John Shore

One time, in the desert town of Antelope Valley, California, I was at this silent auction fundraiser thing for a charity, and was so struck by the (28 x 24 inch) painting above that I took the leap and bid $80.00 for it. I thought it was a picture of some nuns and one man heading towards some sort of church or holy building. No one else leapt behind me; the picture was mine. When I went to pay for it afterwards, the auction people said, "How cool that you got this painting done by Muhammad Ali!"

That's when I learned my new painting had been done (and signed!) by none other than The Champ himself. Who knew The Greatest could paint? And judging from this picture, I know, not many would think it still. But I like it. It's driven by a fresh, elemental, playful power that I find moving.

Not unlike its painter! (Oh: the white spot on the picture is just glare from my flash. Who am I, Cartier-Bresson?)

Some 15 years after acquring this picture I became a Christian. Then I wondered if it was right for me to leave hanging in my house art that I had come to understand was distinctly Muslimish. I sort of fundamentally reject incorporating into my evaluation of a work of art its subject matter or explicit "message"; I'm interested in the aesthetics of a piece, and not much else. Still, I didn't want God to ever say to me, "Great having you on board, Johnny! Too bad we have to send you to hell now because you're too stupid to know you shouldn't hang Enemy Art on your walls."

But then I thought, "Enemy art. That's so stupid. Islam isn't the enemy of Christianity. Evil is the enemy of Christianity."

But then I thought, "Yeah, but a lot of Christians do  think Islam is the enemy of Christianity. And you're a new Christian---what do you know? And historically, Islam and Christianity haven't exactly gotten along like the blood brothers I think they actually are. A lot of Christians think Islam is evil, ya' know."

Then I thought, "Remember that fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman? I love George Foreman. The Rumble in the Jungle! Man, Don King was a pain."

And then I heard a bell ding. "Wow!" I thought. "Just like in a fight!" Except instead of the next round, this bell meant the chocolate-chip cookies I had in the oven were ready. So then I started thinking less about world theology and history, and more about eating freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies.

Anyway, up there's my painting done and signed by Muhammad Ali. Blasphemous Imagry, Excellent Painting Done by One of the World's All-Time Greatest Athletes, or Not A Bad Way To Promote World Peace? You be the judge!  I'd do it, but I'm late picking my wife up from work.

Pretend you're an art critic here.

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Yesterday my wife Cat and I were driving on the freeway when she said, "The slogan of the truck we just passed is 'Always Late.'"

"Take a picture!" I said. "Take a picture!"

Being a Superior Human Being Who Always Gets It, Cat immediately started scrounging around in my bag for the camera I keep on me for those occasions when life insists I make fun of it.

"Got it!" she said, pulling out and holding aloft my Kodak Cynico-Matic.

I cleverly maneuvered alongside Mr. Party Tardy; Cat leaned over my lap to get the picture; I tried not to cry as she used my crotch to steady her elbow; and voila: the image above.

So what's the deal with that slogan? Does the owner of the truck have it on his business cards? Is his big sales pitch, "You can count on me to be late! If I'm supposed to be there Tuesday noon, look for me Wednesday morning! If then! Now where's that produce you want hauled?"

And what's with the Evil Death motif? The truck and trailer---both painted Ominous Purple---were festooned with skulls and crossbones. It was like a truck driven by Cap'n Jack Sparrow's son, Thrasher Sparrow, who's into metal. Or maybe the driver's the ultimate fan of the band Death Cab for Cutie. Who knows?

Maybe the skulls aren't meant to be scary. Maybe they're supposed to show what this trucker's customers look like by the time their delivery arrives.

That actually makes sense, because I could not drive slow enough to stay next to this truck---and I drive a Ford Focus.  When we first saw the truck we had just started up a long, slight incline on the road, and by the time Cat grabbed my camera, Mr. Purple Wane was so far behind us it was like he was driving in reverse. I basically had to park on the freeway and wait for him to catch up.

I used to be a Teamster; I loaded trucks, and knew a bunch of truck drivers. They were good guys. They took speed---"bennies"---to keep them awake: out of shape, grey haired, big rig drivin' pill poppers. Maybe whomever was driving this truck was the son or daughter of one of those guys. Makes sense.

