A Better President

Not being in possession of full citizenship, I am presently unable to vote, which isn't going to stop me from telling you who to vote for. Therefore, here are my suggestions for ten potential candidates who would probably make a better job of it than the gentleman currently in the hot seat.

El Chapo. I realise that Joaquín Guzmán Loera is not only presently legally inconvenienced, and that he's not even an American citizen, and that - if we're going to be picky - he's a bit of a live wire in certain respects; but if we really must have a president who is, first and foremost, a businessman, then it should at least be a guy who knows what the fuck he's doing. I'm not even joking here.

Spongebob Squarepants. I don't know much about Spongebob Squarepants beyond that he lives in a pineapple under the sea, but in a political climate which is more about public relations than policy, he dresses well and has a winning smile in addition to a positive attitude. Critics will doubtless point out that Spongebob is a cartoon character and is as such not real, but personally I suspect we're a long way past that making much difference.

Tim. I met Tim on the art foundation course I took back in the early eighties, and we kept in touch, although I often found our friendship frustrating bordering on pointless. We fell out a couple of years ago during a facebook argument over UKIP. He thought they were okay, and I thought they were a shower of shite. Amongst the reasons he gave for his enthusiastic support of UKIP was some nebulous guff about energy and the economy, and how he didn't want the United Kingdom to become like America. I still have no idea what qualified him to pass comment on anything being like America given that he'd barely travelled outside of Warwickshire. When I first announced that I would be marrying an American woman, he offered a sequence of clichéd observations which one might justifiably have expected of an eight-year old schoolboy living in a rural area of England in 1967, but which sounded a little weird coming from a grown man in the twenty-first century. When I pointed this out, Timothy's defence was that he knew all about Americans because he had once encountered one at the antiques centre in Stratford, and golly - what a cracking chap he'd been; and even taking all this into account, Timbo - as he occasionally refers to himself - would still make for a better president.

George Clinton. If you don't know who George Clinton is, you probably need to go back to the beginning and start your life all over again. The reason he would make a great president is that he's George Clinton, in case that isn't obvious; and no, I don't think he's related.

MC Ren. MC Ren is one of the members of NWA whose story was somewhat sidelined in the Straight Outta Compton movie, which seemed a little unfair given his having been at least as integral to the group as any of the rest. Since NWA, he released a series of increasingly terrifying solo albums which communicated his being a man of fortitude, conviction, and strong opinions. It may be deemed problematic that the strong opinions expressed on Attack on Babylon ran along the lines of let's go shoot some white people, but I expect he was just having a bad day, and you can at least see where he was coming from.

Barack Obama. Because why the fuck not? It's legal and he already knows the job. I expect he still has the suit and all that. I never claimed he was a saint, and I regard all politicians as inherently untrustworthy on some level, so we might at least have a politician who can spell his own name; plus it would be worth it just to watch all those heads exploding in the more conservative neighborhoods.

Ahuizotl. Ahuizotl ruled the Mexican city of Tenochtitlan from 1487 to 1502. Following the distinctly underwhelming reign of Tizoc, he expanded the influence of the Triple Alliance on an unprecedented scale, and also - as I've only just found out - introduced grackles to central Mexico. I've read a lot about the guy and have always found him fascinating. His rule, were he somehow rendered a practical choice by means of either cloning or time travel, would probably be unspeakably cruel but fair.

The President of Mexico. I'm not sure who it is right now, and I can't be bothered to look it up, but I'm sure he'd do a reasonable job should the existing border be nudged up towards the lower reaches of Canada as part of the Make America Mexico Again campaign; at least in the event of el Chapo being unavailable.

Mick Johnson from Brookside. As a fictitious character from an English soap which got cancelled fifteen years ago, Mick Johnson may seem an unorthodox presidential candidate, but my freedom to suggest that he'd still do a better job than the current idiot is still just about protected by the first amendment, although that may soon change. The Johnson presidency would be characterised by steroid abuse and lots of hanging out with a fat guy called Sinbad. President Johnson would be remembered for his slightly menacing catchphrase, what do you think you're playing at, Leo?

Malcolm. I don't remember his actual name or much about him, but Malcolm was a boy with curly ginger hair in the year below us at school. We called him Malcolm because his hair reminded us of Malcolm McLaren, the manager of the Sex Pistols. For some reason he had an ongoing feud with my friend Graham. I'm not sure who started it, although it may have been because Graham called him Malcolm. On one occasion, he approached Graham whilst swinging an Adidas sports bag around at arm's length and knee height as he delivered the warning, 'You'd better watch out because I'm a bagswinger,' as though attempting to convince us that this was some newly devised martial art. Graham later wrote a heavily sarcastic song mocking Malcolm and his underwhelming show of strength, and the song was called Bagswinger. I don't know anything else about Malcolm, but I'm still fairly confident that he couldn't make quite such a shitty job of the presidency as the man with the little hands.

Rocks as Cakes

My wife's rock group - whom you may recall were introduced back in February - are partaking in a competition. A sandwich bar - which I'll rename Making Biscuits for the sake of keeping everyone happy - is hosting an event intended to benefit local foster children by providing school supplies. I'm not quite sure how it works, but the idea is that we all turn up and paint rocks based on the pastries sold at Making Biscuits. The manager of the establishment is himself a keen painter of rocks, and the first prize will be a $50 gift card.

Painting rocks is really my wife's thing, but she's recruited me to the cause for this one event in the belief that whatever I paint will blow the other contestants out of the metaphorical water. I'm therefore a ringer - a person highly proficient at a skill or sport who is brought in, often fraudulently, to supplement a team, as Wiktionary would have it; but there are worse ways to pass a Saturday afternoon so I've said yes.

We came along to Making Biscuits last night, checking the place out, how to get here, and to take a look at what sort of cakes they sell. I sat shivering for an hour listening to the women talk about babies, which was actually kind of miserable. Today I've been promised that the event won't take long, and that there will be more people. Also, I've brought a jumper and a jacket in hope of surviving the thermonuclear Making Biscuits air conditioning, which feels weird given that it's August here in Texas and that it presently takes about five minutes to roast a frozen chicken by leaving it out on the sidewalk.

Happily, they don't have the AC jacked up quite so high today, and there are maybe fifteen of us taking part which immediately puts me in a better mood. Aside from the manager, I'm apparently the only male in attendance, so it's probably a good thing that I'm reasonably secure in my masculinity and have never felt the need to drive a red sports car. A couple of tables are covered with pots of acrylic paint, jars of water in which brushes soak, and with freshly painted rocks drying at the centre where you might usually expect to find condiments as the women start anew with fresh stones. I buy a fruit tart from the counter. It's topped with slices of strawberry, kiwi, tangerine, and some sort of berry, so featuring a range of colour which should make it interesting to paint. I grab a coffee, take a seat opposite my wife, and we set to work.

I paint in the rough shape of the tart as a white outline. Some young woman sat next to me chatters away, just general conversational stuff with the inevitable emphasis on art and the country of my birth. I realise to my surprise that she's still in school, being somewhat younger than I am, although this probably means she's at university. After a while she finishes painting a stone so as to give it the appearance of a pastry, and resumes her proprietorial duties over some faux-martial arts attraction because another child has turned up wanting a go. Individual squares of wood are stacked near the coffee machine, presumably having been partially sawn through. Customers are invited to karate chop them in half. This is also something to do with school supplies for foster children.

I know a few of the women, so I ask about Mrs. Darkseid, a conspicuously absent rock painter whom I've renamed after the DC Comics villain in reference to her ruthless one woman war against free will.

'She has her own thing. Didn't you hear?'

I didn't hear. 'Her own thing, you say?'

'She organised a rock painting competition for today at some diner. I guess that's where she is right now.'

'Seriously? Same time and everything?'

'Yup.'

'What an amazing coincidence.'

'Yes, isn't it just?'

We all chuckle darkly to ourselves.

I've only met Mrs. Darkseid a couple of times and she seemed harmless enough, but her behaviour has since bordered on mania. The city now has several rock exchange spots, mostly situated in public parks and the like. The women paint rocks and leave them at the rock exchanges for others to take, or to swap with rocks of their own. It's something with no function other than to bring pleasure to those who take part. Most of this has occurred organically, just opportunities taken, things which such and such a person has decided might be a good idea or worth a try; but Mrs. Darkseid began to take a peculiarly proprietorial interest in what the rest of the gang were doing, telling them where they should have a rock exchange, deciding what it should be named and so on. At one point she issued a decree that no baskets were to be left at the rock exchanges. No-one took any notice, then suddenly rock exchanges were vandalised with baskets pointedly thrown into nearby bushes. Mrs. Darkseid of course expressed her anger at the thought of who could do such a deed, because even her own rock exchange had been hit by these monsters, so she claimed. There have been peculiarly batty text messages sent telling some of the women what they are allowed to post on facebook in relation to the painted rocks. Bess set up a rock exchange at the Mission Branch Library down on the southside of the city at the invitation of library staff who thought it would nicely complement the public garden and play area at the rear of the library; so it was done and I did my bit by painting a sign for it on a breeze block. Mrs. Darkseid involved herself - despite the undertaking having nothing to do with her - and had the library rock exchange moved to the front of the building, specifically to the parking lot, apparently for no reason other than as a demonstration of her mighty power.

In the meantime, we've finished painting our rocks, so we take them outside to spray them with glaze. They look pretty good as they dry, arranged as they are in the presently flower-free flower bed.

'You lot should try and have a rock exchange here,' I suggest.

