To You, Mr. Man With a Spray-Paint Can

Near the vicinity of my home there have been a few works of "graffiti" recently added to the shopping carts and cigarette butts which decorate the streets. Now, I have no qualms with those who consider the world their art gallery, but--as it is with any artist who displays his or her work--they open themselves up to criticism, which is now being passed, by me.
This graffiti artist has left two of his or her musings along the sidewalk. One reads, "All is one..." and with this one I have no quarrel. The other reads, "When all is said and done, have you said and done enough?" and it is with this one that I have the proverbial "bone to pick."
Number one: Did you get this phrase from someone's Facebook status? Because that's the impression that I'm getting.
Number two: The only time when all is said and done is when your dead, and then it doesn't really matter how much you said or did, does it?
Number three: I remain a firm believer in quality over quantity (except where American currency is concerned).
In summation, I suggest to you Graffiti Artist, that you spend a little more time at WikiQuote before again venturing forth to desecrate public property.

Sincerely yours,

Public Art Critic #1313

Fargo and the Need to Categorize Everything, Even Art

A word to the wise about the debate--one of the favorites among film dilettante --as to who the protagonist is in the film Fargo: if you're having a hard time fitting something into your structure it might be because your structure isn't as universal as it is conveniently believed to be.

Shameless Promotion

Hey, peoples. My wife has an awesome online store for to sell her projects and artwork. Everyone who hasn't should check it out! It's mostly geared toward the lady-types and I'm almost positive that most everyone who reads this blog is a dude, so a reminder that nothing wooes the ladies like buying them stuff.

What I'd Like to Know

What the hell is wrong with a nice white picket fence?

A Conclusion

   The world’s a fucking shit-hole. The really sick part is that we’re born with the capacity to conceive something better; I guess you could say that makes this place hell. The only thing to do is to try and be kind.

In Summation

There is no doubt in my mind that the gargantuan audience is still watching from their perch From which they also spy the leaves

That caress the faces of the inevitable sirens of solace and silence and solitude

Without which the poets and the writers would be reduced to mere flickers

On the screen that is the walls of my small studio apartment

In the avenues of this city of light and darkness

Which every city in this great and monstrous country will claim to be at intervening intercourses in the interstellar maze of haze and pottery glaze

The wonderment of the stars without me peers down through the glory holes of the mall stall

The beanies and the braids mingle together under the umbrella of primetime television

And utter despair at the confusing cosmos and burning effigies of the soul

With this last dark night I will let this lone man stand un-judged and alone

In as true a peace as anyone might ever know

At least through the frames of my thin nearly unnecessary spectacles

Through which I also perceive eternity from my own small pinhole

In a black piece of cardstock

In my tiny third grade chair

Stuffy Stuff Stuff

You never realize how much stuff is made until you try looking for something slightly obscure. Just try looking for a certain type of side table online, it will send you reeling into a transcendental angst faster than you can say "Google Shopping."