Monday, March 31, 2008

prussia tv

recently someone said to emre and i, upon hearing that we don’t have cable or television, “you guys are the purist people i know! vegetarian? no car? no tv?” and by purist, she meant weirdest. i’m used to this.
yeah, and what’s worse, instead of watching tv, we watch the one-eyed calico. most of the time prussia is really boring, yet still we enjoy staring at her as she stares out the window, ears moving like antennae tracking bird calls and delivery trucks. but here we encounter her at her most show-stopping (and that in itself is a very relative statement)--high on catnip.

prussia-tv guide's episode highlights:
--this episode catches the actress in a rare moment of play
a year after i adopted prussia from north shore animal league, they sent me a survey asking a number of questions one assumes adds up to a healthy pet. when i came to “does your pet play?” i felt like a failed mother. in a year, she had never shown signs of friskiness. in fact, she was lucky to even be alive, after the getting-stuck-behind-the-sink-wall-suicide-attempt of ’99 which ended in taking a meat cleaver to the sheetrock and extracting said trouble making feline. you get the point—a playful moment like this? it’s kinda rare.

--the actress exhibits symptoms of a suspected case of A.D.D.
when prussia does get a wild hair (or a huge dose of catnip), she must be constantly reminded that she is indeed playing, in order to entertain us for any length of time. except it’s entertaining in itself to watch her get distracted from playing because she absolutely must bathe right this instant! How could she have missed that filthy patch of cat fur?!

--the actress furthers her reputation for being strange by preferring the lid of the catnip tub over any cute furry manufactured-to-be-a-toy entity.
this has been a lifelong preference.

--the actress demonstrates new ‘crotchety old cat’ voice
at the ripe age of 11 1/2 (what is that, 90 in cat years?) she sounds just like the wind up black cat sirens from ‘the nightmare before christmas’. prussia now sounds like she’s wounded and whining even when she’s purring and she has taken to yelling at us for food. this is old age for sure.

--the cat-actress demonstrates her human crossover tendencies, adopting modesty and shame.
it’s like she knows catnip is a drug and wants to hide the fact from her parents that she’s high, so she interrupts her play when she notices us looking at her. prussia also knows when she is being talked about, more specifically when she is being teased. she will flee the room in embarrassment.

--and lastly, the tail.
i've always known it’s a humorous 'weather vane' for her emotions, twitching like a rattlesnake when she's nervous. it seems to operate on its own. lately the tail has been drawing much notice from visitors. this reminds me of a certain cat named spike, whose possessed tail had a separate name: biardkirk (sp? sorry to bring it up tristan,--i know it freaked you out!)

ay, cats! but c’mon, what’d you expect when you came to a blog written by a girl named kitty? i considered editing down the video but ran out of time. got 2 minutes?

okay, so when i went on youtube to upload this video, i realized how pathetic we are to be entertained by so little because most cats on youtube? they're much more cute, weird and funny than prussia. oh well, we take what we can get, huh?

Saturday, March 29, 2008

when technology brings brain atrophy

it started in junior high with calculators, forgetting the timestables we so painstakingly memorized.
and now here i'm in my thirties and i can't remember my boyfriend's cell phone number. oops, because i never learned it! i just programmed it into my cell phone.
so the other day i get a text message which demonstrates these deeply important kinds of problems.
" Just got your thank you card. Appreciate it. How have you been?"
who just got my thank you card? it's someone whose number is not programmed into my phone, the substitute for my brain, so i'm clueless. 860? what area code is that? i call on my other brain substitute--the internet. connecticut. not helping me out here. and that doesn't necessarily mean this person now lives in ct, what with the portability of cell phones. is this a wrong number? i did just send off a slew of thank you notes. but didn't everyone?
so now i'm stuck between the uncomfortable dilema of calling the person, thus admitting that
1) maybe they're not important enough to be programmed into my phone (brain)
2) i could forget in a week, my heartfelt thanks
3) not reciprocating their message and answering the question "How have you been?".

arg. and yes, again, this is where my brain wanders while really trying to do homework. and no, i will not take my nose out of a philosophy book until may, at least not longer than enough to complain about it here.

Friday, March 28, 2008

i kant understand

it's simultaneously comforting and ludicrous to learn that the text you're wading laboriously through was--until the past couple of decades--regarded by other philosophers to be the product of the onset of the author's senility.

willy b work boots

Thursday, March 27, 2008

worldwide domination, baby.

in explanation of my new header: my visitor map from the past two weeks. how cool. (those 3 readers must travel a lot!)

