Foreign types with the hookah pipes say...

...all sorts of things.     

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I stumbled upon some photos from a trip to Egypt back in 2002 the other day.  Hoho, they're hilarious, but if I post them here at least one sibling will stop talking to me for at least 2 months.  Eye will refrain.  For now, at least.


This is the eye of Horus.  You can learn more here.  That's right, it's another math related image, but abstractly! I fail.  This is also a first part of a side project I'm gearing up to execute in the very near future. 

 

This had turned into a weird rumination on artists' rights and the unfortunate occasional intersection between the economics of commercially licensed music discovery and nostalgia, which veered from youtube to The Flamingos to Heineken to Biz Markie to Taylor Swift's mom's birth canal to my history with digital music and counting hairs, and then I got to:


"'Give me five bees for a quarter,' you'd say.  Now, where were we? Oh, yeah.  The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time.  They didn't have white onions because of the war. The only thing you could get were those big, yellow ones..."

</tangent>.  <---When I see this, that's usually a sign to scrap what's there and start over.   I have splinters of a memory involving "the evil eye" from an Egypt trip in '87, but since I can't remember everything, that's another exon.  And so you have gotten the executive  summary of the overall vague  path of stream of conscious based  blather.


I have hit one of those points where I either erase an image I've become attached to, or I use the "regular sized" etch-a-sketch, which is so much more space to fill that it's ever so slightly exhausting.  Or I could ...buy another pocket sized guy.  I'm kind of in a spending freeze, so I don't think that last one is going to happen.  I'll figure it out.  I think since my fingers are now acclimated to the rhythm of typing I'm going to go work on a paper instead of poking around here. 

 

Or perhaps I'll practice my whistling-solos.  I'm exceptionally good.