I texted my brother that it was good to see him and to have a safe trip home. I knew better. But I wanted to send that message and I did not want to actually call. To be honest my brother has an energy I have a limited tolerance for, and I didn’t care enough about sending that message to actually call. So I texted. Even though I knew the history of texts between us consists entirely of messages I sent before I remembered he won’t see them. The only reason he won’t see them is he doesn’t bother to look at incoming texts. His phone gets them; he doesn’t look at them. Upshot: No message from me. See you next time.

It’s only right to acknowledge that that “energy” is just triggering reminders of the sort of person I used to be. My brother, our father, and I were all of a type and as I grew up, out, and away I tried harder and harder to be someone else, someone less sophisticated and less risk-averse and less polite and less overwhelmingly intellectual and less tentative and so on. I largely succeeded, and I don’t like going back to being a Berkeley teenager, even if it is by now an imagined construct. So the upshot is this problem is entirely mine and not his and all he’s done is given me an opportunity to look at something I don’t like about myself so I can work on it. I oughta send him a goddam thank you card.

I recently attended an online seminar on building your career as a creative independent. It was sponsored by a local DIY space. I’m not a member but I knew another attendee. She said she knew someone at that DIY space who was swamped by work doing engineering-type stuff for other creatives, and offered to see if he was interested in sending some of that to me or working with me. A day later I was told he was not receptive. A day after that, it occurred to me it was probably this one guy whom I know wouldn’t work with me. Three years ago we were on the same project and long story short he took the artist in charge to small claims court and my testimony was not complimentary of his work. But the fact I had to redo all his work so we could get the job done wasn’t relevant to the case. She intended to pay him regardless — a contract is a contract — but was struggling to pay rent so put it off and that wouldn’t do so he sued. That wasn’t relevant either. Anyway, three years later and no, he doesn’t want me around.

Except that it turns out the person who wasn’t receptive wasn’t him anyway. Some other guy I’ve never heard of. So all that talk about being disliked and not desirable to work with for reasons I can sort of call out as bullshit turned out to be the actual bullshit. Some guy just wants to complain about his workload and not get any help. That’s not my problem. My problem is hearing half the story and concocting it into some other story in which I play the victim. Not, you know, a victim something bad has happened to, I mean a victim in the sense (we all do this) of thinking something happens because it happens TO us and not instead the truth that it happens either outside of our actual lives entirely, or FOR us so we can learn something. I oughta send him a goddam thank you card.

I went to a little “event” yesterday (partay!) that included a number of folks in my local burnery/artsy community whom I haven’t seen in a year or two. I wanted to go in order to get out and see people and not just to escape my brother. It was held at a gay bar where I’ve been to lots of parties (those places will let anyone in) whose sun-baked yard has a little swimming pool (I ain’t getting into that, no sir) and was all Pride-themed and that. One of the few people my age was a lady I hadn’t seen in a while. There’s a been a low-level sort of sexual tension between us for the past decade. I was never available. Now I am but I don’t really want to be. We laughed a lot for having senses of humor that naturally coincide. She’s an attractive blonde, too. But when the conversation steered itself from hot weather to my newly cleaned pool, she shifted towards, he-e-ey, maybe I could come use your pool soon. I was of course all gracious-host about it but in hindsight, uh, no, uh-oh. That sounds dangerous. I have always found it easy to get into a relationship I didn’t intend to and hard to get myself out again.

Her evident interest sets off little alarms that I can’t really identify; and that might be entirely imagined. For all I know she’d be horrified that I had any such thoughts. Can’t friends just have dinner and a swim? Of course they can. But no; I can see her pushing that romance button, and I know other women whom I can see NOT pushing that button. It’s all intuition hence unreliable — or is it? Sometimes intuition is all we really have. Not inviting her over aligns with my intuition — unless she ONLY wants to have sex — but no, wait, I’m not down with that anymore — but why not — but intuition — but gah dammit. I should be grateful for all this stirring up of my shit around sex and relationships and send her a goddam thank you card.

