Now that I’ve got a place of my own , and my wife is equally at home with squalor, I can proceed with the pattern making that has always been the method I used to get a grip on the natural world. It’s gotten pretty bad, really. Every time I look at a Louis  XIV piece of furniture, an old photograph of an airplane, or a floorplan of an Elizabethan house, I have a compulsion to frame the motherfucker. In wood. To scale.

The government has yet to set up  some clinics for my ilk, and I believe it’s because they rate my little problem as a more frightening prospect than the introduction of broadband porn into mainstream America. I can tell you they’re the fucking same.  Golden age of aircraft, shaved mons pubises, what’s the difference, if you really think about it?

Perhaps they’re right. It’s gotten to the point that when I see anything animate, I automatically visualize them as fins and struts. But in that respect, I’m well behind the curve of the fashion world: