Jan Vermeer was as culpable of making Dutch ovens as the next man with a paint brush was or is. In that same way Henri Matisse wasn't. He was more of a French pastry chef with a penchant for pickling his penis in a plum jar. Little wonder that he was such a hit with the ladles. The only hit Vermeer ever scored with the ladies was when he ran them down in his Ford Ranger. Many was the late evening that he would come home to his wife and kids and dog and cat and goldfish and canary and rodents with parts of various women attached to his mud flaps. It wouldn't be long before he was attached to his very own flaps of his very own. His wife was very accomodating of stranglers. In much the same way that Matisse's femmes weren't, his were and vice versa. He seemed to attract the most wanton of scallops. If you're ever in doubt as to the status of Matisse in relation to Vermeer, look no further than the end of your own hose. For all this, the works of thse two masters of their own domain names, as I surely might be, named each other in court as perpetual liars and layabouts in the finest traditions of Westerners. It's little wonder that Vermeer and Matisse: opposite. Further still, you couldn't really care less. Even further still, I have to get moving.
Norm
Mal
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