For just a little more than a print you can have a hand made reproduction of a painting of Salvador Dali. With our talented oil painters, we offer 100% hand made oil paintings on various subjects and styles.
In what he calls "an Experiment in Controlled Digression," Mark Dery touches on xenogastronomy, ortolan, Edible Dormouse, Victor Hugo's fondness for rat pate, rat-baiting as a betting sport in Victorian times, the rat as New York's unofficial mascot, Luis Bunuel's pet rat, scientific research into such pressing questions as whether rats laugh, and whether rats will inherit the Earth as a result of climate change, Dracula's dominion over rats, and of course the (cryptozoological myth? Leo [Stein, brother of Gertrude] went to Harvard in 1892 to study philosophy but soon got distracted. How can I not think of ortolan, the thumb-sized songbird prized by gourmands in France, where the endangered animal—whose sale is illegal but whose consumption, perversely, is not—is force-fed to the point of delectable plumpness? When prostate cancer handed Francois Mitterrand a death sentence, he hosted a fabulous Last Supper whose piece de resistance was ortolan; shielded from the all-seeing eye by the traditional napkin, Monsieur Le President had two. Which makes me think of the HBO series Rome; in one episode, a soldier chowing down at an unprepossessing osteria declares the dormouse on offer the best in the city. From there, it’s just a free-associated hop, skip, and jump to the siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-‘71, when rat was on the menu.
English translation of a menu from a dinner in Paris during the siege of the city, which lasted nearly five months, from September 19, 1870 to January 28, 1871. Speaking of Robert, could there be a connection, here, to William Burroughs’s scabrous satire on haute cuisine in Naked Lunch? Returning to Murinae (the mammalian subfamily comprising mice and rats), rats must have been plentiful and frolicsome in the Missouri of Mark Twain’s childhood, since they scamper through the novels he sets in the antebellum South.
My favorite rat reference in the Twain canon—an arcane category, admittedly—is Tom’s blissful inquiry in Tom Sawyer, while spooning with Becky, “Do you love rats?” Is there a more perfect expression, in all of American literature, of the joys of carefree youth? That rats scurry and squeak in the Victorian unconscious, popping up in fact and figure of speech in Twain’s novels, and others of the period, should come as no surprise. A rat’s only regret was the rat-killer (whose dogs, traps, and poisons weren’t exactly an existential threat in those innocent days before state-of-the-art rodenticides) and rat-baiting, the most popular betting sport of the period. The contests took place in open enclosures whose wooden walls were over four feet high, too high for rats to leap, and lined with polished zinc or tin, too slippery for rats to climb.
There was a bull-dog a-killing rats, so I says, “Oh, that’s a duffin’ dog; any dog could kill quicker than him.
Then again, the Surrealist filmmaker Luis Bunuel, as charmingly unselfconscious an iconoclast as ever there was, exhibited a lifelong fondness for rats, and kept them as pets as a boy and again in later life, when at one point his rat collection exploded, as rat collections will, to 40. Of course, it’s what rats have in common with us that accounts in no small part for their creepiness.
Rats are like us in other, less flattering ways: they like to eat, and they like to have sex, and they indulge in both as often as they can, with gluttonous gusto. As for sex, they engage in it constantly—a dominant male may mate with as many as 20 females in six hours, Sullivan claims—and they don’t scruple at niceties: rats mate with underage rats, pregnant rats, and even dead rats caught, headfirst, in snap traps. Dracula transfigured into a cross of rats, from Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Critics who insist on psychological depth or intricacies of plot or Big Ideas miss the point that, in cinema, surface is depth; images are ideas. Right beside Coppola’s cross of rats, in the galleries in my head, is the Rat King, that fabled phenomenon in which rats become inextricably entangled by their tails. To the skeptical inquirer, the Rat King has a whiff of the cryptozoological about it, but both Langton and Sullivan treat the phenomenon as established fact. One especially fanciful aspect of the Rat King myth is not in dispute, however: it’s certifiably a fiction that “the rats’ tails were tied together by other rats to form a sort of living throne for the Rat King, whose regal paws they supposed were far to important to touch the ground” (Langton). The Rat King’s enthralling horror owes much to the Dantean awfulness of the creatures’ plight, and to the instinctual revulsion the rat inspires. The Rat King’s repulsion distills the essence of one of the rat’s more queasy-making traits: its characteristic tendency to merge with the seething mass, to lose whatever individuality it has in a fast-running tide of squeaks and scrabblings whose only thought is to gnaw and whose only direction is toward you.