For the past couple years I’ve had a job of sorts with a small company where we upfit mobile police and fire command centers and the like. We decided to branch out into off-grid RVs. It’s similar work, adding various electrical and electronic enhancements to RVs, just that the private ones get solar panels and refrigerators while the public ones get server racks and extending camera masts (etc … lots of etc). But lately it’s become apparent to me that this new venture is not likely to succeed. There’s too much passivity in the management style. They badly need a project manager and don’t seem to be interested in having one. Don’t need one for the government work because that’s all pushed at us by agencies that know us by reputation and have budgets, and we just push the jobs through one at a time. A retail customer type situation requires a lot more internal drive, I think. I don’t see it happening. And no, I’m not going to install a new personality and become that person. Instead I’m trying to figure out more income streams. It’s a hell of a challenge, because I spent my life in corporate and now I have to be a multi-faceted contractor of some kind (see seminar paragraph above). I should be grateful for this passive push in my rightful direction and send them a goddam thank you card.

I took a Facebook break this morning and found that a young woman with whom I was acquainted perhaps six, seven years ago just died. She was a real beauty and a bright star all around. She was a highly-paid lobbyist (this is the capital, after all) and a Burner and did all the things party chicks with high incomes do. But then at some point she shut the wild times down, got married at the Sikh Temple, had a baby some time in the past year; and now this. I am aware that it’s a mistake to allow my empath self to take in the expressions of grief all in her feed but that’s a hard thing to shield yourself from. She was an absolute beauty, one of those South Asians your heart stops for, with dark shapely eyes and a broad smile, a high level of competence and professionalism as reflected in her career path, full of so much life and joy and fearlessness … and goddam. Just that. God damn..

In Defiance of Doom

I don’t wish to post anything of a political nature on Facebook. That’s not what it’s for. It’s for family news and party schedules and pictures of puppies and kittens.

But I got a laugh today with the below-shared article. Out in the various forums (such as that small part of Facebook that hasn’t read the memo about politics) I hear all the time what a shithole California is becoming, with our anti-business policies and homelessness boom and human waste on the streets of San Francisco, not to mention droughts and wildfires and earthquakes and such bellwethers of doom as the near-total loss of the coastal kelp forests (that’s a real thing, and scary). Yep, they say, you people are fucked. California’s time is over. We’re gone sit back and watch you die.

Yeah, well. Published today:

California Defies Doom With No. 1 U.S. Economy

Sure, it’s a little bit of a puff piece, but the data is real.

Not that it’s helping me any. But I have my own problems that have nothing to do with economies in flux. I’m just putting this out there because … um. Well, for one thing, if that rare political post on Facebook from someone back east claims again that the Golden State is well and truly doomed, I’ve saved the link. Yeah, that’s why I’m posting it.


In my world, everyone has continued their momentum, from opposition to 45 through support of all the movements the so-called conservatives hate, to now supporting some liberal initiatives I cannot support. I just took a poll about voting and I suspect my opposition to both same-day and automatic registration suddenly kicks me out of the liberal mainstream. Not that I ever wanted to be in it. It just goes to show rank stupidity is not limited to the RINO Party fka GOP.

Burning About the Flag

I took an early morning walk around the neighborhood. This time I looked at American flags.

I’ve noticed over the years that most people who feel patriotic enough to fly the American flag don’t know or don’t care to know how to do it. I don’t think they care.

A house around the back side of my block has a yard or front porch decoration with a flag on it. The flag is vertical. But the flag is hung wrong vertically. You don’t take the flag and just turn it 90° down. You flip it around so that the canton (where the stars are) remains in the upper left corner.

Often I see them flying it at night without a spotlight on it. I confess I did that the night of Memorial Day because I forgot to take it down. But there are people who never even think of it. They just keep it up, night and day.

Who knows, maybe I’ll put a spotlight with a daylight sensor on the roof aimed towards where my flag flies. It can be on a cord that I plug in and unplug, or even a switch if I want to go to the trouble. Then whenever I fly the flag and forget to take it down at the end of the day, it has a spotlight on it overnight. Or heck, then I can just leave it up for the weekend.

I’ve also seen flags left out in the rain. Those stupid motherfuckers. Few things fry my grits like a house with a weather-faded stars and stripes hanged by some stupid jackass who pretends to love his country, That he merely forgot about it is too charitable an explanation.