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

you say filler--i say, um....filler.

how is it that weeks can just sneak up on you? you breathe a sigh of relief that the storm is over and do something totally crazy like go out to new jersey and eat and watch a lot of tv and then BOOM, you come back and life is mayhem! this week wasn't supposed to be crazy, but it is. i'm feeling very obstinate about the unexpectedness of this.
anyhoo, don't want that to stop me from posting, lest i lose my 3 readers who have re-engaged with spackleshot of late.
and now, to further celebrate my reality friend, eddie's birthday in the cyber world, here he is modeling his birthday present from emre and i. most dapper.
i got all sentimental in eddie's birthday card as my sister recently sent me a pack of letters, included in which was a 10 pager from eddie circa our first year in college (as opposed to the 7th year in college i'm working on). ah, the dramatic declarative statements of high school-era friendship, "if i don't see you when i come home for christmas i'll DIE!"

Saturday, March 22, 2008

when really hard work pays off

yesterday my friend asked me if my midterm--the one i whined about here and here--had been graded. i shrugged and said, i don't really care what grade i got. i'm not expecting more than a c, and that's okay because the bottom line is, i couldn't have done better. i gave it my all, studied so hard, focused, cleared my schedule, and actually learned so much in the process. go figure--learning from school?

this morning, however, i found out how much i really do care when i was shocked to discover a 100% score, ALL four of my essays used as the "anonymous student example essays" and the below mind blowing praise from my phd in philosophy, toughest instructor yet.

Total = 40/40 Kitty Joe, I must say, I’m thoroughly impressed with your responses to these questions. I guess you could have inferred that from the grade. But putting an “A” on this exam falls far short of an adequate appraisal. Each one of your essays is carefully crafted, thoughtful, concise, articulate, well-informed by all of the course material, and insightful. What a delight to read!

i cried for 20 minutes.

might as well use a scrabble image of mine for this nerdy post.
perhaps 20 minutes of crying seems a little far-fetched, but let me just explain that this class is my first "online" course. i thought it would be a breeze and free up my schedule. in fact, it has been the opposite--a huge work load and a real challenge to my established way of learning. there is no face to face interaction. class participation is soley based on a blog we all communicate through, and trust me, it ain't like this blog--all lower case and informal! what i find is brilliant people from all over the country logging in several times a week posting not comments and tidbits like you'd expect in live class discussions, but seemingly researched, fully formed 'essays'. i log on, read these opuses (opusi?) and feel completely stupid and intimidated. yet class participation is a graded aspect of the class. i have grappled all semester with the feeling that i'm not smart enough to participate. hence the tears upon receiving such a glowing evaluation.

Friday, March 21, 2008

week of gluttony, day four

doggie bags procured and cheese brick occupying stomach, it was on to dessert. more priceless expressions. i'm ignoring emre's apparent crisis of the gluttony of his girlfriend, instead communicating with the chocolate matterhorn on my plate, saying, "i can take you on."

and more doggie bags.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

week of gluttony, day three: the cheese

i will divert the path from ice cream to share with you the attack of the cheese sandwich. this falls into the category of "are you kidding me?" moments at a restaurant. the densely packed muenster cheese in that 'sandwich' was inches deep! in fact a word more accurate than 'sandwich' would be 'four-pounds-of-cheese-wrapped-in-a-token-paltry-slice-of-rye'. and by the way, the tomato was an 'additional' request. i love the hand gesture of bewilderment i'm making, and emre's judging look and shrink away from me posture. it reminds me that when i met emre, he couldn't enunciate the difference between 'muenster' and 'monster'. appropriate in this case. i managed to eat half of the cheese brick sandwich. took the other half home and had muenster sandwiches for a week!
for a flashback to my dad's gluttonous 'sandwich' (another not-quite-accurate description), click here.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

week of gluttony, day two

this is not merely the gallon tub of ice cream it appears to be, rather the 'to-go' banana split emre ordered at fenton's, my second favorite place in oakland, following kim and tristan's house. we were all stunned by the scale of this 'banana split'. i can't say much else about it, other than, wow. go emre.

