whiteboards get harder to erase, over time.

Senior week at Vassar, culminating in a fabulous graduation ceremony I didn't see. Here's the quick rundown, for those who weren't there and for me, later in life when I look back (from my yacht) and read over my youthful foolishness:

The week was scattered; there was no set place or group of people that was Home. One night was in Kingston, one was in the main suite, a few in the THs, a few in the TAs. One splendid afternoon was palooza'd away at Chuck E Cheese's, where a kid can be a kid and a wandering twenty-something can steal pizza, break the whack-a-mole machine, and climb inside the soccer game questing after wayward sandals. They sell beer there. We didn't buy any. I must have been ill in the mind.

I went to the bonfire, in a semi-impromptu disguise of a wig and empty-frame glasses. While there, I also discovered that cardboard serves as remarkable heat protection. Strap a tiny piece to your forearm and hold it up in front of your face like a 300 extra, and you can get within a few steps of a raging Vassar bonfire. I had no idea. It really works; powerful voodoo. Powerful voodoo a smart man would not have attempted while trying to keep a low profile. Oh well. Fuck em.

Life really does improve if you leave your laptop at home for a few days and just go find something to do. The computer is a vicious virtual novelty pit, and I'm seriously considering a shock collar for myself, to be activated every time I sit down in front of it. The part of senior week when I didn't have the computer turned out a lot more memorable than the first part. Forcing the issue of "and now we find something else to do" is incredibly important, as I'm sure we all know.

And now it's over, and people have moved on. Some will be seen again, others will not. All will spread through the world and find places to go and things to do. And I shall try to keep in touch. There are now more couches to be crashed on throughout the country. And now there's a horrible noise coming from below the apartment in Kingston, as though someone is sawing through the support pillars holding up my house. It really is worrisome.

It is late. I wish to orlop down to sea level and delicately consume a platter of jello jigglers by dangling them above my mouth and dropping them, shape by delicious shape, into my waiting maw of obesity.

expensive whiskey doesn't taste any different.

There once was a baker from Boston
who found kids in his shop quite exhausting
so he baked up with glee
a pink cake that said "FREE!"
and had cyanide baked in the frosting.

Stacey and I made a dollar store board game about frogs. They need to enlist the aid of Community Helpers like firemen, nurses, and telephone repairmen (from a Community Helper hearts deck) to overcome challenges like Ravening Hobos, Travis Craw, and Grandpa's War Stories and win gold coins. These challenges are hidden deep within five thematic zones on the board: the City, the Sea, Space, the Volcano, and Inside a Third Grader. It's a spectacular drinking game of absolute nonsense. I just wish I had a constant posse of people to help play, make, and test games. Board games, RPGs, Flash games... I want to try the Alternate Reality Game thing, fishing around in the web and across cities to find clues and race other players to uncover something that doesn't actually exist. Except that it does.

Forgive my nonsense; I haven't had a vegetable today.

more whining

On break for 2 weeks after an incredibly intense NCP program. Getting a show together involving 190 children, including two special ed classes, takes the life out of you. But on the other hand, getting it done and emerging the other side left me with a vibrant energy and a feeling of competence and purpose. But I let myself slide back to a few days of doing nothing and lounging around on the computer, and now it's gone. It's hard to even force myself to spend 30 seconds drawing something and write a paragraph or two for the bloggums. Being entertaining is out of the question for now.

There are some shoes in the world that look like they could serve as excellent vehicles . In the sprawling fourth grade games of action figure capture-the-flag shoes were always tanks, capable of mighty airborne leaps and crushingly awesome landings. How they were propelled or why they were stylized with laces and logos was irrelevant. They were powerful machines of terror on the battlefield. Those were the goddamn days.

he doesn't even need a suit.

For the past two days I've come home from work and not been productive, so today I promised it wouldn't happen again. And so I give you the result of approximately 200 minutes of work, and exactly zero minutes of rational thought.

Enjoy.

The truth is, I just wanted an excuse to meow into my computer microphone.

pots and pants and blowsifh

In space, as it turns out, popsicles don't taste as good.

