You just discussed names from your past, from either just short of a decade ago, or more than two & half decades before, & the ultimate vindication in the power of Google as a locator. But there is one name, previously tackled on this blogging spot, that lingers, checked for, & un-re-discovered.

Another several weeks past, another dispatch from the hippocampal battlefield that is the National Gallery of ClipArt. It was Thursday, October 10, 2018, & you were alone in your flat, after an off-day from the nine-to-five, during which you took a civil service exam, then had an hour workout on the elliptical at…

You are sure you attended a film showing or three at the East Asian revivalist cinematic temple the Oriental Theatre as a youth in Milwaukee, which would explain your aversion to its popcorn for a time — that, of course, odd, given you never had the same response to the savory treat on offer at the Downer Theatre, the…

You moved to the Rose City. Finally. Going back to 2011, a year out from your life’s inflection point, open-heart surgery six weeks after your theretofore unrealized aneurysm partially dissected in summer 2010, you were eyeing the west coast as where you should want to live, if you did not want to live in the same…

You were the one. Two months ago, unbidden & fully expecting the parcel to be exploded in the middle of the street outside the offices of Gizmodo Media’s Deadspin Sports Desk, you dispatched an Apple Computing scanner box, now packed with late 80s & early 90s baseball cards, & a few stray 2005 Fleer, to the impressive…

This is an exercise in reminiscence. Though, of course, this whole nattyclipart enterprise is. Your memory is too long, the cuts too deep.

This entry in the expanding universe of NattyClipArt’s skittering roman a clef, known colloquially as an unread kinja blog, has been a long time coming. Though, are not all your blog-droppings? You are inveterately distracted, or preternaturally procrastinating — maybe both — so when ideas come to you, to write, you…

Another palate cleanser: for each time you take out your jealousies & petty grievances against people you do not even know, an end of year favorite to show, somewhere, there is a decent human being in you.

Back on the Hating Horse! In the past half-decade, seven years, eight, two of the NFL-savant writers you have taken to reading habitually, if not favorably, have trumpeted their weight-loss. Another, whom you read while he wrote for his first topline gig at Grantland, has done likewise. You refer, of course, to Peter…

& after the previous affected indignation at the alleged foibles of the writing staff of the Gizmodo Media Expanded Universe, something lighter: your top 33 films of 2017. You will not wait ‘til year’s end, & having seen additionally Molly’s Game, The Phantom Thread, & a coupla others, plus having to think over…

One has one’s interests. One also has one’s curiosities. Those will often overlap, but not adversarially. To be a fan of the Cleveland Indians, say, while wondering if moving toward a slider-dominant pitching set-up might lead to more efficiently dispatched competition, is not only possible, but in contemporary…

Editor’s note: you do not typically edit these National Gallery installations, since you prefer them to linger into posterity in their uncut form. (Just how the bog-standard Gizmodo Media writer likes her/his cocaine!) But for this piece in particular, written on the event of your mother’s untimely expiry, you shall…

& after that, when you stepped to the precipice of libelling — in a Palinian after the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords way — at least three respected educators, & even as those libels are not nearly so severe as the intimation included about the principal at your school for grade six, something lighter.

Before one meets a dean, or department head, or faculty advisor, one meets one’s principal. Or several principals. Your scribe, as one who moved around a fair amount as a youth, with the attendant school switching, had nine, plus an half-dozen vice principals. For purpose of this essay, though, three will receive…

Fifteen years since you graduated college. Nineteen, obviously, since high school completion. Just under seven since open-heart surgery. Fourteen & change since you lost your cherry the same evening you saw George W. Bush do a joint appearance with Ion Iliescu from Bucuresti’s Piata Victoriei.

In a short few months, you shall mark the third anniversary of the launch of the National Gallery of ClipArt. What started in early 2014 as a riff on the Twitter on a close of setlist song cover choice by the wonderfully monikered Diarrhea Planet at the Cactus Club turned into a calling when you realized you could…

You do not often think to address pop-culture, nor the fleeting gasps of the mono-culture, on this blog. Not, of course, that you do not have thoughts on those, just that your individualistic pattern of living precludes you deigning to see things another way, a way other than your own. In the last week or three,…

Two months into your new job, after thirteen years at the old, you are adjusting to the new work schedule, which fits you as close to well as anything since your late summer 1999 working third shift at SuperAmerica. (Speedway to the heathens.) So, it is a Thursday, in late June, your mother’s sixty-third birthday —…

& the fucks keep coming. Two weeks on, now, & letting stew another quiver of situations in which minimal, if any, fucks were given, to marinate, you are ready to present the third in the series. Which, you must admit, is becoming a series. (You had thought your disinterest would lead to the ultimate fuck given:…

So, you ate a Twitter beef supreme last nite, & maybe overstepped its bounds. You were motivated by the much-belated aboutface of the PolitiFatuous Wisconsin crew at the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel — point of fact: you delivered the very first issue of said paper, as your last act as a Milwaukee Journal paperboy, April…