Monday, March 17, 2008

week of gluttony, day one

in honor of st. patrick's day, easter and eddie's upcoming birthday, i declare this 'week of gluttony', or an excuse to post pictures of ice cream.
today's highlight: stewart's. it's perhaps frightening that i can get this excited about ice cream named after the gas stations where it's sold. but trust me, you would too. with flavors that reference moose droppings and an overabundance of mint, i'm all about stewart's, an upstate new york staple.
emre is particularly into the bar of complimentary toppings that brings me memories of running through a life size cheese maze (wait, what is life-sized cheese?), playing skee ball and hyperventilating at the sundae bar of chuck e. cheese's. apparently strawberry sauce and nuts just weren't enough so emre had to pull out a can of redi-whip we just happened to have in the car (what, you don't cruise with cans of cream?!). chelsea looks on in honor. but she's not one to talk, since we both benefited from the "great ice cream sale" as advertised on the gas pump handles, picking up full pints for like, a dollar. and what do you do with a pint of ice cream in the car? eat the whole damn thing. love the looming whip cream reflection in the top of our zipcar.

Friday, March 14, 2008

theis: must procrastinate.

sometimes it takes having to write four papers in one weekend to get other pressing things done. suddenly re-designing my blog header is an absolute pressing necessity! conversation with self.

me: think kitty, think. modernism. greenberg. kant. the sublime.
me: what?
me: come on, kitty. what is your thesis?
me: isn't there some really good salad in the fridge--with cashews?
me: you already ate! no more procrastination!
me: maybe some dark chocolate later, with those snickerdoodle snackimals?
me: okay, concentrate. no food. you're not even hungry. what about the critical and historical orthodoxy of Moderism?
me: yeah. my blog header is really stale. nobody liked it anyway. i really need to change it. NOW.
me: absolutely not! you have three papers to go! what about schapiro and the liberting quality of the avant-garde?!
me: stop it! this is no time for graphic....ooh let's use the purple from the clothespin for the font!
me: ooh, yeah, NOW you're talkin'.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

worse. than. chinese. water. torture.

if you really want to inflict a slow and painful death on me--if you want to watch my brain short circuit, burst into flames, sending fire out my nostrils till i burn up in the inferno of EXTREME ANNOYANCE--nay, that phrase is not strong enough to convey just how ready this anti-death penalty girl would be to send you to the guillotine. really, it's simple:

find me in the library, completely focused on studying for THE HARDEST MIDTERM EVER. note that i'm already trembling a little in the accpetance that no matter how hard i study, this class is going to break my straight a's, possibly not just with a b but with a (gasp!) c!

once you've pinpointed that exact moment of angst, sit down at the computer next to me and start. to. snap. your. gum.

first i will glance in your direction, just in case you innocently didn't notice you were in a library, sitting next to someone ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.

keep. snapping. your. gum.

soon i will glare at you.

then i will lose control of all bodily functions as the flames have consumed me. do you feel the arrows of fire shooting out of my eyes and into your snapping jaw?

and then, salvation! the roof of the library is lifted off as heavenly rays of golden light shine down, reminding of the antidote. thank god (and the ahlstrom family!) for the ipod.

unfortunately this is only a temporary solution as i surely cannot concentrate on PHILOSOPHY while listening to the danielson family yelping. i am forced to leave. you win.

so now i must study on my couch, staring at my feet, because apparently i'm too high strung right now to study in public WITHOUT WANTING TO KILL SOMEONE.

wanna keep a back-up in your arsenal just in case you didn't finish me off with that one?

sit in my subway car, IN PUBLIC (no, there are no subway cars in your apartment, which should be a dead giveaway that this is inappropriate behavior) and CLIP. YOUR. NAILS.

you laugh now. you have no idea how frightfully often this happens. don't even get me started on that man on the 7 train who was clipping his TOENAILS. whoever attached keychains to fingernail clippers will burn in the fires of hell.

okay, i'm done damning strangers. go on with your day.

oh, wait. incidentally, when i related this story to emre, he said, "what if i ate like this?" (mouth open, smacking noisily).
i answered immediately. "i wouldn't have fallen in love with you. i wouldn't have had the chance because i couldn't get through one meal with you." sorry. i'm that shallow.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

just like brangelina, i've sold my tattoo baby pictures to spackleshot for $7 million. and i'm totally donating it to charity.

