This sphere of blue and green we all share is endless in colors, textures, shapes, inspiration. You may have seen a couple of these photos in previous blog posts, but here is an assemblage of colors I've photographed here in Florida:
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Random Acts of Culture...A Little Lighter Today
To escape from the depression of the public school system failures and those scary new people who will be taking public office shortly, I enjoyed a video of a Random Act of Culture--a cool initiative funded by the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation to expose people to the arts.
The Opera Company of Philadelphia surprised shoppers at Macy's. Don't you love it?
The Opera Company of Philadelphia surprised shoppers at Macy's. Don't you love it?
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Chalk on Burns Square
Sunday we ventured down to the Chalk Festival in Sarasota.
The streets in Burns Square were blocked off and plots were mapped in duct tape for artists from all over the country to pour their creative sweat into temporary images that will wash away on tires and wind in a short time.
At most of the outdoor art events, I wander about thinking how some pieces are better than others and how it's a nice kind of thing to do, but there's nothing about it that really blows me out of the water.
Not so with the Chalk Festival. I was amazed at the artists' ability to transfer a small piece of art (usually a 8 1/2 X 11" piece of their own, tucked safely in a plastic sleeve) to a huge chalk masterpiece. So impressive. They were all so different--the art and the artists--yet none were inferior.
It was Halloween after all, so some pieces were "friendly" holiday themed:
Others were more classic:
Others were a little creepy, but beautiful still:
Every creator was an artist in every sense of the word--truly masterful in his own right.
It was hardly an easy task, working in the sun on hot asphalt with their pastels spread about the pavement. Some wore naked hands and knees--decorated with multi-colored bruises from the chalk. Others wore knee pads and gloves as part of their craft and comfort. The mess was a testament to the concentration and hours of plotting and shading.
Seeing so many different kinds of people walking on the sidewalks, looking down at these bold images and their creators in awe, I am reminded of what art does best--it brings people together for a common experience, even if it washes away by tomorrow.
The streets in Burns Square were blocked off and plots were mapped in duct tape for artists from all over the country to pour their creative sweat into temporary images that will wash away on tires and wind in a short time.
At most of the outdoor art events, I wander about thinking how some pieces are better than others and how it's a nice kind of thing to do, but there's nothing about it that really blows me out of the water.
Not so with the Chalk Festival. I was amazed at the artists' ability to transfer a small piece of art (usually a 8 1/2 X 11" piece of their own, tucked safely in a plastic sleeve) to a huge chalk masterpiece. So impressive. They were all so different--the art and the artists--yet none were inferior.
It was Halloween after all, so some pieces were "friendly" holiday themed:
Others were more classic:
Others were a little creepy, but beautiful still:
Every creator was an artist in every sense of the word--truly masterful in his own right.
It was hardly an easy task, working in the sun on hot asphalt with their pastels spread about the pavement. Some wore naked hands and knees--decorated with multi-colored bruises from the chalk. Others wore knee pads and gloves as part of their craft and comfort. The mess was a testament to the concentration and hours of plotting and shading.
Seeing so many different kinds of people walking on the sidewalks, looking down at these bold images and their creators in awe, I am reminded of what art does best--it brings people together for a common experience, even if it washes away by tomorrow.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Cynthia Davis Rocks
I've met the coolest people through the Gropius blog. Some of them came here first and I started following them; others I found online in the twisted mazes of navigation and exploration.
I can't remember how I landed on the Running with Letters blog, but Cynthia Davis is such an entertaining writer, equipping each post with just enough details to make every "story from the ordinary" intriguing. I lover her use of metaphor.
When I discovered her beautiful tiled seahorses, I knew one of them would make the perfect housewarming gift for Brother and Sister-In-Law and for my Goddess friend who left me here and moved out to Arizona. I was able to select the colors, which she carefully glazed, designed and assembled into these lovely reminders of tropical seas:
Thank you, Cynthia, for putting so much love and care into their creation. They're beautiful and the receivers couldn't be more delighted!
Bloggers everywhere: it's not only nice to support your fellow social media partners but you end up with unique booty you cannot get anywhere else. Visit Running with Letters and share the love.
I can't remember how I landed on the Running with Letters blog, but Cynthia Davis is such an entertaining writer, equipping each post with just enough details to make every "story from the ordinary" intriguing. I lover her use of metaphor.