The boy was afraid to leave his house. Without clean socks, it couldn't be done. He wasn't about to put on the dirty, crusty ones, and walking barefoot was out of the question. And so he starved.

Kangaroo pouches are not warm and fuzzy. They are external incarnations of the womb. They are sticky and amniotic. You'll never look at Kanga the same.

If confronted with all the cardboard we have consumed in our lives, we could produce extremely functional shelters, sprawling and leaning in a corrugated shanty town. If confronted with all the plastic we have consumed, we could waterproof it.

If confronted with all the dogs we have ever seen, we would be buried in dogs.

What did chickens look like before we domesticated them? Were they bigger? Are they a species new to the world and created by humanity, like Dachshunds and Furby™s?

When she made him the scarf, she had been afraid he wouldn't like it. Or that he would say his proper thank yous and give her a hug, then leave it in an unceremonious heap in the back of the closet. She wasn't sure if men wore scarves, or at least, if he did. She still knitted it though, and every hour she worked she held him in her mind. The scarf she gave him was warm and wooly, and full of life.

A single toaster strudel, left unattended, is capable of burning down your entire block.

the novelty of this is wearing off.

Again with the computer. As real life picks up, my need for blogging drops down. I do like the image-a-day (that I haven't been doing), forcing oneself to be productive. I miss webcomic format though, having something almost continuous, drawing and text bubbling and building on itself episode after episode. I just have limited need of Bloggery anymore. I want to move on and create instead of just recording. The blog was about a transitional period. Everyone knows what I'm doing with my life. Everyone knows how I generally feel about things, and how I generally work. I want to move away from the blogging and toward the creative output. Vaguely Amazing 2.0?

but seriously, enough soup ads.

Commercialism has gotten to me. I finally understand the purpose of ads, and their real ability to permeate the human subconscious and implant their cargo of insidious capitalism. It's dependent on the TV being constantly on.

Al watches a lot of TV, sort of. The TV is always on in the background, clamoring flickerously for a place in the spotlight of conscious attention. I mostly ignore it, but this media-vomit of sci fi channel and Miley Cyrus pseudo-boobies still assaults me with the same lineup of happy, jingly advertisements, dancing around the hotel air, probably twenty or more times per day. And so, I get the indie-sounding new Subway™ song stuck in my head while I'm walking around the park... and I keep buying five-dollar footlongs when dinner time rolls around. The model works. Blast the same crappy ad enough times, and people will open up to it.

I wish I could take a college class again. Ironically, now that I've been out of school for a while, I think a lot more clearly, and I remember and learn things a lot better. I have a drive for knowledge that I never had when I was at Vassar. I especially wish I'd paid more attention in my developmental and abnormal psych classes, since now I work with kids with autism and learning disabilities in my day-to-day work. But then again, maybe I should just learn by Doing and interacting instead of through academia... I tried to listen to an audiobook lecture on consciousness while I drove up here and ended up falling asleep at the wheel. Don't learn and drive, kids. Don't learn and drive.

To switch over from learning and productivity to its complete opposite... I've landed in a pickup Shadowrun game tomorrow at the local gaming store. I stopped in tonight on my exploratory run around town, lured in by a Munchkin window display, and found a group of friendly, stereotypical dorks making character sheets. So tomorrow I'm in for some classic cyberpunk/fantasy Shadowrunning. I'm-a get me some 9 mm pistols, a Rat totem, and a SmartLink system that runs on epinephrine.

...just like in 7th grade.

Shang Tsung can turn into anyone.

I was watching Limit videos today, and reading the comments on them. I wonder who the commenters (commentators?) are and how they found the videos. One of them apparently is someone's younger sibling, and one of them was a visitor to the college researching their academic future. I guess the Limit must turn up when you search YouTube for Vassar. Good to know we're presenting a solid front of hobos and jelly sandwiches to the next generation of pilgrims on their way to the Ivory Tower. Also, thanks to "The Game", my nipples are on YouTube, free for the world to view.

...hooray for friends.