okay folks. here's the glimpse that you've been so impatiently and silently demanding. you're overwhelming lack of comments has told me one thing and one thing only--you don't like being teased with a drawing--you want to see the real thing. i know you've all just been desparate for the unveiling so that you can ooh and ah, admire, or--if you're my family--be totally horrified. (okay, so i started writing this entry a week or so ago, when all was silent on the tattoo front) by the way, i am totally aware that i will be looking at this tattoo for the rest of my life. i couldn't be more excited. and now, to fill you in a bit on my inspiration.
behold: my great grandpa sug.
that's sug like sugar. because he was a baker. i think he owned a bakery.
my understanding of my great grandfather's life is most likely inaccurate. what do kids care about details? his role or rather his character was of most importance to me, and that was hero. they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in this case, i excitedly looked forward to my great grandpa's summertime visits.

i interviewed him for school reports. he was so old! i loved listening to his slow, gravelly, oklahoma drawl as he told me about coming out 'west' in a covered wagon, fooling around at cashe creek, how he knew the great geronimo. of course, i shouldn't really be excluding my amazing 6 foot tall cherokee great grandmother lottie. she was fantastic in her own right, however, most of those sweet summer memories are wrapped around my great grandpa, as he captivated me like no other.

we'd sit out on the front porch in the late afternoons sipping 'country time lemonade' out of tin cans and i'd stare in wonder at his navy tattoos--anchors and half-finished pin-up girls (ran outta money!), the ink slowly spreading like deltas from the aging designs. i busied myself eating pomegranates seed by seed. he'd chuckle as, despite my meticulous care, the red juice trickled down my arms and stained my skin. but mostly we'd just sit there quietly, listening to the birds, the everyday sounds of family muffled to the distant background.

he was probably smoking too. i only remember that habit of his, though, in his fierce and humorous fight to kick it past the age of 80. my mom would buy cases worth of hubba bubba gum in hopes he'd chew it instead of smoking. he'd put the whole pack of soft cubes in his mouth at the same time and literally gum it. did he even have teeth anymore? later my mom would send me outside with a trash bag to harvest the wads he left stashed behind. it was like my jehovah's witness substitute for an easter egg hunt, getting excited over spying big green, purple, red and blue wads of gum trailing from under the fence, through the garden we planted and up the trunks of the apple trees.

ah, the apple trees. grandpa sug always seemed to be around for the harvest. understand that my hometown of sebastopol's economy was built on apples, specifically the gravenstein apple. that juice you bought at the manhattan whole foods? more often than not, from sebastopol. we sebastopudlians (really, that's what you call us--i challenge you to say it out loud!) worshipped the apple as a deity. i was educated at gravenstein union school. in the spring we celebrated rebirth with the apple blossom parade and festival. as a child i marched every year, either playing the flute, tap dancing in sequins, enacting school plays, or wearing a poodle skirt and skates alongside my dad's 56 chevy. sometimes you'd march once, then run to the start line, change costumes, march again, then run out into the audience to scramble for the candy the banks threw into the streets, hoping none of it skimmed the "road muffins" the horses left behind.

in august when the gravensteins ripened, my mom got busy at the apple packing plant. sometimes she'd bring boxes of apples home and i'd marvel at their beauty, each one rolling down the conveyor belt, making the quality cut, then cradled gingerly in the soft contours of molded cardboard, row after row of crisp gems.
at ragle ranch park we celebrated the harvest at the apple fair with hay rides through the oak trees, bales of hay for sitting, local music and lots of food. apple cake, apple fritters, apple doughnuts, apple cider, and of course, apple pie. this was a downhome, country celebration, while the more serious showcase where the ribbons were awarded was the sonoma county harvest fair. again i marveled at the pavilions of gleaming apples, waxed and shined, arranged by variety (see my sister's harvest fair fun here): red delicious, golden delicious, jonathan, gala, fuji. they were all great, but gravenstein was the top of the heap. gravenstein was our special apple, and that's what we had on our trees at home. grandpa sug and i would go out picking buckets and buckets of them, me always carefully avoiding the ones with worm holes. grandpa would shrug off my squeamishness and tell me those little guys just added protein. the apples we left on the ground would sit and ferment in the summer sun, attracting many a drunken bee, 'til mom and dad sent me out for follow up harvests--but this time frog and toad, our horses, chomped down on them, rotten spots, bees, worms and all!