All this leads to a thought about the First Amendment. I agree that to burn the flag is a protected form of expression. But I would have a problem with protest taking the form of dragging that flag along the ground, through the mud, soiling it. That, to me, is not an appropriate expression of free speech. Maybe it is protected. No one should get arrested for it. But it ain’t right. Why not? Well, when you have a flag to dispose of, you either take it to a responsible organization such as the local VFW or Boy Scout troupe. Otherwise, you burn it. Burning it is acceptable. Dragging it through the mud is not. That’s a level of disrespect warranted by no protest however serious the purpose. That being said, it’s obvious that if somebody wants to truly protest and get my attention, they will drag it through the mud. I recognize that. But that won’t help their cause.

Why does this liberal West Coast city dweller care so much about flag etiquette? Because I love my country. Unlike those scum who invaded the U.S. Capitol flying the Stars and Stripes yet doing nothing about the traitorous bastard who carried the Star and Bars, I love my country and what it represents. Unlike more than half Republicans who claim to doubt the election … You get the idea. (I don’t think many of them actually believe that anyway, they’re just being sheep for the poll taker, as a childish means of expressing their wish the election had gone differently.)

I’m pretty done with false patriots these days. Not just the herds of conspiracy believers, Those small-time numbskulls who fly the flag wrong too, I don’t care how mild their politics.

Not Posting So Much

Never was but I occasionally wanted my blog to be a Thing. However …

The interactive side of the Internet has worn thin on me of late. This is good because it means I have shifted my attention in more productive and positive directions. I don’t really care about Facebook conversations like I used to, though I still check in because I’ve become good at ignoring and/or not attracting negativity and dumbshittery and some real gems do emerge once that mud is scraped away. I scroll Instagram but it’s mostly just to be in a daze for a few minutes and occasionally comment on some pithy thing one of my few remaining beautiful woman friends says so they think I’m not just an old creep but a smart old creep. Blogging seems to me a misuse of writerly energy because I’m actually making progress on my book and dare I say it, building momentum. Indeed, while I sit here blathering this I could, you might say should, be working on that instead.

Bu-u-ut I’m a dilettante. I’m interested in and good at a lot of things, while I’m committed to and really good at none. I’m better at dilettanting when I don’t use up precious time blogging or what have you. Oh gawd, now that I’ve started I have lots to say about the what-have-you. Now that I’ve started I could sit here and blather all day. Good thing it’s a pretty day out and I have to change the motor oil in my Jeep.

By Zeus

Kerim Bey: “I’ve had a particularly fascinating life. Would you like to hear about it?”

Benz (muffled): No.

Kerim Bey: “You would?”

A conversation, whose context has since drifted away. Memory of an image. A search, high and low, for that image. Discovery. Download. Here it is.

This picture cracks me the hell up.

An hour or two into 2016. I appear to be having thoughts. I probably am, but this particular nymph was beyond reach and I had my own Hera anyway.

I have decidedly mixed feelings about the past, as do we all. Epically unwise decisions with unanticipated repercussions that continue to echo real-time. The trick is to stop giving them my attention. Hard to do.

Whatever the story behind this instant in time, it clearly was not in and of itself an unwise decision.

How I Unfriended 4.7% of my FB People

I never actually decided to quit Facebook. I only decided to improve my life, and talking about quitting Facebook was a part of doing that. What I really decided to do was stay away from most of it and continue to enjoy the parts that work.

Part of this included thinning out my people list. There seems a lot of deadwood, and some people are just too annoying.

At the top of the unfriending to-do list was a certain personality I have struggled with for twenty years across various platforms. I have struggled rather than simplified because of many seemingly different reasons, but they boil down to an instinct that we are in fact friends and not just contacts, and that his relentless unpleasantness towards me arises from a combination of his (or our) unresolved personal pain and some traits we unexpectedly have in common. Whenever I thought, ok, that’s enough, I’m unfriending this motherfucker once and for all, something inexplicable would stay my hand.

Loyalty, perhaps, A desire to avoid looking weak. A desire, above all, to somehow find the words that will inspire some self-reflection that in turn leads him to be less of a damn bully. The bullying doesn’t harm me, obviously. I stand my ground perfectly fine. I just always end up reflecting on how miserable he is and that no one has ever inspired him to do something about it. And yes, I see quite clearly how arrogant this all looks of me. But while nothing I’ve said about him doesn’t apply also to me, I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about him.