This week I'm in Livonia, NY, a rather linear little town with a fantastic lake. I spend my afternoons wandering around said lake, juggling in the grass and sleeping under the trees. I do this because my hotel room is occupied by a Puerto Rican clown who starts drinking at 2 pm and is, at this moment, watching Ultimate Fighting Championship (he was a kung fu tournament fighter in his youth). I've made friends with the old man who works at Arby's, and the pretty girl who works at the receptionist desk in the hotel. I have a cooler full of strawberries, spinach, and beer. Every day at 10:30 am I eat a hearty brunch courtesy of the school cafeteria. Today was mashed potatos, turkey, and grape juice in a plastic bowl. All of these factoids serve no larger purpose, but they are a snapshot of life, and that is, after all, one of the purposes of my little bloggerydingo. Which is unlike a regular dingo in that it is not a quadruped, but like a dingo in that it eats unattended Australian children.

I do wish I had a refrigerator or a means of cooking so that I could live a little more cheaply. Also, all the fire sword fights on YouTube still suck.

an iPod is a friend sometimes

Nothing especially brilliant to write about; just putting up an image. Didn't get to do one yesterday because I was in Hastings sans graphics tablet, and because my internal defensive militia had conscripted all available body energy to fight off some kind of bizarre sleep sickness that knocked me out for the entire evening. Lament lament lament.

I feel a research paper coming on. I'm intrigued by the beautiful masqueradey world of Dave McKean and cirque du soleil, the world of gangly imp-like dancers and twisting dreamscape sorcerers, and I want to see how old it is, where it comes from, etc. Comedia del arte? Greek drama? As I try to come up with a performer persona for myself, I keep finding myself drawn back to that style of costume and demeanor, the masked trickster shaman archetype. Not that it's especially practical for working with kids, but it's definitely something worth keeping in mind if I want to do my own (our own) stuff. The people here don't do it at all. Most everyone in the NCP is from the Barnum & Bailey All-American-Clown school of thought, or in the case of my partner this week, the loud, boisterous comedy club juggler school. It's a very cool culture, and it's awesome to learn from it and make pieces of it my own, but it's not the place in the entertainment universe I want to stay.

Or maybe I'm getting things confused. I'm reading all this non-empirical spirituality and psychological mentalism stuff, and my head and philosophy are going to weird places. Not that I'm going all new agey: Science Is Our Friend. Maybe I'm just trying to mix and match everything I'm interested in. But maybe there's nothing wrong with that. Not enough hours in the day. Not enough friends around to DO things with.

like a street urchin but pointy

I am not buying a Nintendo Wii... yet.

Spent the day reading and writing clown/performer routines. It feels uncannily like writing a research paper and a Limit sketch at the same time. I also logged onto facebook last night and did a small bit of profile updating, for the first time in probably two years. I don't know that I care about facebook, but I suppose one's internet presence should get a shave and a haircut every now and then. I can't decide whether to change the Power Rangers picture or not. I do love it. I really do.

Having money in my bank account is leading to an increase in tiny expenses that would have been a big deal before, and that SHOULD be a big deal now. I can afford to eat out, I can afford to grab a candy bar or a soda when I stop to get gas, I can afford to keep a bottle of fucking Vitamin Water in the room on the off chance I feel peckish for a slurp of citrus. Of course all of this is an illusion, and I can't actually afford it, but I just don't notice tiny expenses anymore, which is very dangerous as I nickle and dime away my daily cash dollars. Suddenly I can see how people with real jobs shop at malls, a phenomenon that has always baffled. I should probably just accept that a healthy lifestyle involves spending money; stop worrying and love the dollar.



Why are my google ads still about soup? There wasn't even anything in the soup-titled post about soup. Simply by writing THIS I have created more soupLinks than anything that has come before.

Sunday night bedtime

I decided to try the whole "low opacity photoshop" thing that has worked so well for Ricky, so I drawred this for the daily shitty image (I know, the "daily" part of that hasn't been on, but I'll try to get back on it).

I have my own room in the clown house this week, for the first time. That's exciting. I can close the door and have my own space. I brought down the glow staff to play with, and apparently the equipment manager here is amazing at staff-spinning and told me he'd show me some things in exchange for my help editing the manuscript of his book. Sounds fair.

