A humble salute to someone whose works I’d often seen and enjoyed without ever pondering the source—

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—I admire those who pop the bubbles of the self-aggrandising and pompous whilst duly crediting those who earn the credit. This world is an emptier place for him having left it.

(Image above hijacke  borrowed with thanks from CLICK HERE and thanks also to GP for bringing the works once more to the fore.)

active service                  active serviceactive serviceactive serviceactive service



or should that be

screen shot 2019-01-23 at 23.16.23PARADISE REVISITED?

Don’t ask me—I’m just a dum dog. So let’s both go there and have a quickie. Look.

And it’s much better to look deep under the surface for any common themes: (under the surface, dammit … leave them fig-leafs alone)(or the wrath of a God who knows everything will find thee out and infest thine kennel with fleas).

Image 1: A Paradise


Image 2: A nother Paradise

Image 3: A modern Eden (it means Paradise) (duuuuh~!)*

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I must acknowledge my inspiration:

A source whose logo (logo? Word of God? Cute …) seems to share the same lion with one CS of devout devotion fame; same but slightly different. As a Leo myself I appreciate the unwitting (witless?) plug. Small world …


from my sponsor**

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Take umbrage with mine own arrogant writings as much as you wish—but please be very careful if you even think of treading on wisdom as encapsulated above by a man dead a thousand years and one deceased fairly recently.

But challenge if you can. Emotively I think you can, but from any other viewpoint I say you can’t. Feel free:


I await your response with great (nay, utmost!) trepidation …


* “No snake!” you squawk … oh, really?

** Well … he would be, both of them, if not dead already these many years.


into Wikipedia.

Screen Shot 2019-03-01 at 08.41.46Grateful thanks to GP for (as always) leading me into the unknown territories of familiar names:  CLICK HERE 


(awwww, c’mon … who hasn’t?)—and needed to pad out the bones:

Child was a favorite of audiences from the moment of her television debut on public television in 1963, and she was a familiar part of American culture and the subject of numerous references, including numerous parodies in television and radio programs and skits. Her great success on air may have been tied to her refreshingly pragmatic approach to the genre, “I think you have to decide who your audience is. If you don’t pick your audience, you’re lost because you’re not really talking to anybody. My audience is people who like to cook, who want to really learn how to do it.”

—so I burgled Wikipedia ‘cos I was intrigued.

We live and learn (perhaps mostly if not entirely) thanks to folks who quietly get on with making a go of things. Salutations where due—

—and as it’s breakfast time here I’m off to murder an omelette*.

And a bucket of coffee …

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* Literally. My omelettes are to die from.


and the


1abCanvas is usually associated with art. Stone too, and when art gets stoned we call it sculpture—you know, like when an artist looks at a hunk of rock, sees an art within, and keeps chipping away the excess until he releases the wotever.

“Mr Argus!”

(Oops. Little Ollivia, sounding a bit peeved.)

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Always a ‘he’ is it?”

… … … “I’m actually a he, kiddo—”

“Oink! So we’ve all noticed—”

“—and when I’m writing I use masculine in general. I specify the otherwise when being specific. You, Kiddo, are a female and I’m never offended if you use the feminine to do likewise.”

“Oh …”

“And this post is about the cultural differences between sexes being eroded and lost as inter-genderals are erased by social evolution.”

“Oh … so you’re not just being an MCP and slanging off against wimmin?”

(Ye gods … the kid’s got it bad …)

“No, Child. Do I ever? Have I ever?”

“… no, Sir … not at all.”

“Good. Unlike the products of modern ‘culture’ I have no unearned prejudices, especially against women—hell, they’re almost the same as people.”


“Sorry, sweet Child—I just couldn’t resist it! Don’t fret, from here on I’ll be good.”