Some days ago I thought about posting something — whatever it was now doesn’t matter, I didn’t do it, but it was a really fuckin’ good article in the WSJ — and very soon I imagined what this particular individual would have to say about it. This led down a bit of a rat-hole of imagined disagreements and deflections that while imagined are born of experience. This in turn ruined my mood for the morning (I’m a moody motherfucker, in case that needs mentioning, though I almost always climb out of it when there are other humans around). This, in turn, led me to think about not bothering to post. And that, quite naturally, led me to think, well, if the existence of one person is going to affect my decision to post something, then it’s time to get rid of that person.

The next step was to resolve that a) I won’t unfriend during a controversy because then I’m just reacting to that controversy and b) while I’m at it let me get rid of a bunch of other people too. I set an arbitrary goal of one hundred.

SO (deep breath) I found out how to download my friends list in HTML, pasted the browser view into Excel, found that the format of listing the date they were friended under each name instead of next to it made the list unsortable, pasted it instead into Word, found a way to replace the carriage return between each name and date with a tab, exported that to a text file (perhaps unnecessarily but I like to make sure only the ASCII is carried over), imported that into Excel such that the tabs would delimit a new column, used various simple formulae to convert the Facebook date format into something Excel can use since sorting by date friended can be more useful than by name, created columns with which I could categorize each individual by what part of my life they were mostly in, used filtering to view only each of those in turn, and marked in an additional column where people were candidates for deletion. I also used COUNTIF() to count up the marks in each category because, of course, who wouldn’t. I intended to put each person in just one category though several could properly exist in more than one. I’m not sure I did that part right because the sum of the numbers shown below disagrees with my friend count per FB but eh whatev.

I looked at every single person and marked every one I could. My informal goal was to shitcan 100 people. At the end of this exercise I had identified 23. 23 represented 4.7% of my friends list. “What the fuck?” I said with some expression. But I had done my due diligence and any further ejections would require too much thought and time so 23 it was.

I happily went through my Unfriend list, spacing people along the way. These were folks who either are not a part of my life or are just annoying in some way. “A part of my life” is loosely defined, thus the remainders include a lot of Burners whom I never see these days but might again, and for reasons that defied the moment’s thought each one deserved if they deserved even that, most of them wound up staying. I think there was only one I know personally rather than as some peripheral party-meet, and he went because he always makes fart jokes and is 4x to 5x the age you have to be in my opinion to predictably make fart jokes.

OK, so 23 names. I got through 22 and guess who was the last one? And I stopped. The same old reluctance took over. We’re actual friends, in some way. We’re not randos or acquainted just through some common interest. Known each other a long time. I felt, again, that I was betraying myself in some way to scrape him out. I allowed myself some time to ponder.

In truth, he never acts like a friend. I only hear from him when he has some often-scathing critique of my opinions or my means of forming them. When I finally get through the exchange enough to clarify why my opinion is correct, or at least valid, he goes silent. Never once has he indicated a willingness to listen or to learn or to at least accept that from my perspective my view is valid. None of that. And I thought, well, aren’t I cutting ties here? Not just to him but to all toxic individuals (I dare say he may be the last toxic person left in my life), not to mention people such as my artist former partner, who is not toxic but still needs to be further away (I waffle on that, long story, duh). Point is I’m cutting ties these days. No more negative hangers on.

So, out he went too.

Twenty-three down, four hundred sixty eight to go. Well, no, I’ll always keep at least the 31 in Column C above.

Wasn’t this interesting? Thank you for your persistence.


I wrote, “I respond very deeply when we can be children and run off to play.” But I didn’t send it.

T told me it was hella snowing, up where she lives. I said I wanted to be there. “Wanna take video of train passing by in snow storm.”

She said, “I wish you were here too darlin … would close my computer, bundle up real good and we would go watch for the train.”

I feel this so deep within my chest. Something about our inner children holding hands and going to have fun together resonates within me so strongly my whole body rings like a big old bell.

I didn’t send it.

This is because when I think of inner children holding hands and going off to play, I think not just of me and T. Mostly I think of me and S. We loved each other so god damn much. When you were hurt as a child and tucked that hurt child safely away, placed in a dark room far back inside, and decades pass while you pretend to have grown up, it’s unbelievably wonderful to find another tucked away hurt inner child, a child who feels safe with yours and with whom yours feels safe, and you can run off together and play and explore and love and be happier than you knew possible.

