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The Cutting Artist
A Note from Ken: After 10 wonderful years, this
is my last column. It is also the first column I wrote. I have decided
it is time to move on to new creative endeavors. Thank you, from the
bottom of my heart, for being my readers. It has been the highlight of
my professional career. Take care and keep parenting with a smile.
A question to parents: A. If you could have a smart, popular, good
looking, naturally talented, freeloading son who shared your life for
all eternity and never left his studio apartment upstairs in your house,
or B., a son who moved far away but was employed, which would you
choose?
If you answered A., you're a strong candidate for a pet who should
volunteer serving refreshments at a punk rock concert for needed shock
therapy.
If you answered B., you're a red blooded American parent who already has
your five-year-olds college dorm picked out and a moving company on
standby.
From the moment our children are born, we start grilling them on the
basics. What is your name? Why did you hit your sister? And, what do
you want to be when you grow up?
This last question is the most important. After 20 years of communal
living, parents aren't interested in excuses about the high cost of
living or scaled-down work forces. They just want the kids to get out
and send pictures of the grandchildren.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" is as common a phrase in
American homes as "I'll give you something to cry about!"
My son, however, is an exception to the rule. He has aspirations of
employment, but he'll still be living with me when my Social Security
check bounces. He wants to be an artist.
"A cutting artist," he says with a toothy grin.
The kid next door was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. My son
came into this world with scissors.
In fact, when he popped out of the womb, he cut his own umbilical cord.
Let me explain. A cutting artist takes magazines, newspapers, dish
towels, cardboard and airline tickets, cuts them out in odd shapes and
then pastes, glues, tapes, tacks or licks them on paper, walls, cousins,
wood or mom's side of the bed.
Now, here's the best part: "They're free," my son explains. "I wouldn't
want to charge for them."
"Oh, isn't that cute," my mom exclaimed, clutching her own Alasdair
Swarner original titled: "Jell-O ad on Escrow Papers."
I scowled at her. "Do you have some non-profit artists foundation or
trust fund I don't know about? No? Then don't encourage the child!"
Frank down the street is a lucky dad. His son wants to be a brain
surgeon. Joe at my office is raising a future short stop for the
Seattle Mariners. Their homes will be calm and orderly in 14 years.
My son's masterpiece: "Phone Bill Caulked on Pillow Case will be hanging
in the Louvre but he'll still be living with me when he's 40 chewing his
food with his mouth open and forgetting to flush the toilet.
I'll probably be kicked out of Rotary for bringing one more starving
artist into the world.
I want to answer B to the above question, but sadly I must settle for C.
Smart, good looking, talented son who moves far away from home but
returns four years later with 275 reams of paper, a gallon of rubber
cement and his college diploma nailed to the sole of his shoe.
Ken Swarner is
author of "Whose Kids Are These Anyway?" He can be reached at
kenswarner@aol.com.
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