Friday, September 25, 2009

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.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

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.)

Saturday, September 12, 2009

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?
All things considered!

And go!