Blurry picture I took of Clyde Overcash (L) and Gordon Hurley (R) at the Pops at the Post Concert (2009). I wish I had had a steadier hand.

The latest scandal in Salisbury, NC is a local news story about Clyde Overcash, an artist, who is pressing charges against Ann Caldwell Cave, the director of the United Arts Council, because he hung a pair of underwear in front of his building and called it art — and she took it down.

This reminds me of a course I took in college.  It was a philosophy seminar called “The Philosophy of Art.”

Dr. Helm, our professor, was an extremely kind, elderly gentleman.  In fact, I thought he was pretty old.  A little research reveals that he was actually only four or five years older than I am now.

Here’s a bit about Dr. Helm and some photos.

Dr. Helm infuriated me with some of his ideas:

‘A well prepared meal is a work of art,’ he would say.  I couldn’t relate to this.  Most of my meals at the time came from slightly raunchy restaurants, or our absolutely raunchy kitchen in the house I shared with other students, or from the Wake Forest cafeteria, a.k.a. “The Pit.”

‘A soap opera episode, in some cases, can be a work of art,’ Dr. Helm would also say.

This also didn’t seem to make sense to me.  My soap opera experience was based on time I spent visiting my grandmother while she watched.  The story never seemed to go anywhere!

Of course these statements were meant to provoke discussion around the seminar table, and they did.

I don’t remember much content from a class that took place 32 years ago, but I remember the emotion quite well.  I was extremely frustrated.  It was a seminar.  The others in the class were upper class philosophy majors and I wasn’t.  The other students were better at the lingo and referred to other philosophers.  I fancied myself a poet (a kind of artist) — and although I loved philosophy, I wasn’t much of a talker on the subject.  So I mostly just sat there, wanting to participate but too afraid, and listened.

But I do have my opinion about the underwear.  In my view, it depends on whose underwear it is.  If it’s a pair of my underwear, hanging from a tree in front of my house, then it’s just underwear.  I’m not that kind of artist.

Clyde Overcash, on the other hand, consistently produces visual art.  I own a number of his paintings.  His underwear, hanging in front of his gallery — is certainly a work of art.

It may stink, but it’s still a work of art.

The fact that someone in the art world assumes the role of art police and censors the work proves his point even further:  it’s a provocative work of art.

Maybe the whole thing is staged media hype — a publicity stunt for Salisbury artists.

In a phone call this evening, I reported the incident to my son (a painter and musician).  He likes to get the latest updates from Salisbury.

“That’s a juicy story,” he said.

When I told him I was blogging about it, he suggested I allude to Duchamp’s Fountain.

"Fountain," by Marcel Duchamp

Salisbury has always been a good theatre town. I know there’s a rich history dating back to the previous century. And I know I’ve missed a few in my time (almost five and a half decades).

But it seems like Salisbury theatre has made some strides in recent years that sets it apart.

We don’t just have a community theatre offering shows every two months on a fairly big stage to a fairly big house.

We’ve also got a full season at Catawba, one of the finer college theatre programs in the state, if not the country.

And we have smaller companies, and some professional actors who live and perform here, offering a rich menu of quality theatre on a frequent basis.

I’m pretty sure that’s not normal for a town this size. I’m pretty sure it’s remarkable.

Just two weeks ago, Joe Falocco — a consummate actor with a Salisbury address — presented Shakespeare’s Villains at Lee Street Theatre. It was delightful, smart, and incredibly funny.

A couple of weeks before that, St. Thomas Players gave us a thoroughly engaging production of Rabbit Hole.

Now, as it does each year, St. Thomas Players knocks out another summer with another one-two drama punch, following Rabbit Hole with an excellent production of Yasmina Reza’s Art, currently on view at Catawba’s Florence Busby Corriher Theatre.

The acting here is very, very good — but it doesn’t get in the way of a play that’s quite fascinating.

Near the end of Art, Yvan, the character who gets in the middle of his friend’s argument, sums up the play we’ve just seen when he says something close to this: ‘Nothing beautiful has ever been created as a result of rational argument.’

Good point, but the larger point is that while isolated statements in an argument can seem rational, the argument as a whole is absurd.

Just as arguments for isolated bits of a war can sometimes make sense, even though the war as a whole is absurd.