once we picked the buckets of fruit, we got down to business in the kitchen, making more pies than we knew what to do with--pies like you've never tasted, pies that spoiled me to the point of never being able to order apple pie again. nothing can measure up to homemade. in reality, i wasn't much help at all. i probably got in the way more than i assisted, but my grandpa explained that he urgently needed someone to clean up after him as he peeled the apples. could i oblige?
nothing like sense of purpose to capture the attention of a little one. not to mention a magic trick. my grandpa was blessed with a number of special skills that blew my little mind, of most importance, the patience to share them with me. there was the summer he spent teaching me how to shuffle playing cards like a dealer, spades and diamonds flying willy nilly up to the ceiling until finally i heard that satisfying whir of wind cutting through an arc of cards in my hands, and i got so excited that i showed off to everyone who came within a mile radius of the house. sorry, alhambra man, you think you got water to deliver? slow down--it's time to see a trick.

unfortunately, i never mastered my favorite skill of my grandpa sug's, and that was the five-second apple peel. this he accomplished despite his parkinson's shake and with the most rudimentary of tools--a greasy, blackened paring knife and a slow and subtle flick of the wrist that contradicted the speed with which he carved. just as my eyes and the apple started to spin, it was over. my grandpa would hand me the perfectly spiraled peel--a delicious, apple-shaped slinky. i'd bounce it a few times, admiring its artful negative space, then i'd eat it. by then grandpa'd finished another, which he'd hand to me, i'd bounce it and eat it, he'd hand me get the picture, until my dad told me, apple blossoms would surely sprout from my ears. along with the watermelon vines i expected from swallowing too many seeds. and forget about the pomegranates. i was afraid. but it didn't stop me from munching on 'just one more' striped, spiral peel, leaving the gravensteins shivering naked in rows on the table.

fast forward 25 years (wow) and not only have i left sebastopol "the little apple" for the big apple--new york city--but the apple has also largely been edged out of sebastopol by the sexier and more lucrative wine grape. sure, i'm proud to say that i'm from wine country. there have always been vineyards in sonoma county, situated just west as we are from napa with perfect growing conditions not just for apples, but for grapes. sure i'll brag when the wine comes to the table from my hometown, and i'll take you wine tasting when you come visit. but my hometown heart belongs to the gravenstein apple and i cringe when i drive the backroads to find yet another mature, producing orchard leveled, replaced by newly planted vineyards. commercial apple production has slowed to a trickle, yet the apple is still upheld as a nostalgic symbol of sebastopol. i don't envision the apple blossom parade turning into the grape parade anytime soon (though the rows of polished apples at the harvest fair have most definitely given way to gleaming bottles of pinot noir and chardonnay).

so what does any of this have to do with my tattoo, you ask? well, everything. for quite some time now i've had the itch for a new tattoo, specifically, i wanted my great grandpa sug's anchor--the first tattoo that meant anything to me. i became obsessed with finding a closeup photo of it. unsuccessful. then i toyed with the idea of aging the tattoo as a way of personalizing it, so it looked old--not just any anchor. i never saw my grandpa's tattoo when he was young and it was fresh.
still trying to formulate the perfect design, i headed over to the local tattoo shop in my neighborhood. this wasn't just any tattoo shop, however. i was going there to meet with the owner to get images for the presentation he'd make in the class i teacher's assist the following day. he's also an established artist with a renegade reputation and an impressive fine art career. difficult to score an appointment considering his busy schedule and the fact that he only does tattoos that he approves of stylistically. as i pondered possible routes for personalization, i had the cliched absolute lightning bolt eureka! moment. THE SPIRAL APPLE PEEL WOULD WRAP AROUND THE ANCHOR!! it didn't matter that i couldn't find a photo of grandpa's anchor. it's all based on memory anyway. brilliant.

i explained my idea to the artist. "that sounds like something i'd be really into" he said. i offered my assistant services in order to offset the cost of the tattoo, sliced my finger open pretty good on one of his submarines, healed that up before going under the needle, got hired for real, met the founder of an art space where he shows in chelsea, planned a charity benefit masquerade ball for them, now manage the tattoo shop and that's the quick story of the last two months of my life also known as 2008.