When I discovered her beautiful tiled seahorses, I knew one of them would make the perfect housewarming gift for Brother and Sister-In-Law and for my Goddess friend who left me here and moved out to Arizona. I was able to select the colors, which she carefully glazed, designed and assembled into these lovely reminders of tropical seas:
Thank you, Cynthia, for putting so much love and care into their creation. They're beautiful and the receivers couldn't be more delighted!
Bloggers everywhere: it's not only nice to support your fellow social media partners but you end up with unique booty you cannot get anywhere else. Visit Running with Letters and share the love.
Monday, August 16, 2010
It's Kind of...Quiet
Was kind of quiet. Within five minutes of walking in the door, multiple televisions were on, and there was talking across rooms, sighs when the anticipated answer wasn't returned and a general air of drama.
For a week and a half D-Man hung out in Miami for a visit with Nana. The absense of generation induced tension was conducive to unfettered contemplation, and just...peace. With the quietude, calmness crept in and settled. Following that, the ability to actually relax in my own skin.
At first the obvious freedoms and lack of interruptions were the focal point: I could walk around at night in my underwear if I wanted to. The sound of friends incessantly knocking on the door was absent. And there was no banging around in D-man's room--the inevitable echo of a teen who's just been denied a certain right of all teenagers everywhere, like spending the night at his buddy's house when he's been there all day.
Ahhhh......sigh.
I forgot what a lack of drama can do for the home. And although I can't imagine life without the sweet and compassionate D-Man, a little breather and time alone with Husband was a good thing. It was easy to sink into just the two of us, knowing that D-Man was safe and also enjoying his time away from us.
Time alone with myself came over this past weekend, when Husband made the trek down south to pick the little man up.
Nothing felt sweeter than cleaning the house on Saturday morning, mowing the lawn and settling down for a solitary and hot afternoon on the porch. I stopped and bought oil paints--the first set I've had since high school--and spent the greater part of the day in the near 100 degree heat listening to late summer insects and swirling turpentine with yellow ochre, burnt sienna and phalo blue. It wasn't long before the heat wasn't a worry and I just melted into the original rhythm of me.
My life is all the more rich for my home with Husband and D-Man. But there's no doubt that quiet and solitude, and the ability to return to my own person, are necessary parts of being. The same is true for them, and for any of us who have inner lives. I am learning not to apologize for it and to nod with understanding when the call for it comes from someone I love nearby.
It's so nice to have D-Man home again. He's growing up so fast, it won't be long until I'm yearning for the tales of drama that will have long since passed. I'm thankful to have had the space for reflection on myself as a single unit and as part of three.
For a week and a half D-Man hung out in Miami for a visit with Nana. The absense of generation induced tension was conducive to unfettered contemplation, and just...peace. With the quietude, calmness crept in and settled. Following that, the ability to actually relax in my own skin.
At first the obvious freedoms and lack of interruptions were the focal point: I could walk around at night in my underwear if I wanted to. The sound of friends incessantly knocking on the door was absent. And there was no banging around in D-man's room--the inevitable echo of a teen who's just been denied a certain right of all teenagers everywhere, like spending the night at his buddy's house when he's been there all day.
Ahhhh......sigh.
I forgot what a lack of drama can do for the home. And although I can't imagine life without the sweet and compassionate D-Man, a little breather and time alone with Husband was a good thing. It was easy to sink into just the two of us, knowing that D-Man was safe and also enjoying his time away from us.
Time alone with myself came over this past weekend, when Husband made the trek down south to pick the little man up.
Nothing felt sweeter than cleaning the house on Saturday morning, mowing the lawn and settling down for a solitary and hot afternoon on the porch. I stopped and bought oil paints--the first set I've had since high school--and spent the greater part of the day in the near 100 degree heat listening to late summer insects and swirling turpentine with yellow ochre, burnt sienna and phalo blue. It wasn't long before the heat wasn't a worry and I just melted into the original rhythm of me.
My life is all the more rich for my home with Husband and D-Man. But there's no doubt that quiet and solitude, and the ability to return to my own person, are necessary parts of being. The same is true for them, and for any of us who have inner lives. I am learning not to apologize for it and to nod with understanding when the call for it comes from someone I love nearby.