Ultimately, however, the Rat King’s occult power has more to do, I think, with its inscrutability. I’ve omitted endnotes in order to avoid an academic feel that some readers might find off-putting, not to mention the design eyesore presented by a text infested with superscript numerals. PrankvsPrank turned a remote-controlled car into the infamous pizza-loving rat to terrorize unwitting passers-by. Pizza Rat was just the most brazen example of the rats that are apparently ravaging New York City this year.
Rats can tread water for up to three days, and hold their breath under water for three minutes. For most of us, there are few feelings of deeper hopelessness than waiting for a car mechanic to tell you what’s wrong with your car.
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George Burns — original name Nathan Birnbaum – was born in in 1896 in New York, and died aged 100 in Beverly Hills, California. Rodney Dangerfield was born Jacob Rodney Cohen in 1921 in New York, and died aged 82 in Los Angeles, California. Salvador Dali was born in Figuerres,Spain in 1904 and died in the same town in 1989 at the age of 84. Henry “Henny” Youngman was born in Liverpool, England in 1906 and died in New York when he was 91 years old. Charles Monroe Schulz was born in Minnesota in 1922 and died aged 77 in Santa Rosa, California. Robin McLaurin Williams was born in Chicago, Illinois in 195, and died near Tiburon, California on August 11, 2014 at the age of 63. Phyllis Diller was born in 1917 in Lima, Ohio and died in Los Angeles in 2012 at the age of 95. Housework can’t kill you, but why take a chanceA bachelor is a guy who never made the same mistake onceNever go to bed mad. Benjamin Franklin was born in 1706 in Boston, Massachusetts, and died in 1790 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, at the age of 84.
Joan Rivers was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1933, and died in the same city yesterday, September 14, at the age of 81.
Salvador Dali gave his beloved wife Gala the castle in Pubol, which is now open to the public, on the condition that he was only allowed to visit her by appointment.

This innovative high resolution printing technique results in durable and spectacular looking prints of the highest quality. Poetically dispatched by being drowned in Armagnac (there are worse ways to go), it is roasted whole and, ultimately, eaten entire, under cover of a napkin draped over the diner’s head “to preserve the precious aromas and, some believe, to hide from God” (not to mention the disapproving gaze of any PETA activists at nearby tables). Ever since I first clapped eyes on that line, its happy-go-lucky perversity has been a source of inexhaustible pleasure to me, surpassed only by the exchange that follows: “No! The 19th century was a good time to be a rat; hygiene and sanitation, or the lack thereof, favored rats, and they were fruitful and multiplied, especially in the squalid, overcrowded cities. Henry Mayhew, in Volume III of his London Labour and the London Poor (1861), sets the scene: “When [the rats] had been flung into the pit, they gathered themselves into a mound which reached one-third up the sides, and which reminded one of the heap of hair-sweepings in a barber’s shop after a heavy day’s cuttings.
They’ve always inspired in me a mixture of revulsion and fascination, the tension between the two perfectly calibrated.
In his autobiography, My Last Sigh, he quotes his sister’s reminiscences of their childhood pets, most memorably “an enormous rat, as big as a rabbit, a rather filthy beast with a long, rough tail” who nonetheless “was treated like one of the family,” accompanying the Bunuels on trips in a bird cage. To be sure, our commensal friends are repugnantly Other in some obvious ways—their habit of cannibalizing their neighbors’ newborns, for starters—but they’re uncomfortably similar to us, too, an inconvenient truth underscored by their ubiquitous use as human surrogates in laboratory research. If he’s right, the Anthropocene, as some climate scientists call the period of anthropogenic climate change that began with the Industrial Revolution, will be succeeded by a posthuman age that will witness the rise of Rattus. Male rats’ testicles are enormous, and are thus the subject of much merriment among rat fanciers; according to Langton, a 400-pound gorilla’s are less than half the size of a rat’s. Coppola’s Dracula is a gothic rebus, a dreamlike procession of signs and symbols worthy of Fuseli and Klimt and the ghosts and ghouls conjured up by Japanese woodcut artists of the Edo period. The result is a circle of outward-facing rats, held fast by the knot of tails in the center of the ring. While rats are highly social creatures who live in colonies, they have no leader, although according to Langton a dominant male “will usually emerge as the rat that mates most often and gets the most food.” But his dominance is lightly worn, more nominal than the brute authority exercised by the Alpha male in, say, a wolf pack. The scourge of humankind since civilization first put down roots, rats are harbingers of pestilence and death. The Rat King is a semiotic black hole, infinitely dense with apparent meaning but, at bottom, an enigma. But readers, especially the science-minded, should rest assured that every assertion of concrete fact in this essay that isn’t directly supported by a link is derived from a book on the subject, an article, or a scholarly paper (although readers will, of course, have to take that on faith!).