The war in Iraq began for one reason and continued on for a variety of entirely different reasons. Same for Afghanistan — and other conflicts between nations, races, municipalities, friends, people, families.

In the moment, there’s always somebody who can explain it like a champion. And then there’s always history, wherein the absurdity rises to the surface.

People still debate what really started the Cvil War.

This is the idea that gets distilled into Art, a very tight play that is not absurd, as a play, but instead is a play about absurdity.

We’re talking about a guy who attacks his friend for buying a painting that’s simply blank — white paint on a canvas.

It sets off a barrage of complicated, personal, hurtful argument, wherein the absurdity becomes as stark as the white painting that begins the ordeal.

As the play unfolds, the characters get heated about ideas, and the judgmentalism escalates. Sometimes it gets so complicated that I can’t follow the argument. I don’t know exactly what they’re talking about, but I know exactly what they’re saying and what they mean — and I’m pretty sure that’s the point.

This big mess doesn’t seem to challenge the actors. They don’t miss a beat as they whip through each other at a brisk pace. They’re exceptionally well prepared, and they seem to understand the nuance of each and every verbal dagger they throw.

Craig Kolkebeck directs the play and acts. He plays Serge, a dermatologist who buys a white painting and knows how to get under his friend’s skin.

Kolkebeck possesses the gift of naturalness. He’s always immersed in the play itself, never on a stage or aware of an audience.

I first heard about Art, the play, in the 90′s, over a glass of wine, from Bob Paolino, who had seen it in New York. We were talking about theatre and he said “I like Art.” This sounded like a weird thing to say, and I probably said something like “I do too.”

Bob straightened me out.

“The play, Art,” Bob said.

Soon after, I read it and discovered that I liked Art too. I’m glad I got a chance to see it, and I’m delighted I got to see Bob’s exuberant, winning performance in it. He plays Marc, the friend who instigates the argument when he notices that, like The Emperor Who Has no Clothes, the painting has no color.

One mustn’t play favorites with an ensemble cast of three that thoroughly clicks, but the manic moment of the evening obviously belongs to Anthony Liguori. He plays Yvan, the neurotic scapegoat, whose monologue about his wedding invitations provides the comic peak and is a sheer delight to watch. As long as it is (and it’s a long monologue), I’m sure everyone in the audience would have gladly granted him another five minutes.

The set is tasteful, white, and stark — and it’s also for sale. Upon leaving the theatre at the play’s conclusion the audience is invited to bid on the pieces in a silent auction.

This is a great show. I’m sure the army of volunteers involved in the production are proud of their work, and they should be.

Problem solved.

I got the new phone.  It’s great.  I can hear my phone calls again.  It’s not an iPhone 4, but for $199 I got the 3GS with 32 GB.  Not bad.

Even though the specs on the Apple website say that you need 10.5.8, you don’t.  They are assuming that you will upgrade the iPhone OS to 4.1.  I didn’t.

So I’ll continue using Tiger OS on the Mac and 3.1.3 on the iPhone.  No multitasking.  No Facetime.  So what?  It’s a stable system for now.

The phone works.  When I received my first phone call — from my wife at the grocery store — I heard every word she said (something I haven’t experienced in a year or so with the 2G iPhone).

And with 32 GB, I can load all my audiobooks.

I’m not a game player or a highly sophisticated user.  I want a phone.  I want to listen to books.  And I use a few apps to keep track of my tasks, phone numbers, appointments, and calories.

So I bought a brand new older phone with no OS upgrade path.  But it’s proven to be a stable system.

Besides, the iPhone 5, or 4.5 — which I’m guessing will be soon — might not have the call-dropping and face sensing issues.

I want to buy a new iPhone but can’t.

My current computer, a dual 1.8 G5, still works like a charm.  It runs OS 10.4.11, aka Tiger.

The PPC processor can’t run Snow Leopard, even though we own the family pack.

Yes, I know I could run plain Leopard, 10.5.8 — and I could get the new phone and sync.  This would cost me an additional $129, which makes the new phone a little pricey (still less than I paid for the Original iPhone I currently use).

However, because I use several different graphic packages, and have a working driver that prints to a rather old but very expensive digital duplicator — and my business depends it — I’m afraid an OS upgrade would break something, cause serious problems to my workflow, and disrupt my business — thereby putting me out of business.

