I am not dead.

That is all.

I am, however, getting older. Proof is the white hair in my mustache. It means I'm on my way to distinguished gentlemanhood.

On that note, if you have a bearded friend, it is your duty to inform them if they have foodstuffs in their beard. They'd rather have that short moment of embarassment in front of you than unknowing walk around in public with a potato chip in their beard for two hours.

^5!

As much as I enjoy the concept of harmlessly messing with people for the fun of shaking up their day just a tad (although sometimes it's probably really only me enjoying it), I really appreciate this guy's approach of fun for the greater good.



Right on, man. Right on.

Baby's First Glamour Shots

There was a time, I think, when expectant mothers would rush out to Ye Olde Sonogrammist and be rewarded for their time with a grainy printout that showed vaguely humanoid shapes, but more closely resembled that of a striking Norwegian fjord under the moonlight, rendered in charcoal on a toothy, velvety paper. And they were perfectly happy with that.

Which one's the fjord? Which one's the baby? Beats the hell out of me!

As you might have noticed via Facebook newsfeed update, however, we are now in the World of Tomorrow! Into the world of the third AND fourth dimensions! Our future bundles of joy can now be ultrasonically rendered not just in space, but IN TIME (ok, I've taken a liberty here... the 4th dimension here is not about spacetime)! This means no more flat, boring still images of your most beloved parasite. Instead, now we can all enjoy your baby in all of its live-moving, orange, blobby, H.R. Giger-y magnificence. Observe:

Truly... faces that only a mother could love. I realize that sonograms are typically done for information-gathering purposes and not for the sake of vanity, but jeeeeeesus, these babes are creepy. Put a little hat on them or something.

While you might look at your ultrasound baby and see a future doctor, lawyer, or sports hero, I look at your ultrasound baby and see the future leader of the Martian resistance.

And It Was In The Early Moments of Autumn...

...that the sun shined boldly, the air smelled oddly of L'il Smokies, and an unusual rain puzzled absolutely everyone who stepped outside unprepared. Even though they felt the drops on their cheeks and watched the rain soak into the concrete before them, they still double-checked their senses with upturned palms as they made their way from one building to the next with their shoulders stuck midway through a shrug.

Welcome, Fall!

(this post was originally going to be about earwigs and how much I hate them, but I didn't want to give them more attention than they deserve... unlike most people though, you can't just ignore them and hope they'll just go away. they don't work like that. earwigs are emotionally impervious to public opinion and will therefore never go away... like Charo. Charo's kinda like a like an earwig in that respect.)

No Longer Drawing A Blank

Every once in a while, there comes a moment that I just can't wait to sit myself down to write about. Nine out of the last ten times, I haven't (because I'm a shmuck). But what was just happened on the street just now was almost revelatory and one such moment...

After wandering the aisles of a local art supply store for the better side of an hour, I left with only a fresh supply of the most pitch black ink and an oversized pad of crisp, white drawing paper tucked under my arm. (Why a place that carries art supplies doesn't carry bags big enough to handle oversized media is beyond me, but I didn't care because I'm always happy after an art supply buy.)

I made a short stop at one of the campus bodega-equivalents for a drink and as soon as I hit the sidewalk, a sudden question was fired over my right shoulder and seized my attention. I turned around and recognized the inquirer, holding up the corner near the entrance, as one of Ann Arbor's displaced. 

-Hey, man. You an artist? I'd never been asked so pointedly before.

-Yeah... a lil bit. I replied without missing a beat, half-smiling. 

-Can I see? he asked, raising his eyebrows with a referential nod toward my drawing pad.

-Aw, sorry.  Just bought this. Next time though!

-Ohhh, well alright. Take care. 

And I was off on my way. In no more than a few seconds, and in so few words, I experienced a Winnfieldian moment of clarity - that yeah, goddamnit - I am an artist. To paraphrase another Black screen figure, Winston Zeddemore, I have the tools; I have the talent... But what do you call an artist with (what I consider to be) a really weak body of work? I don't know... maybe I'm just too hung up on my perceived importance of being prolific, but a greater output is goal nonetheless. It's publish or perish in academia and so it seems to go with us creative types. I don't really plan on going anywhere but into the hearts and minds of more people.