Concrete Jungle: A Pop Media Investigation of Death and Survival in Urban Ecosystems, edited by Mark Dion and Alexis Rockman, has a chapter on rats, the most useful part of which is Michael Crewdson’s interview with the man who popularized the term “super rat,” Randy “Butch” Dupree, the then-Pest Control Director of New York City’s Department of Health. Apparently it’s a record year for the number of rodent complaint calls that citizens have made to the city of New York. With all the electronics packed into today’s automobiles, it’s virtually impossible for the layman to diagnose his own car problems anymore.
Rent, power, gas, cable, digital…every month, you’ve got to do the rounds, either authorizing online payments or sending old-school checks in the mail like your grandparents did. Dangerfield was married three times, which included two marriages to the same woman, Joyce Indig. His full name, amazingly, was Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech, 1st Marques de Dali de Pubol.
The columnist, Walter Winchell, dubbed Youngman ‘The King of the One-Liners.’ When you look through our selection of Henny Youngman one-liners, you’ll understand why. His philosophy emphasized personal and governmental morality, correctness of social relationships, justice and sincerity. He was one of the most famous cartoonists in the world, thanks to the extraordinary success of his ‘Peanuts’ comic strip, which featured the characters of Snoopy and Charlie Brown.
Williams was an American actor, comedian, film producer, and screenwriter whose career was launched on TV in 1978 when he played the part of a space alien in the series Mork & Mindy.
G.” Wells was born in 1866 in Bromley, Kent, and died three weeks short of his 80th birthday in London in 1946. Depending on the culture and context, a kiss can express sentiments of love, passion, romance, attraction, affection, respect, greeting, friendship, peace, and good luck, among many others. It was a pen name created in 1943 by a Chicago Sun-Times advice columnist named Ruth Crowley, and taken over by Eppie Lederer in 1955.
She was best known as a stand-up comedienne, but she was also an actress, and voice artist. He was one of the Founding Fathers of the United States and is sometimes referred to as “the First American” due to his campaigning for colonial unity. She was an American actress, comedian, writer, producer, and television host, best known for her stand-up comedy, for co-hosting the E! Gala, who had initially been married to the poet Paul Eluard, was a fixture of a circle of surrealist poets, painters and filmmakers which included Louis Aragon, Luis Bunuel and Rene Magritte--all who been guests in Dali's house in Cadaques the fateful summer of l929 when he and Gala first fell in love. Despite the fact that Glis glis is now a protected species in Italy, food inspectors discovered, in 2007, dormouse casseroles for sale from multiple restaurateurs at a festival in the Calabrian region of Southern Italy. Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonder, Lawrence Weschler meditates on mouse on toast, eaten “fur and all,” as a remedy for bedwetting (who would, after that?) and mouse pie as a cure for childhood stammering.
I hate them!” says Becky, to which Tom replies, reasonably enough, “Well, I do, too—live ones. Knee-deep in garbage, with overworked horses left to die at curbside, streets in the slum districts were a rat’s idea of an all-you-can-eat buffet. These were all sewer and water-ditch rats, and the smell that rose from them was like that from a hot drain.” Set loose, the dog tore into the squealing rodents, seizing them, snapping their necks with a quick shake, and tossing them aside. In New York, where a sizeable number of the city’s two-legged denizens embrace the city’s grime as proof positive of its street-tough authenticity, I fit right in. I make an exception for Leporidae, whose association with Trickster figures like Bugs Bunny and Harvey, the invisible six-foot rabbit in the Jimmy Stewart film of the same name, charms me.