I’ve used the Mac since it was invented.  Before that, I used an Apple IIc.  Before that, beginning in 1982, an Apple II+.   I’ve got a little museum of old Macs on the floor of my office.

Alas, one of the reasons so many of us love Macs is because they work so well and last forever.

But now I feel caught between a phone and a hard place.

The 2G phone reception on my Original iPhone is getting worse and worse because AT&T seems to be degrading this service in favor or 3G.  That’s okay, if I could get a new iPhone that uses 3G — something I want to do.

But I’d like the phone to sync with my computer.

Tiger is an excellent operating system.  The G5 dual processor Power Mac is a great computer.

I would buy a phone today, if I could.  But I’m not in the position, currently, to buy a new computer, new duplicator, and all new software.

So my question is this:  Why not let your engineers allow the newer iPhones to sync with the older Macs?  Users of older PC’s CAN do this.  Windows XP is nine years old, and users of this OS are able to buy new phones and sync with their computers.  Why not Mac users?

Sincerely,

Sam

Even with the well publicized reception problems, it’s probably better than the one I’m using now:  the original iPhone 2G. The reception was great when I got it (which is why I decided, shortly thereafter, to do away with the home phone).

But it’s not the same now as it was then, three years ago.

The signal has been degrading ever since the iPhone 3g was introduced. There are only a couple of rooms left in my house that I can use.  I drop calls all the time.  I’m eligible for an upgrade, and almost ready to buy it.

Because of AT&T’s lousy reception, I would possibly switch phones and carriers altogether, but I enjoy the iPhone.

I got my iPhone before the App Store existed.  Switching from years of Palm use, I sorely missed the absence of a to do list — but I managed with iCal.

Then came the apps, and it hasn’t been a big deal for me.  But there are a couple I us a lot.

•Put Things Off (the most simple and best task management system I’ve ever used).  In the past, I’ve paid serious money for PIM packages.  Put Things Off is perfect for me.

•Lose It! I’ve lost 26 pounds with this little gem.  It’s free.

I’m sure I could find similar apps for an Android phone, but I might not find anything as cheap, or as simple, or as elegant.

Anything else I use (iTunes, mail, contacts, calendar) is on every phone.  But do they sync nicely with Macs?  Probably not.

The rest of it I could probably live without — although I do need the better GPS that 3g offers.

I could switch to another smartphone.  They all have mail, contacts, and calendars. But I’ve used a Mac since it was first invented, and I’ve used PDA’s since they first came out — and iPhones sync better with Macs.  And I love Lose It! and Putting Things Off.

Alas, the new problem now is syncing anything at all.

I use Mac OS Tiger (10.4.11).  It’s a good OS.  The iPhone 4 requires OS 10.5 or above.

I already own 10.6 family pack — but it won’t install on my G5 (a 1.8 dual processor Powermac.  Top of the line in its day.  The big, expensive tower).

I can barely afford the phone, and I’m certainly not looking to buy a new computer.  There’s plenty of life left in the one I’ve got.

If I upgrade to plain Leopard 10.5, things would be cool — phonewise.  But that’s another $129 — and it’s likely to break my old version of Final Cut.

I spent a lot of time making films with this computer and although I seriously doubt I’ll ever do anymore video editing on this machine, I want access to those films — just in case Hollywood decides to pay me a million dollars for Coffee Therapy, with a few edits.

Upgrading the OS could break some of my graphics software also.  I depend on this system, on a daily basis, and don’t want to break it or spend money on lots of new packages.

So I’m stuck between generations.  Wanting the newer phone — not wanting to let go of my computer system.

I could forget about syncing altogether.  Not a great solution.

Shel Silverstein’s song, “Daddy, What If.” In this first video, Bobby Bare sings with his son, Bobby Jr. In the second, a grown-up Bobby Jr. sings with his daughter, Isabella.

I was playing squash with a guy named Roy, and he said, “Do you know who that was?”

“No.”

“That was Michael Palin.”

I wasn’t impressed at the time.  But I have been ever since.

When I was in London that year, I played a lot of squash and really enjoyed it.  Haven’t played since.

Not that that has anything to do with anything.

This is the ending of Monty Python’s Life of Brian – Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

Too perfect.  Always an upper…

•dog owners who walk their dogs are more healthy than dog owners who don’t walk their dogs
• dog owners who walk their dogs are more healthy than people who don’t own dogs

Here’s my question: What about dog owners who do walk, but without their dogs.