Some of me is still there. But the rest of me sees her more for who she really is, a rich combination that has significant proportions of self-interest and selfishness and little sympathy for people who expect anything of her that they can, and probably should, do for themselves. For a fully healthy man this isn’t bad at all. But I was never there and am not certain I ever will be, in ways that work for her. It only matters I get there in ways that work for me.

Some of this was bundled up in what I wrote. I knew T would see it, so I didn’t send it.

Maybe I should write all this out and send it to S in a week or so because that’s when she has a birthday. I wrote something two years ago that she didn’t see until the following year, and she responded lovingly but not very personally. I think that even by then, and certainly by now, she got over whatever wounds were left open by our failure to reconnect, and that I have been moved into that category we used to jokingly look forward to whenever that song would play by Gotye, “Somebody That I Used To Know”.

So I’m alone in this office and I watch the video and it has me choking sobs, hoping no one happens to come in from the shop. Fuck. Just gotta work.


I’m not really in a spot, not worse than usual, and better than many. But as I keep going forward I become more and more aware of just what is wrong. This is a good thing. It also makes me more sensitive to the effects of bad habits I haven’t broken from, habits that I can’t always commit to breaking because from an objective standpoint they don’t look exactly “bad”. FB, for ex. All I do with it anymore is check in on History groups (California, Northern California, San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley, Sacramento, the 680 Corridor, etc) which is never a bad experience, and exchange in banter with various old hometown people and some of the remaining folks from misc.writing. It’s interesting that the latter, culled of the less agreeable elements, form a fun group, while my other big crowd, the local Burning Man / Arts scene, are really much better taken in person.

No, what happens is, as I become more and more aware of my own bullshit, the chronic depression, a recent diagnosis of mild bipolarism, the face to face misunderstandings that round out my neurodiversity trifecta — there are connections I make better than anyone, and there are connections everyone makes but me, and these have been true since I was a kid — I see what makes it worse and what does not and discover certain habits I haven’t broken, well, as fun as they are, they gotta break.

There’s an interesting correlation between everything being great, and everything not being great when I can observe that oh by the way I spent some time in the past six hours on social media. How that shit triggers the dark side I don’t know, but trigger it it does. So does reading the news, especially these days, so I’m cutting that out too. But I need social interaction. The pandemic and its “social distancing” have been a blessing by and large, but it would do me a world of good to hang out with fair-weather friends at a bar now and then. This is an interesting thing to discover. I spent a lifetime, especially the past few years when public online self-examination became an Olympic sport, convinced I was an introvert, and dreaming of being snowed in in a cabin all winter. I’m not so sure anymore. For an introvert I’m pretty dang not-introverted. I think my perspective of introversion was more a response to the over-populated chaos I constantly threw myself into than anything inherent.

Dust: “Facebook is the antithesis of [human interaction], the fake-food Twinkie of human interaction, nourishing as a mouthful of vaguely toxic plastic beads. Like all illusions, it it scratches something in us that we may not have even known was itching — the long-evolved human instinct for the tribe. But it’s not, really. It’s just another pretty chunk of plastic dressed up in sparkles to convince our chimp brains that there’s something interesting over there to look at.”

It’s the fake-out that gets us. We need it, or something vaguely like it, and it’s what we can get, so we swallow it up; and then after digestion there’s nothing to show but a mild case of the farts and a bad smell, not to mention the reminder that some people you had forgotten were idiots really are idiots. But it’s a faux-social distraction and when a brain like mine needs distraction — which is all the time: I haven’t actually been able to stay on one subject for more than about ten minutes, ever, with two exceptions — when the neurons are kicking at the door and need to be let out lest they crap all over the carpet — it’s way tooooo easy to just go take a harmless look, just for a minute. And that mysterious process kicks in yet again whereby a couple hours later I’m ready to drive myself and the next three cars ahead of me into that overpass support, yeah, here we go …

So, being human, I’m pretty good at half-measures. As half-measures go, a social medium I have fallen into is actually a pretty good alternative. There are real people, there are no politics, and it fools the monkey-brain like no one’s business. It’s worthy of an essay unto itself, so no more hints here (this isn’t a promise to write it up), though I will allow that there are no exceptions to the rule about limiting one’s time online.

Whatever the hell I meant to babble about, this is what we got. Points were, [A] thanks for the encouraging thoughts, [2] things aren’t nearly so bad as they were say a year ago, and [ζ] in some ways I’ve hidden, often in plain sight, all my life and I’m sick of that shit.