Their neuroanatomy and internal organs resemble ours; like us, they’re social animals, and live in communities. Some species, Zalasiewicz speculates, may evolve to be the size of the world’s largest rodent, the capybara, which can tip the scales at 176 pounds.
If a movie gives us even one unforgettable image, a vision that does an end run around language and strikes a responsive chord in the unconscious that never stops echoing, isn’t that enough?
Enshrined in European folk belief, the existence of the Rat King is substantiated, in some eyes, by relics such as the mummified specimen on display at the Mauritianum Museum in Altenburg, Germany, a skin-crawling clump of 32 rats still tethered to one another in death, like some chain gang from pest-control hell.
The Black Death of the 14th century, spread by contagion-bearing fleas riding on rats, cemented that association; Dracula movies, from Nosferatu (1922) to the 1931 Bela Lugosi classic (in which Dracula’s thrall Renfield has a vision of “Rats! It’s open to all the Freudian or Jungian or Lacanian or Derridean readings you’re clever enough to balance on its knot, right where the Rat King himself is supposed to squat, carried by his underlings like an emperor in his sedan chair. And the section on rats in Gordon Grice’s Deadly Kingdom: The Book of Dangerous Animals is, like everything from Grice’s pen, delicious.

It’s open-source, SEO friendly, and streamlines the process of building and maintaining nearly any type of website. We don’t guarantee that these Warren Buffet quotes will make you a millionaire – but it can’t hurt to read them. He was known for his black comedy as well as his thoughts on politics, the English language, psychology, religion, and various taboo subjects. Following their second divorce, he remained single for over 20 years before marrying his second wife. However, most people hearing the name Confucious – connected to sayings – think only of the one-liners that have somehow evolved, turning this wise philosopher into a figure of fun.
H.G Wells commented on many subjects, as this selection of his eclectic quotes clearly demonstrates. In some modern Western cultures, kissing on the cheek is regarded as an expression of affection.
The “Ask Ann Landers” advice column was a regular syndicated feature in many newspapers across North America for 56 years. If somebody asks me about the habits of giraffes I’m strongly inclined to look up their anatomy, physiology, and embryology. You have to own up to the fact that you’re not only eating this bird, but you have to own up to your own mortality. That leads—how could it not?—to Salvador Dali’s 1939 “readymade” Freud’s Perverse Polymorph (Bulgarian Child Eating a Rat), an innocuous photo of a smiling baby, accessorized by Dali with a half-gnawed cartoon rat dangling from the child’s mouth, oozing gore. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a string.” Oh, to be young again, with all the time in the world, and a dead rat, and a string to swing it on!
Slaughterhouses and bone-boilers’ shops, too, were a gift to vermin, as were the crammed tenements with which they often sat cheek-by-jowl. New Yorkers have a perverse relationship with rats: they shudder at the sight of the vermin gorging themselves at garbage-bag buffets, they gasp in appalled fascination at “track rabbits” gamboling on subway tracks, yet, at the same time, they evince a kind of hometown pride in the rat as Manhattan’s unofficial mascot, fair warning to tourists that they aren’t in Kansas anymore. Not so rodents, who’ve always impressed me as depraved in some way I can’t quite put my finger on. They display a disquieting cunning—ask any exterminator—and problem-solving abilities (famously, in mazes and in B.F. I think of the 1971 horror movie Willard, about a Norman Bates-ian dweeb who exercises a mesmeric power over a pack of homicidal rats. For whatever inscrutable reason, the image of Coppola’s Dracula mocking the God who promised eternal life but gave him living death, aping the crucifixion then dissolving into a cross of rats, is deeply satisfying to this aging atheist. To be drowned in a living flood, then devoured: that is the special horror the rat holds in store.
We can read it as a dream symbol of the futility of human existence, or of our tendency to cage ourselves in prisons of our own making, psychologically speaking, or of the black comedy of human relations, in which we sometimes find ourselves caught up in what our 12-step culture likes to call mutually destructive codependencies. Wells was a prolific English writer in many genres, including the novel, history, politics, and social commentary.
Dali offered little in the way of explanation for this image, whose leg-pulling outrageousness is pure punk rock, although he does claim, in The Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dali, that at the age of five he “all but” bit the head off a bat.