It's so nice to have D-Man home again. He's growing up so fast, it won't be long until I'm yearning for the tales of drama that will have long since passed. I'm thankful to have had the space for reflection on myself as a single unit and as part of three.
Friday, July 16, 2010
We Are the World
Our local PR association is being challenged by the state organization to come up with an adaptation of an 80's video, movie, etc. to show at the annual state conference. It's something sort of fun they do every year to shake things up a bit, demonstrate creativity and get the chapters involved a friendly little war.
I can't make it to the conference this year, but I'm pretty impressed with what my fellow association peeps have come up with: an adaptation of "We Are the World" called "We Tell The World." Now how clever is that? They got together last night to record it at a local studio that donated the time for the love of fun and competition. Can't wait to see the final result.
Meanwhile, I can't get the original "We Are the World" out of my head.
I was in third grade when it came out and became hugely popular. It really brought alive my very first awareness of the troubles around the world and the belief that we share a responsibility to help people everywhere who are in need. The feeling I got from the song and the video were exactly what was intended. It was before the days of skepticism, back when I believed everything was golden and lovely and people helped because they cared, not because it was politically correct.
I still feel that way about all of the artists who came together to make the song. I will always remember the opening lines with Lionel Richie and Stevie Wonder. "There comes a time, when we heed a certain call--when the world must come together as one..."
Do you remember when the song came out? Was it inspiring for you? Does it remind you of a certain time in your life?
I can't make it to the conference this year, but I'm pretty impressed with what my fellow association peeps have come up with: an adaptation of "We Are the World" called "We Tell The World." Now how clever is that? They got together last night to record it at a local studio that donated the time for the love of fun and competition. Can't wait to see the final result.
Meanwhile, I can't get the original "We Are the World" out of my head.
I was in third grade when it came out and became hugely popular. It really brought alive my very first awareness of the troubles around the world and the belief that we share a responsibility to help people everywhere who are in need. The feeling I got from the song and the video were exactly what was intended. It was before the days of skepticism, back when I believed everything was golden and lovely and people helped because they cared, not because it was politically correct.
I still feel that way about all of the artists who came together to make the song. I will always remember the opening lines with Lionel Richie and Stevie Wonder. "There comes a time, when we heed a certain call--when the world must come together as one..."
Do you remember when the song came out? Was it inspiring for you? Does it remind you of a certain time in your life?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sweet Putayta Bird
I felt terrible. Absolutely terrible. Yet I did laugh. And regrettably, I just don't have a photo of the painting that led to these two very different reactions.
My grandfather had quite an interesting art collection. He loved color--bright color. And he had quite a few large colorful paintings. On a visit to Mother's house not too long ago, I discovered a particularly unattractive painting of his in her living room. She was studying it, trying to figure out where to hang it. She was very fond of it.
But you see, the subject of the painting was two parrots. It was one of those paintings with a blank background. The birds had parts of them well-defined and the rest still looked more like sketches. My issue was that the body of the largest most obvious bird looked like a giant sweet potato. Once I saw it, that's all I could see.
So I mentioned it to Mom. And began to laugh. Dad agreed that it looked like a freaking sweet potato. And before long, Mother was more than agitated. "Thanks," she said. "You ruined it for me." (This is in a deep Southern accent.)
That was back in April.
The sweet potato bird came up in conversation again this week. "Where'dya put that painting?" I asked her.
"On the street. I put it on the street. You ruined it for me. I couldn't get over the putayta. Thanks a lot."
Okay, okay. I'm a horrible jackass. But it made the whole thing even funnier. But I feel bad. It's still funny. That painting was probably worth millions. But it ended up on the curb. Wonder where it's hanging now...and how long it will take them to see the sweet potato.
My grandfather had quite an interesting art collection. He loved color--bright color. And he had quite a few large colorful paintings. On a visit to Mother's house not too long ago, I discovered a particularly unattractive painting of his in her living room. She was studying it, trying to figure out where to hang it. She was very fond of it.
But you see, the subject of the painting was two parrots. It was one of those paintings with a blank background. The birds had parts of them well-defined and the rest still looked more like sketches. My issue was that the body of the largest most obvious bird looked like a giant sweet potato. Once I saw it, that's all I could see.
