Tag Archives: couch potato
“At my request, I recently received several copies of Professional Artist. I wanted to look at them and what they had to offer photographers. To my surprise, photographer Steve Meltzer has a regular column, ‘Photo Guy,’ wherein he examines a variety of techniques and tools. In the issue, his topic is ‘Photography and the Professional Artist.’ In this article he discusses the process of preparing your work for the world of fine-art exhibition. In a previous issue, managing editor, Louise Buyo, profiles photographer RAK. She describes RAK as ‘ a photographer who shoots from the hip with a tendency toward abstraction.'”
I would describe “photographer” RAK a tiny bit differently… for example, this way: “a ‘photographer’ who lies on her generous husband’s couches for a decade, graciously permitting her husband to pay 90% of her living expenses while she socks away half a million to make her own individual retirement nice & comfy, (but who assures her husband it’s meant for him, too, which is a DAMNED LIE), a ‘photographer’ who then dumps the aforementioned husband a few months after he nearly dies from a brain tumor, because she doesn’t like her husband being healthy again & actually asking her to get up off said couches & pull a bit more of her own weight… a ‘photographer’ who now lives off her beloved “Grammy” in a house her beloved “Grammy” purchased for her with cash, on a golf course, where she can lie on her couch during business hours, pretending to work for the fools who employ her, but actually sleeping four hours out of the eight those fools mistakenly believe they are paying for.”
a critical review of equatorial rhythms, “written” by rak, former coast guard seaman
Equatorial Rhythms, “typed” by RAK, is the pathetic, badly written “story” of a young coast guard seaman (who enlisted in the United States Coast Guard because he knew his lack of basic survival skills, and in fact, life skills in general, wouldn’t enable him to survive being drafted to Vietnam for even one full day, nay, not even one full hour during the Vietnam War), crossing the equator south for the first time. This self-absorbed, narcissistic young man’s self-pitying past and dismal present intersect with the foreknowledge of his bleak, frightening, and boring future, which he will spend lying on his wife’s couch, letting her pay the bills for ten years, then suddenly dumping her after she survives devastating brain surgery, because suddenly she isn’t content to pay all the bills and be a quiet, crocheting robot anymore. This dull, depressing “story” examines life aboard a coast guard ship, with all its gray-tinted, salty, and decaying “friendships,” petty complaints about stuff that should be barely worth mention by normal humans, the author’s unique, sadly unfunny, bathetic humor and what the narrator incorrectly terms “violence,” a couch-potato-wannabe life, clumsily contrasted with the power of the impossibly vast, eternally wild open sea: a power and majesty the narrator will never, ever, ever understand, or even appreciate with the respect it, the open sea, is due.