In the fall, spring, and summer, I walk my dog quite often.

But in this heat, with all that fur, she just can’t handle it.

Sometimes I walk a mile or so and and see that she’s hot and exhausted. So I bring her home and finish my walk without her.

Sometimes I walk very late at night, when things have cooled, and I take her with me.

Sometimes I leave her at home altogether.

But I still walk.

How would dog owners who walk — but without their dogs — compare to dog owners who walk with their dogs.

In other words, do the benefits come strictly from the exercise, or is there something else, in addition, about spending time with a dog that makes people weigh less, have lower cholesterol, and have lower blood pressure.

Is there a study for that?

I almost always see people I know there.  For some reason, lately, I run into more and more people my age.

There’s always a group of guys shooting pool — and they’re pretty good players.  I’m always in a hurry, but I know enough about pool etiquette to stop at the door and watch the shot before crossing the room.

Last week, one of the guys looked up and said:  “I know you.  You’re a Post.”

I confirmed that and said my name.

“You’ve got a brother,” he said.

“Two,” I said.

“One of them used to come up to the pool hall with you.”

“Jonny,” I said.

Then he told me about Larry Lowe, who ran the The Friendly Cue with his father L.B., and was having some serious health problems.

Believe me, I love theatre as much as I love anything in this world, and I appreciate the remarkable transformation of Fisher Street in recent years.  I look forward to seeing shows in The Norvell.  But I had to admit what I really felt.

“It’s a theatre now,” I said.  “I liked it better when it was a pool hall.”

Moans of agreement.

“You got that right,” one guy said.

There was something special about that place.  The big, sturdy tables.  The selection of heavy, straight sticks that L.B. made himself.  You could look up to the mezzanine and watch him work at the lathe.

The smell of tobacco.  The multitude of large ceiling fans that made it a cool place on the hottest of summer days.

The separation of pool and alcohol.  The mix of people.  The communal haze of naughtiness in the air.  The temptation to gamble.

When you lost a game, there was a poetic justice :  if guy is really good at pool, then he spends too much time at it.  He’s a little suspect as a person.

And of course there was the impeccable service — the thrill of winning a game and getting to yell “Rack!”

I don’t know if it’s true because I wasn’t born yet, but family legend has it that my grandfather, Sam Zimmerman, spent a little too much time there himself.

One of the guys who racked balls there in the 80′s remembered him, probably from the 30′s and 40′s, when the pool hall was across the street in the Las Palmas/Brick Street Tavern building.

My grandparents had a store three blocks away on North Main Street and lived upstairs, above the store.  My grandmother would send somebody (one of her children, perhaps?) down to the pool hall to tell him to come home.

In my mind, which is strictly imaginary, he wasn’t shooting pool.  He was sitting in one of the high wooden chairs along the wall, talking and reading the newspaper.

There are other stories of people having to go get other people and bring them home from various locations downtown.

My grandfather also gathered with other men at Purcell’s drug store (now Spanky’s), where they pulled all nighters gathered around a radio listening to news of the war.

Story has it that women in their nightgowns would walk in and order their husbands home.

When I go out at night, I drink a beer.  They supposedly drank coffee while they listened to the news — and they probably really did.  These days, we enjoy fancy coffee, but we drink it mostly in the morning.  Back then, Americans actually drank more coffee.  It was common at every meal, and in the evenings.

My Mom once told me that on Pearl Harbor Day she was watching a movie at the Capitol Theatre.  The Capitol was located just behind the store they lived in, through the alley, on the first block of West Innes Street, where the Salisbury Post parking lot is now.

Back then, as long as you stayed in the theater, you could watch the movie over and over.  I used to do that myself in the same theater when I was a kid.

Pearl Harbor happened on a Sunday, of course, before the days of television, and Mom was watching the movie for the second time when Leon, her brother, came to get her.

“The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,” he said.  “Daddy’s real mad about it and said for you to come home now!”

I guess I’m pretty lucky.  I’m basically a homebody.  When I do go out, I’m easy to reach (by phone), but not that easy to find.  I’m not just down the block, a few hundred yards away — in a pool hall, or drug store, or theater.

And nobody has ever really tried to get me to come home.  My parents didn’t much care, and neither does my wife.  I wonder why.