Too damn’ right I will. I like women. Jeez, I even married one. But this post is about art, perception, vandalism, transience, permanence, and future regrets. To not digress—

Consider a virgin brick wall—no, two such—

  • one in the classy end of town (you know, manicured lawns, immaculate hedgery, neatly dressed children and a bull terrier in every kennel); and
  • the rough end of town where the streets are chocabloc with stray rubbish, stray mutts, stray cats, empty bottles and syringes and ciggie butts everywhere; where a book is just a convenient something to rip pages out of for rolling your own …

—so what happens to the virgin brick wall, hmmm? At the end of town where people have core values, make the investments of time and effort and actually give a shit it remains a virgin. No?

At the (?) “values challenged” end of town it is promptly labelled by the first oaf passing with a spray-can of paint, then promptly countersigned by an endless stream of boofwits making their ‘art’ mark in the world; their little statements, kicking against the pricks with the only tools they can afford to steal.


and vandalism. I certainly do.

Any takers? Feel free to comment, but my loudest raspberry goes to the first brainwashed modernist prig who screeches “Legitimate social protest!”


no further; it used to be that tattoo was the hallmark of the rover—the Popeye type, the hard-drinking travelling nautical man; a salt of the sea but who would forever remain on the ‘lower deck’ and when retired would either sit smoking in a rocking chair besetting passersby with endless tales of mermaids, wine, dusky maidens and fighting pirates; or grow weeds. “By these signs shalt thou know them”, so to speak.


I love ladies for their differences. We used to miscall them the weaker sex (trust me, they ain’t …) and admired them for their refinements and differences. In the ideal they were pure, unsullied, different. They mostly had long soft flowing tresses (I preferred blondes myself, and brunettes, and redheads, and anything else*; in short any lady who looked after herself as if she treasured her femininity).

I had and still have no desire for a woman with an obvious Inferiority Complex who feels the desperate need to prove her capabilities by out-maling the male. I prefer a backlit diaphanous dress on a slender form to a butch outfit of man’s jeans and heavy chains with a bone through her nose. Can’t help it, I’m a product of my time …


Why do some mindless gorm wimmin deface semi-immaculate canvasses—permanently— by covering themselves with more tatts than Popeye?

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Obviously it’s nothing new … even Boadicea (who recently changed her name back to Boudicca)(although I have no idea what she’s currently called and don’t care enough to find out…) did it too. But she was a caring type who took time out from being a grieving mother to thump conquerors and I imagine her tatts were an identifying political statement.

As are modern lady tatts, no? (Hardly art … defacing the pure, regardless of mindless excusianism, is hardly ‘art’).


(yes girls—wanna make something of it?) in town the other day, again deep in animated conversation using words that even now I reserve only for energetic expression when apt. And the ‘leader’ type had more tatts that a shipload of sailors from my day … if she advances in life beyond the rugby pitch she may one day regret them.

I now predict that it is probable that the art/science/skill of tattoo removal may soon be a very profitable field for investment …

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“Hey! Schweetart, ya wanna arm wrassle? Be gental wiv me!”





* I was widely tested with eclectic tastes



But hold on just a sec … why should I bother, when

(a) the young won’t listen, and

(b) it’s all been said before but much better—

—by guys now deceased?


down there

The Men That Don’t Fit In


There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
    A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
    And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
    And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
    He’s a man who won’t fit in.

a bigger


not even an


‘Lazy’ might be a acceptable for such a commentary—but the below isn’t an excuse, nor even a reason.

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It is, however, and in my personal opinion — a wee bit pathetic; so let us make of it what we will:    down there


“René Lalique, Jeweler of Nature

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The astounding success of Parisian goldsmith René Lalique was the result of a perfect storm of tragedienne, a rave for all things Japanese, and a world’s fair. Lalique’s luscious jewelry adorned the stage in Sarah Bernhardt’s melodramatic roles of Théodora and Gismonde in the mid 1890’s …”

The missing words here?


  • talent
    • brilliant
      • outstanding
        • unique

and of course the clincher:

  • genius~!

But as an uncultured lout it’s not for me to cast asparagus upon my superiors … especially when they are the experts and I’m just a tired old poo  dog.

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“Dog” I said … but this guy (above) will do. (He looks the part …)

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“You want ‘genius’, Argie?

Who else could have crafted

ME … ?”                       1-animated-arrow-right.gif