So I mentioned it to Mom. And began to laugh. Dad agreed that it looked like a freaking sweet potato. And before long, Mother was more than agitated. "Thanks," she said. "You ruined it for me." (This is in a deep Southern accent.)
That was back in April.
The sweet potato bird came up in conversation again this week. "Where'dya put that painting?" I asked her.
"On the street. I put it on the street. You ruined it for me. I couldn't get over the putayta. Thanks a lot."
Okay, okay. I'm a horrible jackass. But it made the whole thing even funnier. But I feel bad. It's still funny. That painting was probably worth millions. But it ended up on the curb. Wonder where it's hanging now...and how long it will take them to see the sweet potato.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A Big, Man-Eating Turkey
A big, silver man-eating turkey.
So a while back, Krista at Picture Imperfect tagged me. The tag required me to take the tenth photo from the first album on my computer and explain the story behind it.
At an art festival in Lakewood Ranch, I took this photo of a woman circling around the gigantic turkey sculpture, looking at it with a questioning air that seemed to follow my thoughts exactly, "What the Sam hell would you do with something like this in your house or office?"
Clearly, the artist is very talented. I just can't figure out if this is meant for a family that reserves a separate room of the house for each holiday, and this is the Thanksgiving tribute...or...? Yeah. Not sure.
If I were the birdie in the lower left corner, I would feel slightly--um--short-changed. It got the crap end of the stick no doubt.
Thanks for your tag, Krista. Love your photos!
So a while back, Krista at Picture Imperfect tagged me. The tag required me to take the tenth photo from the first album on my computer and explain the story behind it.
At an art festival in Lakewood Ranch, I took this photo of a woman circling around the gigantic turkey sculpture, looking at it with a questioning air that seemed to follow my thoughts exactly, "What the Sam hell would you do with something like this in your house or office?"
Clearly, the artist is very talented. I just can't figure out if this is meant for a family that reserves a separate room of the house for each holiday, and this is the Thanksgiving tribute...or...? Yeah. Not sure.
If I were the birdie in the lower left corner, I would feel slightly--um--short-changed. It got the crap end of the stick no doubt.
Thanks for your tag, Krista. Love your photos!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Earth: A powerful image.
It's true. The sight of the Earth from space is one that practically brings a tear to my eye everytime I see it.
If you think I'm a cornball, so be it. But for me, it's an overwhelming image seeing the oneness of our planet's experiences--wrapped up in one package including all of nature, people, continents, weather, atoms forming every material, cells forming every simple and complex organism--as one swirl of blue and green.
It's extremely powerful. I love it. And at times when we seem so diverse in thought, when differences seem to surmount similarity in the human experience, this image brings me back to the reality of what we all share.
From an artistic perspective, this sphere of spectacular color and pattern is simple and complex at once, encapsulating the brush strokes of cloud formations atop massive continents and the reflections of the distant but heavy influence of the sun.
How we can change for the better, open back up to beauty and come back to a single focal point when we observe the brilliance of our world from this point of view!
It's extremely powerful. I love it. And at times when we seem so diverse in thought, when differences seem to surmount similarity in the human experience, this image brings me back to the reality of what we all share.
From an artistic perspective, this sphere of spectacular color and pattern is simple and complex at once, encapsulating the brush strokes of cloud formations atop massive continents and the reflections of the distant but heavy influence of the sun.
How we can change for the better, open back up to beauty and come back to a single focal point when we observe the brilliance of our world from this point of view!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Women In Art
Your comments about the stolen bikes, whether you're karma believers or not, are consoling for the young D-Man. He said to me last night, "This sounds weird, but I feel like someone stole a part of my life." What an artful statement for a 13 year old.
I see the young artist in him and his way of looking at the world.
Whether musician, photographer, writer, painter, sculptor, or actor, I have such profound respect for the expression artists deliver into the world, leaving us all feeling better connected through creative daring and perspective. One might consider bloggers as the "new artists." So many of you are adept at weaving your own art into your daily postings, whether it's through the lens of fashion, photos, the playful written word, or brilliantly crafted commentary--from the very personal to the outlandishly hilarious.
A botanical illustrator friend who moved to Oregon some time ago just posted this moving video of Women in Art, and it was a 2 minute ray of sushine for me. Thought Gropius could share it with you. The colors, the differences in times and techniques, and the similarity in great care for the subject are all characteristic of any artist's work, whether he/she's a painter or a tight rope walker. Take a look:
Do you see yourself as an artist?