The Vassar weekend reminded me of everything that is good in life: late nights, lots of running, shameless flirtation with beautiful exotic people, and that breathtaking sense of standing in front of a crowd with enormous speakers, fading twilight, and glow toys. That scene and sense that something special is about to Happen, and you are a part of it. The festival.

Absolutely stellar.

You Suck Pronto

I have cans of soup but no bowls.

Fishcoat was a mustachio'd gentleman of the upper class who was never seen out and about without nine flavors of monocle, all of which were bitter and horrid. He liked to lick at least one around 4 pm, as an afternoon tide-me-over sort of snack between luncheon and supper. He never wore the same suit of clothes twice, and had never once been late for an appointment. Such was the world of Fishcoat. I am going to tell you how he died.

It happened the day the lollipop girl appeared on the doorstep. Fishcoat, who was enjoying his daily operatic in the bathtub, was most perturbed at the interrupting chime of the doorbell, which cut short his warbling rendition of the Barber of Seville. Fishcoat stood, his sudsy fat rolls bouncing soapily out of the tub and into a towel. He made his way down the stairs and opened the door.

A tiny waif confronted him, wielding a bushel of crystallized sugar-pops on a bushel of wrapped paper sticks. "BUY A LOLLIPOP!" she enthused. Fishcoat gasped. He did not know how one deals with children, especially when one is clad in a towel. He slammed the door in abject terror, and ran back to his suite. He opened the window, and peered down below. The tot was still present, still waiting patiently at the door. He withdrew his bulbous head, and assured himself that the lollipopper would inevitably disappear.

Five minutes passed. Fishcoat had clothed himself in a new suit, regained his composure, and poured himself a flagon of tequila. Such was life. But as he steeled himself for the impending floodtide of alcohol, he was snatched up in the hooks of a sudden and irresistable urge to go have a gander once again out the window. He looked. The lollipop girl was gone. No sweet candy vendor stood on his doorstep. Fishcoat smiled, closed the window, and blissfully quaffed his pint of pick-me-up, which immediately knocked him into unconsciousness.

In the terrifyingly pristine corridors of his upper-class mind, Fishcoat drifted. Behind his senses he heard a rumbling with a backbone of mariachi cornet. His mind flopped tequilishly around to confront this intruder. Juaxtango, he cactus loa of the wastes, loomed into his vision, his ectoplasmic tango shutting down all possibility of resistance. Fishcoat's will jellied. Juaxtango bellowed a psionic roar of maraca that carried one simple demand: BUY A FUCKING LOLLIPOP!

Fishcoat awoke with a wide-eyed howl, his pristine mustachios curled perplexingly upward. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his overstuffed wallet, and bowled down the stairs, flutting money unceremoniously in his path. The door, painted and bevelled in the most urbane style, was shattered by the barreling corpulent missile of Fishcoat's bulk. Unimpeded, the fat man ran on.

He ran as only a man recently confronted by a sombrero'd mexican tequila spirit can run, careening forth in search of the tiny fundraising lollipop vendor. Three blocks down the road, after trampling a bulldog and traumatizing its aged master forever, he found the wee tyke. Foaming and wild-eyed, he demanded a candy.

"one dollar and fifty cents!" she exclaimed, holding up one of the tasties to Fishcoat's flaring, fur-lined nose. The heaving rotundus snatched the offered sweet, and dug through its wallet for a bill of such small denomination. Having found none, he threw a hundred at the girl and bowed graciously before sticking the lollipop in his mouth and descending in a torrent of bottom-first fat rolls onto the curb.