So I turn to you, dear reader -- I invite you to prime my pump. I think it's the Observable that separates Artist from Dreamer and I think I've been asleep long enough.   

What would you like to read about?

What would you like to see?

Let me take your picture!

All things considered!

And go! 

Calling All Catherine the Great Enthusiasts!!!

I don't normally just post clippings that I find, but today's Daily was too prime to pass up.

Lizdid, this was for you.

Land of the Freaks and the Home of the Depraved, Pt I (?)

Some people wonder what it is about the US that sets it apart from the rest of the world. Generally, I think that television is a good place to start and a prime example is "Weaponizers"



God bless it. A couple of the hosts are named Cowboy and Rusty. Cowboy and Rusty, for chrissakes ...apple pie, I tell ya.

RECHARG'D

Between working late nights (read: going in to the studio at 11pm and editing until 5:30a) and then getting up for regularly-scheduled work (read: 8am), the last week or so been a hellaciously bad week or so for what physicians might call a "good night's rest" so last night I took the initiative to catch up on sleep, as impossible as They (They="Science") say that is.

In short, I went to bed at 530pm and got up at 730am and it was amazing. Despite the horrifically graphic, Rambo-inspired (don't ask me why) dreams there might've have been, I woke up refreshed and totally reset. I do slightly regret not getting up a bit earlier in the dregs of the morning to grab breakfast at my favorite 24-hour joint.

Thank you, my ursine brothers, for the brilliant idea.

Hello, Vinnie. It's your Uncle Bingo...

...Time to pay the check!

What I still demand to know is who is this Lady GaGa, where'd she come from, why does anyone care, and why did she look to Nicholson's Joker for make-up advice?

R.I.P. Gramma Kinyon

Well, Grams... you had a great run. Pushing nine decades and I don't think you slowed down a bit, legally-blinding cataracts and other ailments be damned. Sure, your birthday and Christmas gifts were always targeted for an age group that was probably 15 years younger than my mine, but if you never stopped seeing me as the wide-eyed, sweet, naive and impressionable young lad that I was (alright, at least less naive), that's perfectly OK by me.

Alright, hope Heaven's nice up there. I'm sure you're already dancing and having a good time up there, watching Grampa carve ducks and debone/scale fish.

Love,
Jimmy

I WANNA DIP MY BALLS IN IT!!!

Yesterday, I received a very personal mass email message from David Wain informing me that a dream of mine was finally coming true... a full series release of The State, which has only been in the making for years now, is going to be released. Oh, yes, we'd been teased before with the notion, but there's an actual date and not just some seasonal forecast:

July 14th, 2009

On said date -- Do not call. Do not text. Do not write. I will be thoroughly unavailable this Bastille Day, liberating a copy of this dvd set from the nearest Borders and relaxing with it and $240 worth of pudding. There might've been a little squeal as "Boys and Girls – Action" kicked during the accompanying video.

That's Impermanence For Ya

At one time, data loss was a big fear of mine... really up there. At least Top 10.

From computer to computer, I'd port data from one system to the next such that I actually had "important" (for whatever reason, sentimental no doubt) files from a decade ago, likes papers for my freshman lit class in high school or AIM chats from middle school on my most recent system (10 years later!). My computer went from a game & work machine to a dedicated time capsule. A living archive. No joke, I called my C:/ "The 'Chives".

Then one day, I wiped my hard drive. Not an accident. Full intent. And you know what? It felt good.

Sure, there were some fairly critical losses - all of the RAW image files from my pictures and the folder with my arsenal of animated .gifs, but I've stumbled upon this opportunity to start fresh. Tabula rasa.

If I can translate this into the life I can touch, taste, smell, hear, and and see, I think I'll be in great shape.

The Sound of One Man Napping

Whoa... Blogspot, baby. I'm sorry I've neglected you.

It won't happen again.

I swear.


Please, please, please... take me back.


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