I see the young artist in him and his way of looking at the world.
Whether musician, photographer, writer, painter, sculptor, or actor, I have such profound respect for the expression artists deliver into the world, leaving us all feeling better connected through creative daring and perspective. One might consider bloggers as the "new artists." So many of you are adept at weaving your own art into your daily postings, whether it's through the lens of fashion, photos, the playful written word, or brilliantly crafted commentary--from the very personal to the outlandishly hilarious.
A botanical illustrator friend who moved to Oregon some time ago just posted this moving video of Women in Art, and it was a 2 minute ray of sushine for me. Thought Gropius could share it with you. The colors, the differences in times and techniques, and the similarity in great care for the subject are all characteristic of any artist's work, whether he/she's a painter or a tight rope walker. Take a look:
Do you see yourself as an artist?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Don't Be an Art Chicken
Those are the famous words of my 11 grade art teacher. Mr. B, as he was fondly called, was a huge fan of one-liners that would forever brand you in the art or social world.
He was a broadly built man of medium height with a long gray/black beard. He wore long-sleeved button down shirts that he would roll up for good paint-shirt contact prevention. On the upper shelves above the cabinets full of art supplies was Mr. B's junk collection.
We joked about a Sanford & Son connection, but knew that we would pay the price when he pulled a huge conglomeration of it into the center of the room for us to paint. "Oh great, another still life." Each still life seemed to grow in size--another added vase, bicycle wheel, double-duty boots, industrial strength something, etc.
When Mr. B belted out with "don't be an art chicken" right after he explained a new project, he meant "be bold, experiment and don't be safe with your art." Accordingly, one day I went where no (wo)man had gone before by mistaking a can of gold spray paint for a can of clear fixative--the kind that would immortalize my most recent creation, a chalk rendering of a nuclear winter man. (Don't ask me what the hell that means, but I was a pretty damn good art student.)
When the resulting guilded catastrophe was revealed, Mr. B. laughed a big booming throaty laugh, snatched the piece and held it up to the entire class. "This is what happens when you don't use your ability to read," he said.
After he got a week's worth of entertainment from that moment, he sat down with me to lay out a strategy for the repairs. All I can say is that I was NEVER accused of being an art chicken.
Mr. B is now retired, living happily ever after with my 10th grade art teacher (with whom I still keep in touch). They own a daylily farm in NC.
He was a broadly built man of medium height with a long gray/black beard. He wore long-sleeved button down shirts that he would roll up for good paint-shirt contact prevention. On the upper shelves above the cabinets full of art supplies was Mr. B's junk collection.
We joked about a Sanford & Son connection, but knew that we would pay the price when he pulled a huge conglomeration of it into the center of the room for us to paint. "Oh great, another still life." Each still life seemed to grow in size--another added vase, bicycle wheel, double-duty boots, industrial strength something, etc.
When Mr. B belted out with "don't be an art chicken" right after he explained a new project, he meant "be bold, experiment and don't be safe with your art." Accordingly, one day I went where no (wo)man had gone before by mistaking a can of gold spray paint for a can of clear fixative--the kind that would immortalize my most recent creation, a chalk rendering of a nuclear winter man. (Don't ask me what the hell that means, but I was a pretty damn good art student.)
When the resulting guilded catastrophe was revealed, Mr. B. laughed a big booming throaty laugh, snatched the piece and held it up to the entire class. "This is what happens when you don't use your ability to read," he said.
After he got a week's worth of entertainment from that moment, he sat down with me to lay out a strategy for the repairs. All I can say is that I was NEVER accused of being an art chicken.
Mr. B is now retired, living happily ever after with my 10th grade art teacher (with whom I still keep in touch). They own a daylily farm in NC.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Private Eyes Are Watching You...Watching Your Every Move...
Yesterday I had the pleasure of volunteering with Art Center Sarasota for its Private Eyes tour—a tour of lovely homes in town with fabulous private art collections.
As a result, the 1981 Hall & Oats song “Private Eyes” has been permanently marked in my conscious mind. I know about 10 words to the song, which I’m trying desperately to forget, but continue to mentally repeat them in a hellish rolling record nonetheless. I am ready to be Baker acted.