The sweetness was overwhelming. Fishcoat closed his eyes and Juaxtango appeared behind them, cackling and backed up by a quartet of sombrero'd mexican towel boys sporting mustachios every bit as impressive as Fishcoat's. They handed the drunk and sugared fat man a mouth harp, and faded blissfully into the tequila-lollipop sunset of Mariachi Voodoo Hell.

a manly scrubdown

I have taken a shower, and am now clean. This alone is a rare enough event to be newsworthy, but tonight it is not the top story. On the shower rack, nestled in with the Head and Shoulders (which I forever associate with the movie Evolution) I found a marvel of modern marketing that I'm still struggling to fully get: Axe "Snake Peel" Shower Gel. I went to the Axe website to try to get a picture of this manfully bottled scrubble, but then gave up on the mission when confronted with a loading bar that informed me that my "mojo" was loading. But here's their product description:

Feeling more than a little dirty? Axe Snake Peel Shower Scrub with desert minerals + cactus oil deep cleans and exfoliates to remove dirt and dry skin. Use daily to scrub the slate clean.

Normally in ads you hear the word "exfoliate" as a flurry of rose petals wisp across a silky white backdrop, to mask the word's actual meaning: scraping the fucking skin off your body. To be perfectly honest I've always thought the concept was pretty badass, but I think having an "exfoliating" product in your bathroom without an accompanying double-X chromosome setup is a good way to get your ass kicked. By Tiny, the 300-pound bulldog-man whose only joy in life comes from looking through people's bathroom cabinet for sissy bath products and beating the living Loofah out of them.

But I digress. Cactus oil? Snake Peel? Getting men to worry and stress about keeping our skin delicate and fresh by conjuring up the dusty rugged desert? It's twisted, it's absurd, and for some reason it's stuck in my head enough to write two hundred ninety-two words on the topic and invent a hulking fictional bathroom snoop.

Anyway. My man-parts have been exfoliated by cactus oil. I thought you'd all like to know.

Everything, with extra sausage

My technology is breaking again. The computer's battery is dead, the fans are overworking themselves, and the CD burner seems to have cooked itself. I still have AppleCare for almost a year, so I might need to go harass, threaten, and politely request my way into a new computer at the Apple Store, since this isn't the first time it's made an attempt on its own life. Last time they gave me a new motherboard and swore the problems would never return. They were right, for about two weeks.

It's funny how whatever you're doing with your life, whatever you've done with the past few days, becomes what you're used to doing, and what feels normal. We are compulsive little animals of habit! Waking up with a day of nothing to do, at the parents' house, feels foreign now. Of course, I'm sure if I spent today and tomorrow lounging around playing WoW, by Sunday night that would feel natural, and I would resent having to go back to ClownTown in time for Monday morning.

And now... things that have been on my mind:

•We can work together in the future on some grand manifestive dig into the strobe-painted catacombs of subculture. There's no rush; we've got plenty of time.

•Toward this end, motherfuckers need to update blogs, send emails, comment, and generally stay in touch better.

•Mentalism, hypnosis, and unconscious are amazing. The more I read about them, the more I want them and love them. This is what I wish my Psych major had been.

•I need suggestions for how to attend Founder's Day. The alternative is unthinkable.

•I would hang out at skate parks more if this happened more often:



Google ads today:
Online Bible Study
Life of Christ
Bible
God

Good to see my internet reverend status is still strong.

go read Transmetropolitan.

the circus is keeping me busy, and there's not much to tell. I don't have my scanner or my graphics tablet, so the daily drawings have stopped too. This is a tragic state of affairs, and as soon as I can remedy it (by buying a new graphics pen) it shall be remedied. In the meantime, it's high time for an update.

I am learning. This week I'm paired with this guy who doesn't talk at all in his act. Which means I had to MC an entire 45-minute show, and do all the talking acts (including club and ball juggling). My patter is about as fresh as the cancerous muskrat that fell into the well three weeks ago. But it's mostly good enough for the younglings, and I'm learning what I need to improve.

I want to do a fire sword fight. Ricky, I'm talking to you. We need to get flamingswordfights.gay off the ground and into the airy dew-speckled dreamSky.

I tried to buy food today. That is to say, I succeeded in buying food, brought it home to Clown Haüs, and discovered that there is no room in the refrigerator. There is a towering, haphazardly stacked cityscape of leftovers that brings to mind a cyberpunk neo-York slum, complete with unexplained colorful oozes and territorial scrawl unintelligably Sharpied on the walls. There are three containers of cucumber dip. When I try to comprehend this or its possible explanations, my neocortex simply shuts down.