it's surprising that i had to remind the artist of my aversion to medical situations, considering the whole finger incident. nevertheless he had somehow forgotten my extreme wussiness, and when i walked into the shop there was the standard for arm tattoos--a chair--waiting for me. that lasted about 5 minutes before i started seeing black in my head and requested the table. embarrassing as this is, its not as bad as all of the times my head has hit the ground at the doctor's office. did i mention when i went to the hospital with my sister for an ultra sound and i had to go into the bathroom and lie down on the blissfully cold tile floor? what a supportive sister. so yeah, love the table. you can't pass out when you're horizontal. it's a beautiful thing. from there on out, i was happy as a clam. well, as happy as a clam that's getting jabbed with a vibrating needle for four hours (VOLUNTARILY?!). i didn't look at the needle once. just listened to my yeah yeah yeahs, pj harvey, tv on the radio and bauhaus, sang in my head (yes, i promise, in my head) and smiled. i was even well enough to walk about when we'd take breaks and take this photo in process, prior to the incredibly painful detail work:
and here, a detail shot for ya. the artist explained that he was ridiculously anal about doubling all the lines, giving me the best tattoo possible. and i'm so thrilled with the outcome. love it, love it love it. i said, "i'm gonna get you so much business with this tattoo." he said, "yeah, that's what they all say".

so now it's been two weeks and i'm still starry eyed in love with my tattoo.

i should add though, that i wasn't always so confident. in fact i was terrified. it's a really scary thing to commit to altering your arm in such a way. even though i love the work of this artist, i was really nervous in the days leading up to my appointment, which by the way, i postponed until the day after my internship commitment as a way to celebrate, but also as the first free moment i had. on sunday, the day before the dreaded/excitedly anticipated appointment, i got the following very soothing text:

"i can say with great resolve i have just completed what might be the best drawing of an anchor going through an apple the world has ever seen."

i totally agree.

Monday, March 10, 2008

let no man separate what we create

have i posted this photo before? it seems like i've tried unsuccessfully many times but it was stored in a much maligned folder called 'williamsburg' which would crash Adobe Bridge every time i opened it. now that i have cs3 (thank you, pirate emre!) you may just be baraged with a flood of images from hipsterville! this, one, taken from the pedestrian walkway of the willy b bridge.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

the art of the thank you note

why not?! proposition

okay sisters. that's right. i'm talking to you, amy and abbie. you're the only people old enough and cool enough that the sight of this image to the left here makes you sigh--a mixture of you just saw a cute kitten, and maybe christian weyers just drove by with his family in the wood panelled weyer-mobile (okay, you have to appreciate that memory circa 1986!).

yesterday morning when i checked my email i got one of those annoying solicitous emails from the devil--i mean ticketmaster--announcing the latest get-back-together-for-a-money-making-tour. yaz!? are you kidding me?! i have to go, and i propose something totally outrageous: you both throw caution to the wind and forget that you haven't been here in years so you'd want to stay longer, or you would have just been here---throw it all out the window and book a cheap ticket ($318 on virgin atlantic) and get your asses out here. my proposal: you fly in tuesday, july 15th. concert on wednesday, july 16th (i'll buy!) and you fly out on thursday, july 17th. somebody will babysit and you'll be back before they even know it! think about all the money we save on not hanging out the rest of the year! c'mon. let's be spontaneous. last one in's a rotten egg!

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

heart-shaped bruise--no, this is not my tattoo!

at the risk of being totally scandalous by (gasp!) showing you my lovely thighs (wide angle to boot!) and my eternally sexy rainbow boyshort underwear, i couldn't resist sharing this crazy bruise with you. i know, i'm sweet. the crazy thing about this bruise is, i don't even know how it happened. but that's not so unusual for me. i am often the recipient of mysterious nasty bruises, thanks to my lifelong, unending addiction to walking into furniture. ask my sisters. but don't let them be too smug about it because they share this habit with me.
nevertheless, i'm way overdue on posting it. the file says i took this photo last june! didn't get around to sharing it i suppose because that's around the time that everything went totally freakin' haywire. it must have been a sign. you will be beaten, bitten and your heart will not be spared. okay, on that note, i'm going to go listen to the new bauhaus album now.

dear boss: will you be my pictionary partner?

running errands. fill the tank with gas, get the flat tire patched, pick up some groceries--and buy a mailbox lock. pretty standard, right? but this is where working for an artist makes errands more fun: when all of the usually brusque and rude hardware store employees gather around oohing at a twenty-second explanatory drawing instead of cocking their heads and saying, "you want WHAT?!"--as though 'lock for mailbox' is a phrase from the martian language...sometimes pictures work better than words.