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Weak XVIII

30 April 2026

No. 2,587 (cartoon)

Were you born stupid, or did you study?

Stupidity is not a gift; it must be cultivated.

You are wise in the ways of ignorance.

1 May 2026

Unhappy International Workers Day

If you’re unfamiliar with Garry Trudeau’s comic strip Doonesbury, where have you been for the last half of a century? Zonker Harris, the slacker’s slacker applying for a job in the panel above, thinks it’s insane to spend eight hours a day on a job.

I quite agree. I’m not all that smart, but in my twenties I realized that I didn’t want to squander a hundred thousand hours of my fleeting life tethered to a job job. I’m with Zonker; life’s too short to work eight hours a day for someone else. Conversely, working ten hours a day for myself is quite rewarding.

I can’t really celebrate International Workers Day since I ain’t one. I’d join in International Flâneurs Day, but that will never happen because it’s too much work for any of us to organize one.

2 May 2026

Computer Gardening

Andrea is an avid gardener. (And, on a bad day, an aphid gardener as well.) She’s in her seventies, and I can’t understand why she works so hard growing plants that only varmints and rodents can eat, glorified weeds that will be dead after the first serious frost in the autumn.

She laughed when I shared my thoughts on gardening. She noted that I spend at least as much time and money making visual art, and that many more people appreciate her garden than the one or two dozen friends who even glance at my work.

And as for the age thing, she pointed out that she’ll be completely done gardening for the rest of her life before winter, and she can decide in the spring whether she wants to start over with another one. She added that she felt sorry for me, since I’ll spend the rest of my life archiving work no one will ever see.

I found her logic uncomfortably persuasive. I wonder if there’s a way I could take up gardening whilst continuing to sit at my computers with a bottle of wine?

3 May 2026

Desert Dogs

Kurt is a proud curmudgeon living in the desert outside of Santa Fe. The closest house is over a hundred meters away, but that’s too close if the people there have a bad dog. That’s never been a long-term problem; he knows how to deal with misbehavin’ mutts.

When a new neighbor moves in, he visits with a bottle of bourbon to introduce himself. He’s not being kind or neighborly; he’s on a canine reconnaissance mission. If he likes their dog, he warns the newcomers about the nearby bands of bloodthirsty coyotes that snack on pets. Conversely, if the dog is going to be trouble, he tells its owners that the cuddly coyotes love to frolic and cavort with their domesticated cousins.

His approach might be a bit ethically dubious, but it works: Kurt’s never bothered by bad dogs.

4 May 2026

Adios Julio

When Julio died recently, Eustacia lost the last of her eleven siblings. She’s ninety-eight, in hospice, and can’t travel, so I offered to make a video recording of the funeral mass for her.

That was my first time inside a Catholic church. (Notre-Dame de Paris doesn’t count; that’s more of a tourist attraction in the French theme park.) I was dreading my first—and almost certainly last—mass, but I had a good time.

The mariachi band helped. They wore the de rigueur black outfits with big hats, cowboy boots, and silver bling and doodads everywhere. They played and sang with so much verve and gusto that I appreciated them being a bit out of tune; it made them sound más auténtica.

The vicar was joined by a team of seven hombres in long white robes who took turns speaking into a microphone connected to muddy speakers with almost no treble.

I wasn’t bothered by the muffled mumbling; it didn’t distract me from playing Scrabble while pretending to monitor the phoney video camera. I racked up a hundred and fifteen points by playing BRITZKA*, my best score ever in a single turn. (I may have been blessed, but I doubt it.)

A bishop or rook or some other salesperson gave me what he claimed was Christ’s body, and told me that if I ate it I’d live forever. I pretended to put it in my mouth, then slipped it into my camera bag.

First of all, if I’m going to go on a cannibal diet, I’m going to need at least a liter of rooster sauce; that’s not negotiable. And if I want to go down the zombie path, I’ll go to Haiti for real Vodou instead of a lesser brand.

That’s more than enough meandering, so let’s cut to the happy ending: a tearful Eustacia was grateful to be able to see Julio’s funeral. If only her hearing were good enough to appreciate the mariachis belting out Ave Maria ...

*In the unlikely case you’re not familiar with a britzka, it’s an open carriage with calash top and space for reclining.

5 May 2026

Toots Zynsky!

I lived in Harvey Littleton’s house for three months while I photographed his extraordinary work. That was fifty(!) years ago, and that was the last time I looked at glass art until I heard of Toots Zynsky.

Toots Zynsky! What a handle!

Her glass pieces were shiny and pretty, but then all glass pieces are shiny and pretty. The medium is of no aesthetic interest to me, but I would be happy to have one of her pieces beside one of my computer monitors just so I could admire the signature.

Toots Zynsky!

6 May 2026

Yes, Leica Cufflinks

I hate to say “I told you so,” but ...

But I’m not fooling anyone, not even myself, with that line. Of course I love to say “I told you so!”

A month ago I reported that the new Leica CEO “brings extensive experience in luxury goods,” and here’s the first new product to be released under his management: Leica cufflinks.

Yes, Leica cufflinks.

The press release gushes, “As expected of Leica, each is assembled and polished by hand in Germany.” And as expected of Leica, they’re overpriced at eight hundred dollars a pair. I guess German cufflink polishers don’t work for pfennigs.

Oh, and he reportedly killed development of a new medium format camera.

Now is the time for me to make nasty, snarky remarks, but, for once, I’m at a loss for words. The idea of a “photography” company making de facto jewelry (twenty-thousand-dollar cameras wealthy customers wear but don’t use) devolving into a real jewelry business, cufflinks and all, is just too ridiculous to ridicule.

I can’t remember anyone I know ever wearing cufflinks, and I’ve certainly never seen or heard of a working photographer wearing the requisite starched shirt. If I want to see the Leica cufflinks, I’ll drop by The Museum of Stupid Ideas the next time I’m in Natchitoches, Louisiana.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2026 David Glenn Rinehart