Neeeeoooocorrrteeeexx.

There are no visual words in this.

Sheldon DeLoach had never played basketball before. Nevertheless, he stepped onto the court prepared to do his best, and confident that he could succeed at anything he put his mind to and eager to defend his honor in the heartless arena of before-school one-on-one.

Martel Guapo had also never played basketball before. But he had a name that meant "the Handsome Hammer," which is really difficult to top. The bets were taken, the court arranged.

The ball went up. It should have come down and been snatched by the grubby, unskilled fingers of one of the two boys, launching a riveting game of fumbling, rolling basketball in the 7 am mists. The other kids should have cheered as the hopeless lads bungled shot after painfully easy shot. All this and more would have unfolded that day, if only Martel Guapo had closed the garden gate.

Alas, Martel Guapo had not closed the garden gate, and so had been followed all the way down to the school by the enormous lizard who had taken up residence beside his mother's parsley. Thus, as the ball came down it was snatched not by Sheldon and not by Martel, but rather by a joyful airborne predatory reptile. The beast sailed across the court, hit the ground, and savaged the rubbery sphere in ways that would almost certainly have traumatized the surrounding middle-schoolers had the ball possessed innards, guts, or other such gore-covered tasties. The carnivore lizard, who had been expecting no less, was quite put out.

Children screamed. The lizard panicked. These events, as they continued, formed what a Thinking Person might call a positive feedback loop. Sheldon DeLoach did so in his head -he was an intelligent lad- as he watched children and lizard whip one another into an elaborate frenzy of shrieking and flailing adolescent/reptilian abandon. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone that the panicking lizard dropped the ball and ran.

What did come as a surprise, particularly to a certain Marian Brubbles, who held the second clarinet seat in the middle school band, was that the lizard dropped the ball and ran toward her. It hit her at the knee-caps, and sent her face-first into the asphalt before vanishing into the woods. She chipped a tooth, and after the full story came out later that day, vowed never to speak to Martel Guapo again. Had there been no lizard incident that day, things might have turned out differently between them. In fact I can say with the greatest assurance that they would have lived happily ever after, somewhere in the Netherlands. But they will never know.

And that is why basketball has been banned from the county of Hamshap since 1987.

snakes driven from ireland

Ricky had the stupendous idea of watching Boondock Saints and drinking Guinness. It went well. I would rather have been covered in green body paint and surrounded by celebratory naked people with lots of piercings, but we can't have everything, now can we?

I can't seem to get .swf files to embed properly, so this madness too will have to be linked. The nonsense that can be accomplished within 10 minutes of sitting down at the computer never ceases to amaze.

hambone. bone from a ham.

First week of the circus job:

I have to get a lot better at a lot of things, a lot fast. But I basically knew that. It's like I'll be putting on a Barefoot Monkey show every week, with only one other person. That means there's no reliance on lines of choreographed moves to fall back on, just patter, music, and dazzling arrays of circus savvy. I've got to expand(refine) my music library, get at least a few acts solidly choreographed, memorized and performable, and of course learn to teach and control a gym full of 80 or more screaming children.

And it's that last part that's the hardest. All the circus skills are things that need to be personally taught, and yet my job is to teach five different grade levels five different skill levels, tailored to their cognitive and motor development, culminating in a show put on by the fifth-graders at the end of the week. I have to make a show, with discrete acts and spotlighting every kid in the fifth grade, in five days. Really challenging, but really rewarding when you pull it off.

The biggest difference between this and anything else I've ever done: you can't miss a day. Calling in sick, or really bungling a week, or even an act, can make a huge difference for these kids. I'll be putting these things together every week, but they only get to do it once, and most of them are incredibly excited to get the chance do spin a diabolo (or whatever) in front of their parents.

Thankfully the company doesn't completely throw me in unprepared. They're professionals, and they're only pairing me with people who've been in the business for a while, so they can pick up the slack while I learn the ropes. Ha. Two rope metaphors in one sentence. Continuity reigns!