The volunteering gig was enjoyable. I am left with a great respect for all of those who opened up their homes to the sea of strangers who arrived with (and without) manners, looking at their stuff, commenting good things (and bad) about their most prized possessions, and shedding DNA calling cards on their floors, rugs, walls and windows. In general, people were on very good behavior and I would surely call the event a grand success.
However, it was one of those days I thank heavens for my little 7 room house in Bradentucky, with no worries of being called on for tour duty.
By the way, misery loves company:
As a result, the 1981 Hall & Oats song “Private Eyes” has been permanently marked in my conscious mind. I know about 10 words to the song, which I’m trying desperately to forget, but continue to mentally repeat them in a hellish rolling record nonetheless. I am ready to be Baker acted.
The volunteering gig was enjoyable. I am left with a great respect for all of those who opened up their homes to the sea of strangers who arrived with (and without) manners, looking at their stuff, commenting good things (and bad) about their most prized possessions, and shedding DNA calling cards on their floors, rugs, walls and windows. In general, people were on very good behavior and I would surely call the event a grand success.
However, it was one of those days I thank heavens for my little 7 room house in Bradentucky, with no worries of being called on for tour duty.
By the way, misery loves company:
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Art Rampage
Freshly inspired by the galleries and picturesque vistas from our July vacation, I'm ready for more art in the house. Husband and other family members suggest that this purchase from a gallery in Cedar Key is a little too bright, but I love it. I couldn't take my eyes off in its gold painted frame hanging among other more typical pieces. Finally in for framing are two watercolors I purchased for husband at Southeastern Guide Dogs' gala more than 2 years ago.
Today I dragged out the old acrylic paints, fan brushes and Filbert brush for my own depiction of the wide green/blue marshes that have decorated the past week for me.
I miss art in my life, and realize that most of the time, I'm too stressed to really enjoy it. Hoping the new colors on the walls will help keep it alive for me.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Magical Mystery Tour de Sarasota Ceilings
It's not often that I look up at someone's living room ceiling and find a magnificent replica of "Creation" straight from the throws of Italy. Tell me, Gropius readers, what's up with THIS?When Ramsey Frangie moved into his home some time back, he didn't explain that one of its greatest features was the selection of angels transmitting heavenly vibes from overhead. It's been a while since I was first surprised by the sight of this permanent art fixture, but each and every time I walk into the living space, I am surprised and wowed anew.
(To the right, you see the famous cat Gropius--who was named in the midst of this blog's first week--being held up against the celestial backdrop.)
The fact that the place is aptly adorned like a true bachelor's pad, with simple furnishings--brown leather couches and a large, wall mounted flat screen TV--make the overhead art an even crazier sight. I am profoundly jealous that my house didn't come with a comparable feast for my skyward eyes.
I'd like to mine you for information. Know of any friends' ceilings around the Sarasota/ Bradenton area that are marked by the same artist's hand? What shall these ceiling angels be named? They are the guardians of Ramsey's abode.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Is it true?
Is it true that today is only Tuesday? Yesterday felt like an entire week. I should be grateful that entire weeks are fitting into days, and thus available weeks in my life are multiplying by 5 (since this formula doesn't hold true for weekend days).
I'm working myself up into the mentality of waiting for each weekend to come, hoping the weekdays will run by with lightening speed. I need to cheer up. Here are three small things that would tide me over for now, Powers of the Universe:
- Equip everyone with a WalMart Buddha, as I received yesterday from a local coaching goddess after admiring hers. The paradox of a Buddha from WalMart is a story in itself--a strangely comforting but confounding story. I'll keep it on my desk to signify hope.
- A catalogue of all peeing statues in Sarasota. The one pictured here (courtesy of Skunk Ape Photography) is across the street from Zoria's on Main. To the simple passerby, this location is a typical downtown Sarasota scene. To those who take a more careful, studious approach, the location is the site of many an impropriety. One day last year, a bunch of kids had poured detergent in the "toilet" here and suds the height of a 10 story building were emerging. Little did they know that they could just approach this work of art from behind and get a giggle without causing a Level 17 clean up effort.
- A new David Grimes Sarasota Curmudgeon blog posting every day. I hate it that you're not writing for the Herald any longer, but David, you're cracking me up on Sarasota Magazine's website.
I'm not asking for much. But I need to laugh frequently...and not always at myself.
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