SIGHTS

It’s… it’s growing a head!

This month would mark the silver anniversary of the day I first started learning what is now referred to as the Adobe Creative Cloud suite. These days, most kids have mastered Photoshop by the time they enter high school. But there used to be a quainter period of world history when one typically acquired such skills in a formal educational setting. Back when Illustrator’s startup screen (and overall branding) famously depicted The Birth of Venus

They’ve since replaced her with a new girl, who will most certainly never be as memorable as the original.

That period of history was so quaint that you could actually plunk down a one-time fixed sum for a program like Photoshop or Illustrator, which once paid would grant you unlimited use of the desired software ad infinitum until the day your computer retired to the great network in the sky. Good times, those were. Alas, those days are gone. Somewhere along the way, Adobe figured out that they could fleece even more money out of their loyal customers by renting their software as opposed to selling it. Now you can only download what amounts to a trial version (albeit a fully functional one with all the bells and whistles) that expires after a certain length of time. In order to continue using the software when that time runs out, those guys in San Jose demand you pay them for more time. Which also eventually runs out.

One of these days, we’ll figure out a way to freeze time. But until then, I decided to rent Illustrator for a month or two to work on some new visual concepts…


The Soundtrack of SILVER BROWN

A Momentary Lapse of Reason 💗💔🖤💛

Way back in the day, during a much more footloose and fancy free period of world history before such phrases as social distancing and covfefe were introduced to the lexicon, I met a cute little kitten. That cute little kitten has since grown into a lioness. Learned that the hard way. The result of a hiccup in my better judgement, during a typical 2020 moment when I was all but convinced civilization was about to collapse tomorrow.

Late one night, The Demon Alcohol (who I haven’t danced with since) convinced me it would be a gas and a half to whip out my phone and drop that cute little kitten I used to know a seemingly innocent line. The response was a deluge of hitherto-unsaid accumulated rage unleashed upon me in a single email. Her words came straight from the cockles of her heart, and stung like hell. A kind of deep intensive stinging you don’t notice at first, but permeates your whole being down to the marrow once it finally hits you and decimates your libido for about forty-eight hours afterward. I would recover quickly from that burn, but hot damn. The woman definitely has skills. 

Invoking the wrath of a lioness is certainly nothing I would encourage anyone to try at home. But if one finds oneself in one of those situations where getting mauled by a lioness is unavoidable, at least that stinging feeling has given us all the best music. It is to the blues* what milk is to cheese.

*Country music, too. Arguably. But I just can’t get into that shit. The whole genre has been little more than teen pop with ten-gallon hats and Martin guitars since that week Miley Cyrus’ dad was famous. It also appeals to hyperconservative Trumpist types, which only adds to its yuck factor.


Buddy Guy works that muthuhfuckin fuzzbox like a magic wand.

SOUNDS

The Car Radio USB Port

Being able to plug five hundred gigabytes into a car. Is the greatest non-sexual feeling in the world. At least it is for now, until I inevitably get bored with it.