This is an image of Shakespeare done by William Blake
Did you ever have one of those occasions when you needed to write something down, but didn’t have anything to write on, or with?
For those of you who aren’t as, perhaps… well… chronologically enhanced as moi, this would be in the days before the universally ubiquitous smart phone.
I used to always carry around a pen in those days.
My theory/excuse/explanation was that you never knew when you were going to come across a rogue crossword puzzle that needed to be solved.
The fate of the entire free world might be hanging on that puzzle.
And by golly by gum I was gonna be prepared.
Ready to do the dirty deed… and in pen, no less.
Unless it’s a Friday or Saturday NY Times crossword puzzle.
If that’s the case, well…
Sorry, free world.
You’re on your own.
Those puzzles can be brutal.
This, too, is Shakespeare…
But there was a time when I really needed to write something down, and I didn’t have anything to write with.
Which caused me no small amount of existential angst.
It’s not commonly known to the general public at large, but rather well documented in the scientific community, that most cases of existential angst used to, in fact, begin with the patting down of pockets, or the rummaging through of backpacks/purses/relatively intact brown paper bags, in an attempt to find something to write with.
Implements of ink inscriptions are the key ingredient in this scenario, of course…
You can always find something to write on, as long as you have something to write with.
Most people, when faced with that type of dilemma, would just write on their hand.
In fact, I maintain that the current craze in tattoos began right about the time we began storing all our important data in digital form.
I should say not…
This is a caricature of Shakespeare.
And what could be so important, that the failure to locate a pen would cause so much pain?
1) The phone number of that hot member of the opposite sex and/or fan-based sports franchise you met in a bar.
2) The address you need to go to next week for that dream job interview/restaurant where you will meet the significant other’s parents interview/interview with a an honest-to-God-real-life-standard-b-flat vampire… Was it apartment 2B, or not 2B?
3) That sure-fired-I-swear-its-for-real-this-time-honest-to-God genius idea that will revolutionize the dotcom industry/fast food industry/industrial planning zone at the next city council meeting/congressional hearing/antiquary book fair to be held during the daily commute into the city/national trade show/collapse of civilization as we know it!
It’s a good thing this post is in digital form.
Otherwise, I think I’d need a new pen by now.
The whole point of all this is that it’s the 400th anniversary of the death of William Shakespeare.
But it’s also the 452nd (traditional) birthday of the Bard.
We don’t really know what day he was born.
Or if you do, but aren’t telling anyone, then you’re a giant no-good-nik, on an epic scale of Scandinavian proportions…
I don’t know what that means…
But it sure sounded good in my head.
This is, in fact, not Shakespeare…
So when everyone goes around talking about four centuries of Shakespeare, it’s really more like four and a half centuries.
Don’t you think?
As a matter of fact, I just got a junk email, “celebrating” 400 years of Shakespeare.
Why would anyone want to patronize a business that can’t even do simple math?
Or am I just being nit-picky about something, because I really don’t have anything to say that’s worthy of such a nicely round number as 400?
I resemble that remark.
Even if it I did mark it in the first place.
In a continuation of a pattern I started a while ago, I shall let the artist speak for himself.
Like anything I say could compare with that…