“There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Where the hell did that statement ever come from?  Who was having a hard time skinning their cat only to have a friend come along with the knowledge of numerous other ways to “git ‘er done”?  What are the various ways to skin a cat?

These are the questions that enquiring minds want to know.  Well, these are the questions I want to know after the statement somehow found its way into a conversation today at work.

A quick internet search hasn’t really helped.  From what I’ve seen, it could have originated from multiple ways to skin a cat-fish or it is just the bastardization, over time, of a statement about skinning some other animal.  The endeavor wasn’t a total waste of time however.  I now have a new replacement saying for the cat one, I just need a good opportunity to use it:

“There are more ways of killing a dog than choking him with pudding.”  - Some guy on the internet (so it must be true)

Due to artistic differences, me and my Rock Band band have been forced to part ways.  I wanted to take the Rock Band band into strange new directions while they just wanted to play Rock Band.  Since they were just dragging me down anyway, I’ve started my solo career.  I think there may have been a little bit of shenanigans going on anyway as they have now replaced me with my supervisor.

Or…the less amusing, reality based version of the story…

It just so happens that the Rock Band competition my department is holding has been scheduled right in the middle of my upcoming trip to Florida.  Not only am I now out of the running for the prizes, which we surely would have won.  I supposed I’m gonna have to break down, give Dave back his stuff, and buy my own copy of the game and equipment.

Sadface.

And by cowboys, obviously I mean comedians, because whats funnier than a cowboy?

Maybe I’m just out of touch or something, but I’m not sure I could even name any current comedians.  To make matters worse, when I do remember people that used to be funny, they are either dead or not funny.

Eddie Murphy, not funny.  Mike Myers, not funny.  Phil Hartman, dead.  Richard Prior, dead.  Chris Farley, dead.  George Carlin, dead.  Steve Martin/Chevy Chase/Dan Aykroyd, slow painfull death.

It’s gotten so bad that I can’t even find the funny anywhere in this God forsaken post.  I’m not sure why I even bothered.  I miss Dr. Katz.

Fingers.  Check.  Toes.  Check.  Eyebrows.  Check.  Groin.  Check.  Yay, another 4th of July survived.  More so than blowing stuff up, I enjoy the 4th because it awards me the luxury of reciting the tale of the “Firecracker Dog” to my children.

When I was a kid, there was this neighborhood dog who, for 364 days of the year, was a nice, normal dog.  On that one day of the year however, as soon as the sounds of fireworks started, he went freaking ape shit.  Not ape-shit-I’m-gonna-bark-at-you-cuz-I’m-scared-of-the-sound, but ape-shit-I’m-gonna-run-into-the-middle-of-whatever-is-exploding-and-try-to-eat-it.  If you tossed one of those chaingun-like, strings of Black Cats on the ground, this dog would be in the middle of it, chomping like mad, trying his best to experience gun powder flavor country.

To coincide with this dog trying to take Pop Rock candy to the next level, he had no teeth.  We only ever knew the dog sans teeth, so the cause -> effect was always just a part of our mythology.  In our minds however, the myth was busted, the reason for the lack of teeth was pretty obvious.

I don’t know what ever happened to Firecracker Dog, perhaps he ate one M80 too many.  Either way, his legacy will live on forever.

During my recent exploration of the Facebook universe I happened upon a sad discovery.  The old building in which I attended various fine arts classes at MTSU was torn down some 4 years ago.  Granted, that was probably 30 years later than it should have been destroyed, it is sad news none the less.

The building was one of the more character rich, inanimate objects I have ever known.  This was due to the fact that the building itself was a converted barn, lovingly referred to as the Art Barn.  The term converted should be taken very loosely.  Substitute dirt floors with real floors,  animals with students, and the conversion is just about complete.  Despite that, the place was full of nothing but awesome.  Well, awesome and ceiling squirrels and birds and probably lots of cockroaches.

I loved my personal, senior level studio space which was bestowed upon me once I had achieved a certain status level within the program…and once the real artists had graduated.  Sure, it was nothing more than a large closet with no windows and zero ventilation, but who needs ventilation when you are working with oil paints, turpentine, and my own personal, toxic medium mixture?  Ok, I did too, but if I had never installed my own box-fan-in-the-ceiling-tiles-ventilation-system™ and with it, intoxicated unknown quantities of the previously mentioned ceiling squirrels, who knows how many people would have died to a squirrel variant of Toxoplasmosis if such a thing were to exist.

From what I’ve read, it sounds like the department has moved into a really nice facility.  The move has also allowed the various other disciplines to move into the same building.  In the Art Barn era, graphic design, printmaking, and computer (lol amiga) art were in seperate buildings.  It also sounds like many people were really pushing hard to bring the old girl down.  It’s just a shame how spoiled we have become.  To expect things like non-leaking ceilings (dead squirrels can only plug so many holes), non-collapsing floors (dead squirels can only hold up so many floor boards), temperature control,  accessability, safety, air.  Sickening.