There are a few nods and noises of concurrence, then we realise that Mrs. Darkseid would have a meltdown and get it moved across the parking lot to the side of the road - so as to share the magic with four lanes of heavy traffic or some other reason she'd just thought of. We laugh, because we still can't believe that anyone could be so screwy as to declare themselves supreme controller of something which was supposed to be lightweight and fun. It's a wonder that she hasn't taken to issuing home-made permits and membership cards.

The afternoon, which has actually been a lot more fun than I thought it would be, draws to a close, and the rocks are judged. My fruit tart comes in second. Bess tells me it should have won, but I really don't mind because I feel a little like an imposter and this isn't really my circus. Additionally, I've painted a representation of a pastry, rather than painting a rock so as to give it the appearance of a pastry - a detail required of competition entries which I somehow missed. The first prize goes to a rock painted so as to resemble a chocolate cake. The rock was one half of a stone which had been roughly spherical, and so the winner painted it so as to make it seem like someone had taken a bite from one side. To be honest, that's the rock to which I would have awarded first prize, were I judge.

Sometimes you just have to write these things down because you feel that otherwise no-one will believe you.

Party Animal

'We're going to a party,' Bess tells me, words which would once have struck terror into my soul. The fear came from the part of the conversation which usually followed, first my objection on the grounds of not enjoying parties, then the customary admonitions of how I need to make an effort to be more social, how I need to make more of an effort to step outside of my comfort zone every once in a while, how I need to make more of an effort to be the person she should have gone out with instead of me. Happily, I married someone who has never played these sort of games, who doesn't engage in that kind of low-level bullying, and who would never make such a suggestion without there being a good reason.

Saturday comes and we pile into the car, then a short drive across town to Laura's place. Laura is in Bess's rock group, specifically an assemblage of women who paint rocks, in case anyone had begun thinking in terms of Judas Priest or the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. They paint rocks and leave them in places to be found by strangers, persons whose day might conceivably be left a little brighter by their having found a painted rock. It's actually a rock painting party.

I find a space in the fridge for my Newcastle brown ale, six bottles. Then it turns out that I'm the only one boozing, so there's no bottle opener. Well-meaning rock artists suggest ways in which I might open a bottle with the kind of inventive enthusiasm you might expect when trying to start a fire on a desert island, then someone realises that a previously mysterious dingus they've been carrying around in their purse is actually a bottle-opener and the day is saved.

We retire to the rock painting room.

I hadn't actually planned to paint rocks but it's not like I have anything else going on, so I take a seat at one of the two tables, sat between my wife and Jennifer's mother-in-law, a lovely woman who moved here from Mexico City and unfortunately doesn't speak much English. Sat opposite are Jennifer and Sandy, Jennifer's mother. The others I haven't met before, but they're all women and there's also a second Jennifer. In total there are about twelve of us, and I'm the only man here, as Joel Grey once sang.

Sandy hands out a few rocks, and we all get to painting. I start on a cartoon octopus, specifically a cartoon octopus with a mustache, bowler hat and smoking a pipe. It will pass the time.

On the wall behind Sandy are three dogs painted on canvas - one seemingly a poodle, another of indeterminate breed, and something like a terrier but without eyes. I guess it was never finished.

I'm using Sandy's pens, a specific type dispensing acrylic paint in liquid form, but they're not really working for me. The table is strewn with communal art supplies so I switch to a brush.

'What's with the dog?' I ask.

Laura explains that she couldn't get the eyes right and left it as it was.

'You could paint a pair of sunglasses on it maybe?'

'Oh! That's an idea.' She considers the proposal. 'How about you paint sunglasses? I think you might be better than me.'

I look at the painting and realise I like it as it is. 'I don't think I could, now that I come to think of it. It would seem wrong.'

'I don't mind.'

'No - I like it as it is. It has some sort of quality er… I just can't stop looking at the thing.'

There is something compelling about the eyeless dog, as though it has special powers and can see into the future.

I finish my octopus and start on Frankenstein's monster, inspired by my recently having been commissioned to produce a sequence of paintings depicting different stages in the career of Boris Karloff. We're mostly yacking away as we paint, because, as I say, I sort of know Sandy and Jennifer, and Jennifer once lived in London so we have that in common.

At no point in my life prior to 2009 did I foresee myself as the only male sat in a room of American women, and I find the realisation pleasing. At the same time I'm usually a little irritated by men who state a preference for the company of women, because it always feels as though they're engaged in some deeply wearying exercise in one-upmanship; but on the other hand it's nice to know that no-one will attempt to engage me in conversation about real ale, motoring, golf, football, sporting activities, science-fiction television shows, or any of the other tedious shit with which so many men fill their bewildering lives.

On the other hand, the women at the next table are all of a certain age with very short hair, and I suddenly have the sensation of finding myself in an episode of Orange is the New Black, the drama set in a women's prison; then I recall that a chapter title in J-Zone's autobiographical Root for the Villain asks Are Men the New Women?

It's time for more beer.