A sardonic T-shirt appropriates the logo for Cats, the sort of schlocky Broadway musical beloved by out-of-towners, retitling it Rats and replacing the pupils in the iconic cat’s eyes with rat silhouettes; another hacks the ubiquitous “I (Heart) New York” slogan, replacing the cartoon heart with a prancing rat.
Maybe it’s their long yellow incisors, their manic production of droppings, their nocturnal squeaking, their frantic rooting in their nests of cedar shavings, their obsessive sniffing, their neurotic twitching, their hardwired compulsion to gnaw.
Skinner’s “operant conditioning chambers”) that while no threat to Homo sapiens’s inflated sense of himself as the crown of creation are nonetheless impressive. Which makes me think, naturally, of Freud’s Rat Man, plagued by obsessional thoughts of rats gnawing their way up his fiancee’s anus, as well as his father’s—a gothic vision, if ever there was one. I like to revisit it, from time to time, in my memory palace, and am always happy to discover its power undiminished by age. She was definitely a kind of perverse muse and her house with its curiosities looks a little like what Luis Bunuel might have provided for clients if he had decided to be a residential developer rather than a filmmaker. To a certain species of New Yorker—aging Lou Reed fans, prototypically, who grouse about the Disneyfication of Times Square and groan at the irony of the Met’s “Punk: Chaos to Couture” show—the rat is the totem of the city’s underclass, too tough and too streetwise to be eradicated completely by the real-estate developers and other forces of upscale gentrification determined to price them off the island. There’s something of the furtive fetishist about them, the unsatisfied masturbator, the clammy palmed deviant; if rats were human, they’d be Peter Lorre in M, Dylan Baker in Happiness, John Malkovich in anything. True, they lack our capstone achievement, language, but they do communicate, in their own ratty way, through pheromonal messages coded in their urine, feces, and scent and decoded with a specially evolved olfactory tool called the vomeronasal organ. Of course that doesn’t hold a candle to the scene in Francis Ford Coppola’s criminally underrated Dracula, where the blood count shapeshifts into an enormous man-bat, sneering down the crucifix Van Helsing is shakily brandishing. Why not regard it, rapt, as a message written in an inhuman script, a cipher in fur from the scurrying world beneath the floorboards of our minds, a tangled tale of tangled tails whose meaningless meaningfulness we’ll never unriddle? The back of a chair reveals a 3-D vista, a lion's head sits above an armoire and the famous garden includes elephants with giraffe's legs.
It’s no accident that Dustin Hoffman’s two-bit Times Square con man in Midnight Cowboy goes by the nickname “Ratso” Rizzo. Urban myths about “gerbiling,” the entirely imaginary practice of inserting, for sexual pleasure, small rodents into your rectum—one’s rectum, I mean, not yours—only heighten the vague sense of unsavoriness that clings to small rodents, the baselessness of the libel notwithstanding.
Millions of them!” controlled by the vampire) to the Werner Herzog remake (1979) to the Coppola film, ensured its survival in the age of mass media. Like Meret Oppenheim’s fur-covered cup or Duchamp’s bicycle wheel grafted onto a kitchen stool, there’s a perfection to its Surrealist logic. No Dali house would be replete without a Cadillac and this one has a Cadillac Deville (Dali actually created a Cadillac that rains inside that sits on the ground floor of the Dali Theatre-Museum in Figueres). When I finally had to swallow, I regretted the end of a very sensual experience.” Would roast mouse be equally toothsome? Herzog’s film testifies to the post-traumatic echoes of the rat-borne plague that ravaged Europe from 1347 to 1350, killing as many as 75 million: in one scene, Nosferatu’s army of rats overruns a town square where, amid coffins stacked high, a handful of townspeople mock death by banqueting amid the horror, apparently oblivious to the rats underfoot, on the table, everywhere. On first encounter, we’re boggled by its logical impossibility—a wreath made of rats!—but on second thought it seems ineffably right, somehow: nature imitating art, and doing it with whimsical perversity. The universe Dali inhabited was a perverse one and if you want Capturing the Friedmans surrealist style, the Gala house gives you a feeling for the existence in which the great artist was basically an absent figure in his own home, an eminence gris, who pulled the strings, while his wife cavorted with other men (as Dali pursued his own intimacies with the likes of Frederico Garcia Lorca and undoubtedly others). What is notably touching is the basement crypts designed with a hole through which the two corpses would be able to hold hands.

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