"'Cuz on Tuesdays they all like to catch them unawares."

"I'll steal that banana from you."

Three screens and a dozen cryptic discussions ranging from fruit to flowers. Set to playoff commercials and punctuated by the odd yowl of disappointment.

Makes for some strange nighttime drawing and the powerful compulsion to sneak around with a pen.

memorialized

Weekend recommendations:

chipped pork under tents
stale Twizzlers for breakfast
listening to the game-clamor from the porch
painting in the shade
new summer shirts
drunken pilates

Going native.

The risks of obscure reference-making:

A: "You've been drinking a lot of water lately."
J: "I've been in the sun a lot lately."
A: "My little sihaya."
J: "Oh hells no. Did you just call me 'water fat'???"
A: "No, no! I called you 'desert flower'."
J: "...well, my Fremen isn't what it once was."

What a time to be alive.

If they stick with the original Whelan artistic blueprints this should be passable. I'm not holding my breath or anything. (Should I downplay my cool by mentioning that I'm spinning in my chair at the prospect? Or that McCaffrey looks a hell of a lot like my great aunt and I once entertained notions of us being related? Or that fourteen year old me was guilty of...(gasp)...fan art?).

Considering the systematic way the film industry seems to be munching through the sci-fi/fantasy classics (library cards out, list of Hugo winners in hand), they should get to L'Engle in no time. That's where the real fun begins.

Four

Four jobs I've had:
1. Can I say artist four times?
2. Something offloading trucks
3. Something with tacos
4. Something with a headset

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. The Last Unicorn
2. Any X-Men
3. Sense and Sensibility
4. Superman (the original, fingers crossed for the upcoming)

Four places I have lived:
1. El Paso, Texas
2. Olympia, Washington
3. Stuttgardt, Germany
4. Fayetteville, North Carolina

Four tv shows I love to watch:
1. Scrubs
2. BSG
3. Gilmore Girls
4. repeats of Invader Zim

Four places I've been on vacation:
1. the Cascades ("oooh, Lake Chelan!")
2. White Sands
3. Oktoberfest in Munich
4. Vancouver, BC (Expo '86)

Four websites I visit daily:
1. blogs
2. Rackham sites
3. Drawn!
4. MSN

Four of my favorite foods:
1. mac n cheese
2. mashed potatoes
3. Grape Nuts
4. my ma's spaghetti and meatballs

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. in my mom's kitchen
2. on a run
3. sitting at the dining room table (get a move on, you)
4. at Mighty

The Order of the Iron Mold

I had grand plans for the day. Drink some tea. Go for a run. Play war with my brother in law's diecast figurines*.

The black trunk with silver CrystalCaste scrolling was too much for my itchy fingers last night, and while the boys were out I hazarded a peek. Between giggles and layers of exacto- cut foam my plan took form. There would be two armies. The painted figures (Paintees) would have the easychair high ground and the obvious advantage. The unpainted (Pewtees) would be camped on the carpet savannas--worn from walking, but silent and grim.

At the sound of silver trumpets there would be a wild surge downward. First a shriek and slide as tiny hooves caught the nap, then the clattering of miniature swords by the landing near the Japanese balls, now a fierce sortie by a company of dwarves, perhaps some surprise reinforcements from behind our collection of Oz. And the Paintees would fall with the day while victory was crowed by fleets of eagles, and bats, and impossibly small flying squirrels in breastplates....

All to be caught on film. Perhaps narrated.

But brother and box are gone, and our camera never was up to the task. Which is for the best--since what would have started as mockery would undoubtedly have turned into plain fun.

* or 'Figs' as we were solemnly informed

Two sides.

Won't quite tide me over until September, but funny funny.

Horde.

The invasion is near. Long limbed, long locked, reeking of Mountain Dew and intent on assaulting my senses with Babylon 5 minutiae.
And I've only a papasan and a couple of bent spoons to satisfy it.

Scraps.

Some sprightly Sprats. And the requisite butter churn.

Put on a smiley face.

Before we out for the week, there's this. Follow with the rest of the album and a Sleepy Brown "Margherita" chaser. Nothing like jump-starting vacation with a little post-funk. All thoughts of Elliott Smith have fled in the face of jelly flip-flops and Vanity Fair.

"I have given you a present already, more than I could afford."

I can't say that I'm pleased with the first attempt. Neither could someone else, which made for a sullen evening. I can offer some excuses. Like my fingers were twitching the entire time--some sort of dark sympathy for the character. Or that art doesn't lend itself well to murder--but that's just ridiculous. Or that I didn't give the subject its due--which hits nearer the mark.

In fact, that last has me regretting a week spent sketching outside in the irresistable weather. My legs are burned, my feet are dirty, and my ideas are all bleached out. Nothing looks good in the full light of day anyway. Or, for that matter, illuminated onscreen. So, I'm going to search out denser methods, more robust colors--maybe dabble in layers of ink. And slip away for a while until I think I can stand the glare.

Squawk.

Yesterday our landlady announced that she'd joined the neighborhood knitting club. She looked so cute with her weekend hair and her big bellied boyfriend, and we'd all been chatting so nicely from our sunny corners that I chose to not share my opinions with the rest of the porch. My suspicion is that these clubs are fronts. That beneath the hum of cold industry lies a beating heart whose goal is the collection, distribution and creation of gossip. It pumps evil purpose into those soft little hands and those shining needles.

Nor did I mention my inherent distrust of The Clutch. That any gathering of three of more women becomes a disturbing example of hive mentality and that outsiders must either sue for entry or cross their fingers and pray they aren't found. Now, we live spare, innocuous lives, but detection is fairly certain, if long in coming. It's a matter of elimination. After evenings of deconstructing the neighborhood personalities--the stoned gardener accross the street, the bikini bacchanites next door--they will have to move to lighter fare. Eventually, there will come a day of No News. And on that day, they will turn their bloody beaks around and find something dreadfully intriguing about that quiet couple with their books and their laptops and their glasses of iced tea.

On your side.

I was scrounging for some musical fare to read to and found this. It's older, so I'm not going to brag, but it's quiet and strumming and the band has a whiff of Yo La Tengo to them. The rest of the album is pretty great too and totally suited to an evening of reverent page-turning.

Sound of sounds.

Fitting and disturbing that my first words of the day were, at three pm in a voice raspy from disuse, the "satan is real" printed below today's Penny Arcade. They just swelled out of me from some forgotten nicotene cranny.

Nothing much. Just braying about my foot and the crappy new Gomez cd. Booh.

Also, yippee skippee to sarah for finding this.

Pilgrims?

March winds and April showers bring May flowers.

They're all anthropomorphized, see?

Little March winds. Carrying pipes that they never bother to play properly. Blackhaired and surly and roving like wild things. Terrorizing the pets.

Blue-shawled April with her copper watering can. Listless and moody--pale but for the running eyeliner. Muddying the rugs and wringing her skirts onto the floor before she goes upstairs to sulk.

Biddable May. Fair and rosy. Always shocked by the mess. Probably armed with a paintbrush and a mop. Accountable to Summer for the state of things.

Chained to an old-auntie couch.

This is what happens to kids who play outside.


A combination of a lack of grace, the poorly paved Buffalo streets, and an insistence on passing older runners. I can't pretend I didn't deserve it. Though I did give the neighborhood a much needed lesson in profanity. I will also admit I looked like a mighty fool.

Mmm...Mighty....