It’s like there’s a house next door that’s always been quiet and now there’s a bunch of shouting and you go uh oh and your partner goes oh good and you say why and they say it sounds like they’re doing something about it.

Still babbling. Yeah, blogs are better. This’n’ll go forward a bit yet.


I’ve got to stop going on Facebook because all it is is a place to pretend you’re okay. Pretense isn’t solution.

The Old Drafting Table

When I was twelve I took a drafting class. We learned all the usual tools — triangles, protractors, pencils, paper — that are now completely unusual. I had a proven propensity for drawing and this just made it stronger. So within a year my uncle got me a drafting table.

It was a big solid thing of oak, with a flatfile drawer beneath two standard-sized drawers and a plywood surface that tilted up with the support of screw-tightened rods. It resided in my bedroom throughout high school. When I moved on to a series of apartments around the East Bay and then in 1983 to Sacramento, I left it behind, as it was big and heavy and there was never any room.

In 1986 my mother sold her house and undoubtedly made me decide if I wanted it. I did, of course. I’ve no idea where I put it at the time. I was renting a room in a house, after which I was living with my girlfriend and then wife, and I have no memory of it being there. Yet it was in the house we built in 1999, so I did solve that problem, I just don’t remember exactly when.

I left that home in 2010 and it came with me. I made room for it in apartments, and then bought a house. At the beginning of 2014 I set it up as a workbench in my garage. It did its job admirably for years. The drawers’ contents were more or less defined, and the surface acted as horizontal surfaces do in every garage, for ever-shifting uncategorized storage and dust collection.

Seven years later, at the start of 2021, I was alone in the house and was beginning to recognize that I could take the long-empty rooms over for myself. And then the woman I had bought the house to live in with and who later moved on asked if I wanted an old table I had put in our former studio downtown. It was a rough but sturdy old thing built by my ex-wife’s grandfather. I hitched my little trailer to my little car and went and got it. New visions of rearrangement danced in my head.

The old table was obviously for the garage, which meant my old drafting table could come inside. I did what for years I had thought the impossible and found a home for every object on the drafting table. That home was the trash for some of it but not all. I then disassembled the thing, and reassembled it in one of my spare bedrooms, the one with good light for having west-facing windows. I already had an art project underway and now I had a studio with a table in it. Win!

While reassembling it I found what I remembered finding an indeterminate number of decades ago and then forgot about. There were labels.

The manufacturing label indicates it came from a company founded in 1878 by a woodworker who had been asked to make type with which to print posters. He made them of wood using a foot-powered scroll saw on his mother’s back porch. Then he caught the wave of newspapers and print shops spreading across the land and ended up with a big huge factory. The company went from wooden type to drafting tables and now makes laboratory furniture. The other label tells us it was U.S. Navy property for a time, probably including WWII.

There was a third label.

Thanks to the internet it took only a few seconds to find that Swan Hall is on the grounds of Occidental College in Los Angeles. A few more seconds revealed a gentleman by this name who was substantial enough to merit an online biography. It shows he entered that college in 1952, became a Presbyterian minister after graduation, and followed his mission around California as well as in Thailand. His focus was on low-income single mothers, migrant farmworkers, and refugees. He wound up in Santa Rosa and died in 2015 at the age of 81.

I got the table in I would guess around 1971. My uncle probably acquired it through some sequence of events kicked off by a house-cleaning. I don’t know if it came to him by accident or if he made a concerted search through cast-off furniture ads, but I still appreciate him for it.

Today it is a horizontal surface with nothing on it but the parts for my son’s Xmas present. The making involved my creative brilliance (natch!) enacted in CAD and implemented in baltic birch via laser cutter, and so on involving glue and paint and artsy shit like that. Rev 1 was for the son who came up for Xmas, and together we determined the changes for Rev 2, for the one who didn’t. Both revs are prototypes of an object I could easily productize but for one detail.

I still can’t believe both my children are engineers, but it comes in handy sometimes, such as when I need to improve a design.

The detail? So far the design is too labor intensive and I couldn’t sell any for enough money to compensate for my time. Yes, I will look into correcting that but the fact is some things never get made because they’re just not cost-effective. Hey, I never said I was an actual artist. But I do have a studio, and a bitchin’ worktable.