuck

Happy Sunday Singerie

If you've been reading this blog for more than five years...

...first of all, God bless you.

Secondly, you may remember that I have in the past written about my consuming passion for singerie, or art that incorporates monkeys dressed as and/or acting like people.

Like hentai can be a thing but this can't, right?

It's been a while since I've written about this topic that is close to my heart. Apparently I became unemployed, started a new job, got divorced, became the mother of a teenager, and other things instead.

Life is what happens to you while you're busy
saving pictures of monkeys acting like people.

But I still love singerie. So I've gathered together a whole new collection of images for you.

Please enjoy them, like them, share them.

Monkeys are amazing. Art is amazing. Monkey art is off the charts, yo.

I'll find more if you want. Let me know if you're Team Monkey Art.

Hint: I am Team Monkey Art regardless.

Mom, Daughter, Blogger: Somehow I Am All of These

First.

My mom had heart surgery today.

Her surgeons were able to repair two leaky heart valves and also somehow magically shock her afib back into normal rhythm.

The whole thing took a little over four hours. She's in ICU now, and will be for the next couple of days. But she's sitting up and responding to nurses.

Drunkards, you can't possibly know how much your support has meant to me during this period of waiting and worrying. You're the absolute best.

I got you this rave-ready Maldives octopus to say thank you.

Because I don't want to sit here and weep tears of joy-slash-guilt-because-I'm-not-there, I'm going to write something silly and non-consequential instead.

My coping mechanism IS a Rube Goldberg machine, thanks for asking.

So.

Precocious Daughter is 17 years old. A junior in high school. An honor student. Just found out that next school year she'll be Band co-president and principal clarinetist.

And I still make her a bag lunch every school day.

What can I say? She doesn't like cafeteria food, she isn't (technically) allowed to leave campus for lunch, and I'm a creature of habit. She started brown-bagging in middle school, and I've just gone with it. Every morning, no matter how tired, late, or hungover I am, I pack her lunch.

Obviously I'm Donna Reed. Only divorced
 and overly fond of vodka.

For a number of years, PDaughter carried a succession of reusable thermal lunch totes to school. Then teenagerism took hold of her brain, and she began to lose them at regular intervals. I finally decided, fuck it, I'm buying good old brown paper bags instead. And I've been using those ever since.

I'm not sure exactly when I started drawing on them every day.

One of my first drawings was of Steven Tyler. A quick Google search tells me he began his stint as an "American Idol" judge in 2011, so that is likely when the tradition started.

Honestly, I only ever watched AI while he was on.

That's six years ago. So for six years I've been picking up a Sharpie five days a week to doodle on my kid's lunch bag.

I've drawn animals, celebrities, cartoon characters, inanimate objects, political figures, commentaries on current events...you name it, I've amateurishly depicted it on a paper bag.

Today, she was complaining that she couldn't find her black leggings, so I actually drew a pair of leggings.

That's how I roll.

But yesterday...ah, yesterday.

I don't typically photograph my brown bag creations, but I did yesterday.

You see, earlier this week I had drawn a Basset hound on PDaughter's bag.

It possibly was not one of my best efforts. When she saw it, she said (and I quote), "Oh, I thought it was a mole."

Yes, I made this soulful-eyed doggo
look like a blind rodent.

So yesterday, I endeavored to make up for my artistic transgression by drawing not one, but THREE moles on one brown paper bag.

And I was sufficiently pleased with the results to take a photo.

Check this out:

Add caption

I drew three moles, you guys.

Do you get it?

Huh, do you?

I DREW THREE MOOOOOOOLLLLEEEEESSSSSS.

Maybe not. Whatever.

But my child took this lunch to her high school.

That makes me kinda proud.

I may need to adopt another kid when she's grown, because I can't imagine not being a terrible mom any more.

MOLES, you guys.

P.S. Thanks again for your good thoughts. I can't say that enough, ever.

Hello, Milwaukee

DRUNKARDS. I'm in Milwaukee. I'm. In. Milwaukee.

And if you don't understand why that makes me so very happy, then you don't come here very often.

Where my heart is.

You guys, I haven't been in my hometown in 25 years. And Precocious Daughter has never seen her ancestral home. But for the next few days, we're here. And we're having the most fabulous time.

We arrived yesterday, and it was 34 degrees with a 25 mph north wind. Yeah, it was freaking cold. I honestly thought PDaughter might perish - not from the cold, but from her anxiety about the cold. Texas born and raised, she is. But I admit, while I tried to laugh off her cold-bloodedness and face the raw day with bravado...it's been 25 years, and I thought it was damn freaking cold. And it's only November; in January this will seem totally balmy.

Put on an extra pair of socks and 30 pounds of blubber,
it'll be fine.

It's been so nice to see my parents, and my brother and his wife. And tomorrow...you guys, tomorrow I'm having dinner with Southside Shelly, who is one of my best friends on Earth, and I can't wait.

I'm pretty happy right now.

Today, PDaughter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum, which is an absolutely amazingly gorgeous building designed by renowned architect Santiago Calatrava. It sits right on Lake Michigan, on the edge of downtown Milwaukee, just north of the Summerfest grounds.

Summerfest is the granddaddy of music festivals,
and it happens every damn year.

I wanted PDaughter to see the art museum in any case, but it just so happens that it currently is hosting an exhibition on German Expressionist film. You may recall that PDaughter and I are fans. So we were psyched to see it.

IT WAS AMAZING.

Special effects were on fleek in 1924, you guys.

We had a great time touring the museum collections, and the museum itself is awe-inspiring.

After the museum, I drove PDaughter through downtown Milwaukee to Marquette University, where her dad went to grad school, and then through the South Side via 16th Street with views of the Mitchell Park Domes, Miller Park, and Wilson Park, all of which I plan to revisit in greater detail over the next few days.

I'm so happy to be home with my lovely daughter.

I'm so happy to be on vacation for the first time in too many moons.

I'm happy to see my parents, who have become elderly without my consent and therefore all the more precious to me.

I'll be here for a few more days, so if you're in the Milwaukee area and want to say hello, drop me a note. I'm more than available.

And very, very happy.

Tonight It's Pretty Much About Donald Trump's Hair

Drunkards, all I'm doing tonight is putting Donald Trump's hair on pictures of other things.

You know, like a squirrel.

My nuts are yuuuuuge.

And a dachshund.

I'm very, very attractive.
I might perhaps date me.

And a manatee.

How does it stay dry?

Of course, why should I stop at animals? Perhaps I could improve great works of art by applying Trump hair.

The Old Guitarist with Great Hair.

This is working, right?

OMG, my hair!!!

Or I could put the Donald's hair on fictional characters, such as the Third Doctor (my favorite after David Tennant).

Um.

Or this dude.

I'd worship that.

Maybe I should just stick to real people. Like Terry Crews.

Use Old Spice or my hair will find you and kill you!

Or formerly relevant singer Sinead O'Connor.

Nothing compares 2 this hair.

Or this guy. I'd love to see them show up at some event with the same coif.

This is oddly appealing.

As I said, this is all I'm doing tonight. I'll take requests if you've got them. Maybe tomorrow will be Vegetables with Trump Hair.

The possibilities are endless.