Unload your comment here.

(Sort of related post o' mine: Grilled by a Truck.)

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Lately single women have been asking me, "John, what do guys want? I'm a pretty, intelligent, good-hearted girl who has a lot to offer any man. But all the men I know or meet invariably end up having some sort of congenital aversion to anything even vaguely resembling long-term emotional commitment---to settling down, getting serious, getting married. Why is that? I'm a fun, sweet person. I make my own money. I have lots of rewarding relationships in my life; I know how to be in a good relationship. I'm a mature, grown-up person. And I'd like to get married someday. Doesn't everyone? Don't guys? Isn't that the whole point---finding that special someone, falling in love, getting married, settling down, having children, growing old together? Isn't all that, like, the Grand Prize of life? Then why is it that if a girl on a date so much as scratches an itch on her ring finger, the guy she's with acts like she's sprayed him with mace? Who do these men think they're going to get involved with, if not one of the women they actually meet?  What is it that men want? What in the world are they looking for? Do they even know?"

When women ask me this, I usually answer with, "Do I know you? Anyway, great speech. Tough questions! Well, this is my stop. Good-bye---and good luck!"

But that's not helping anyone. So the next time a woman poses me this puzzler, I'm going to stay on the bus until I've given her my real answer, which is this:

"Men find unappealing in women the same thing women find unappealing in men: Need. People are not attracted to the emotionally needy. (Actually, there are lots of men out there who are attracted to emotionally needy women, but such men---men who seek out women over whom they can exercise power---are dangerous creeps from whom all women should flee.) The fact that you're registering that whatever man you're with is resisting a serious relationship means you're definitely sending that man messages that you do want to be in a serious relationship. That's not good. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, 'Desperate! Please Help! At Least Compliment My Hair!'

"You can't live your life waiting for a man to rescue you. Wanting a man to make your life whole is the one thing guaranteed to keep men from you. Because what wanting a man to make your life better means is that you, alone, aren't good enough for you. It means that you find yourself inadequate. It really means---or really signals---that you don't like you. And if you don't like you, why should anyone else? No one knows you better than you do, right? You're the expert on you. If you're not satisfied hanging out with you, why would anyone else think they might be?

"There's only one way to find Mr. Right, and that's to stop looking for him. Looking for Mr. Right can only mean that you think you're Miss Wrong, or Miss Not Quite Good Enough. You're Miss Ing Something. Forget that. Stop worrying about meeting Mr. Right. Instead, start thinking of yourself as Miss Perfectly Okay By Herself. (Isn't it interesting that we use the same word to indicate an unmarried woman as we do 'failure to obtain'? If unmarried women are called 'Miss,' then unmarried men should be called something like 'Flop,' or 'Err.' So, for instance, if single, I would be Err Shore. Which is a lot like the German 'Herr Shore.' Hmm. Perhaps this explains World War II.)

If you really want to find Mr. Right, stop looking for him. Stop, in other words, waiting for someone to give you a life. Get your own life! Prove to the world, and to yourself, that you don't need anyone to make you someone.

Life is one big paradox. And one of its biggest is that the only way to find Mr. Right is to genuinely and truly stop looking for him. Live your life. Get happy. Listen to God. That'll keep you busy enough for this life, and beyond.

Other stuff I've written along these lines: Six Tests to Determine If He's Mr. Right, To Single Women: Men. Don't. Change., Top 10 Tips for Becoming an Ideal Husband, and What's In A Word: The Truth Behind Men's Personal Ads.  

Comment here.

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Here's a toy somebody donated to the thrift store today. Made of rock-hard plastic, it's about twelve inches high. I was going to make a joke about how unsurprising it was that it looks brand new, since no one could have ever  played with it ... but now I feel kind of sorry for ol' ... Horno. Or Zeetmo. Or Splacko. Or whatever in the world the poor thing's name is.

(Oh---for the record, nothing on little ... YowTao moves, or anything. And that weird slanty circle thing on his stomach isn't a button, or anything you can turn or anything. It's just ... that.)

I don't know what kid this toy used to belong to, but I sure do feel sorry for him. Or her. Or it.

Comment once you've stopped crying here.

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