The bottom line is this: its a professional performance job, and a professional teaching job, and I'm not QUITE qualified for either. But I'm being given the chance to work my ass off and get there, to work with international-level performers and getter done. I'm incredibly lucky to have landed it.

media platform

Most of us have no idea what is inside our pillows. We never look; we will never see what's in there. We will never even consider it. We trust that there is some sort of foamy faux-birdStuff substance on which we rest our heads, but there could be anything, as long as its texture kept up the illusion and it never strayed far enough from our scripted Pillow Expectancy Parameters to warrant attention from our conscious parts. Every night you sleep on something whose innards you do not know the color of. Whose innards' color you do not know. Then again I suppose I don't know the color of most of my own innards, and I get along pretty much alright. Still. Astounding some of the things we never think about. There are so many completely irrelevant, show-stoppingly useless things that one could think about if one chose to, but which are so stupendously unworthy of any cognitive attention that even thinking about their stupendous unworthiness is a waste of perfectly good neural traffic. This is getting recursive. Time to move on.

I have done all of my crappy five-minute image-a-days in photoshoop, with the drawing tablet, and I realized I need to stop doing that all the time. Drawing there has a very specific look to it, and it's hard to draw well on a tablet or, god forbid, a mouse (see exhibit A, below). Pencil sketches are fun, and they feel more satisfying to do. I don't claim to be a good artist, but I do draw BETTER on paper than on a tablet.

exhibit A (mouse-drawn)


I miss having parties.

wenus

god I hate that fucking word. Who the hell calls the skin on your elbow your wenus? Seriously who the fuck thought that up? I'd like to stuff ham under his skin and leave him out for a pack of starved dachshunds with crow-bars and sand paper. Of course, I wouldn't starve them myself. Who starves a dachshund? They're adorable little vacant-eyed balls of uncomprehending love. If someone's starving them, I'll punch the sick bastard. Right in the wenus.

And why doesn't the dishwasher ever clean that last goddamn bowl in the back row? FURIOUS

I shaved Hillary Clinton's head and put it in a robot. Why? Because this is America, and we're allowed to do that kind of thing here. God bless it.


Not that I have anything against the lady. I'm pro-Obama, but that has more to do with xkcd's endorsement of him than any real awareness. God dammit, I'm a fucking politics-linking blogger. I'm gonna go introduce a fork to my cornea and/or wenus. Fuck.

dressup time

This doesn't really... CAN'T really have explanation. You can click the clothes to move them.

Here we are in the wee hours of the morning again, and I'm torn as usual. On the one (rational) hand, there's the desire for that really satisfying feeling of curling up under an unreasonably large pile of blankets and going away for several hours. On the other hand, I'm completely awake, and enjoying being productive. If only I can find some way to force this feeling of productivity during the day. Maybe it's isolation that does it, other people having gone to bed. Or maybe some sense that the day is done and I can do whatever I want now... I definitely have a psychological work-delaying mechanism that keeps me putting off useful things through the day with the logic of "if I have fun now, I'll still have time to do the work later" that inevitably leads to me NOT doing work and NOT enjoying the procrastinative fun because of the looming snowballing pile of responsibility I'm so vigorously ignoring.

And so I end up in the wee hours, making bizarre little flash beasties. Clickyclicky. (same link as above)

dreams

Last night's dreams were clear and narrative enough that I thought them sharing-worthy. However, they're also a rather long read, so in the interest of space I'll just link to them.

licking blenderblades: safe? sanitary?

I have a tablet again, and I'm not doing anything with it. With it or anything else. A bright and creative future may come in the nearlybies, but she is not here yet. Yes... yes, I still suck at things.

Water tension is neat; I will always be hypnotized by watching a liquid refuse to leave its container and snake over the brim and down the side of a cup when you hold it at just the right angle. Welcome back to third grade science. As the hours get later my mental age gets smaller, evidently.

Watching my google ads change is an enjoyable pastime, and a whole new reason to update this monstrosity. Honduras! Unmentionable buboes! Republican primary candidates for the liberation of jamFetus07! Walk the walk google wordSnatchers; for my talking is stuperfundous inevitable.