Shirley Temple Time

I have a bizarre sense of humour.
I blame my father, who never made the corny daddy puns, but instead has a snarky, sarcastic funny bone that would far rather nudge you with an ironic jab than clobber you over the head with a broad-angled...erm...clout. Heh.
For example, the reason I posted the Cyanide and Happiness strip the other day was not, in fact, because I have an inexplicable craving to have sex with twelve guys at once. Not even if they were members of my imaginary harem. In fact, if that's what you thought the purpose of the comic strip was, you should probably go find a wall with which to repeatedly introduce to your skull. Don't worry, at this point, it won't hurt the brain.
No, in fact, what made me snoogle at the quaint and porky humour was that the two line people were, in fact, completely gender-neutral. That's right. I thought it was funny that someone who had no genitalia would have a desire to engage in a 13-person mostly-male orgy.
See, when I explain it like this, it's no longer funny. It just gets me weird looks.
The other day, I was on the phone with a friend, and, as it's a trans-Atlantic call, the line was a little dodgy. So when he said something like 'How are you, doll,' it sounded a bit more like this. Without, of course, the funkeh beat and bottoms.

And so I laughed at him. For a good twenty seconds. And he patiently waited at the end of the line until my convulsions were through. Such a wonderful patient, small-handed fella, who holds his pencil with two hands out of mere choice.
Speakin'a'which, oh yeah...I've started up painting again. Got another layer on the Lavertezzo Bridge, and a few fixups on mah Gerard portrait...hair, shadows, &c. I've decided, in proper Deutsch fashion, not to carry on with the WIPs. For one, my camera lacks batteries and I can't be arsed to go out and buy any.
I'm still watercolouring. And I'm going to dig out that unspeakably smexy set of Derwent watercolour pencils I've been hoarding for such a time as this.
No, you may not eat them, for they are sexah and not good with ketchup.
Oh. Apparently Egyptian men are well hung, as per the nine most badass Bible verses ever. Google that.

Just like a Mini-Mall

In hell, you have to do the dance, as well.

Parting Thoughts at Midnight

Cyanide and Happiness, courtesy of CollegeHumour.com

Hallmark Moment

I was watching some videos on youtube last night. Specifically, I was watching Johnny Cash videos. Namely, 'Hurt.' I've been surprised, since I first heard, a few years ago, that he'd covered a Trent Reznor song, but you know, it makes sense.
I do NOT like the 'God's Gonna Cut You Down' music video. It's pretentious nonsense, a scathing obituary that does nothing more than kick one of the most amazing songwriters right in the teeth. I'll tell you something, though...Johnny Cash on Sesame Street singing to Oscar the Grouch is a ruddy classic.
Furthermore, I've done a lot of little flash fics lately, ripping them up as soon as they're finished. They're excellent practice, but will never see the light of day.
Journalism: It's what's for Dinner.
This is a brilliant photographer. She's an Indonesian girl with a head fulla great ideas.

Interlewd

Soren Kirkegaard said, 'Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.'
Pablo Picasso said, 'Art is a lie that helps us believe the truth.'
To tell you the truth, I am SICK AND TIRED of these catchy one-liners that philosophers, theologians, artists, and celebs toss off as casually as their last spouse.
I mean, honestly, anyone trying to sum things like 'truth' and 'life' up in under twenty words should be shot. Nevertheless, I'm always bizarrely fascinated by these happy little sayings.
Also, Monica Belucci is hot beyond words.
And so is Sean Bean.
And so is this tea that Sinead's spilt all over me.
The End.

Keeps Raining All of the Time

Mood: Jazzy!Blues
Eating: Ink on my fingers
Listening to: Ella Fitzgerald & Count Basie, Tea for Two
Reading: L'Homme Qui Rit
Contemplating: Hokusai's 'In the Bowl of the Great Wave'

How revoltingly cute are puppies?
We've just gotten a new one, to replace Cody. Her name is Jody, in commemoration. She's a toonsy little mongrel, so squishy and eatable I could just squeeze her! But I won't.
Erm...it's meant to be Thanksgiving today, but we've celebrated yesterday. I'm actually do to get into a car in about half an hour and drive off into the sunset. Crazy party, this is. Life, I mean.
I want my Descartes back. I can't find it. This upsets me a great deal. And my Bridgeman's. And I'm discovering the beauties of really fibrous raw paper. Even if it gets stuck in my nibs, if you can learn to work with the texture (as with any paper) it creates the smexiest ruddy effects.
Ye gods, my fingers are numb.

In Which We Have Fun With Capitals

I want to apologize. The scathing little imp whose business it has been since my childhood to inflict bouts of creativity on my foggy, fevered brain, is back. Courtesy goes entirely to certain jiggle-loving, beer-swilling teddy bears who Shall Not Be Named lest it goes to his Entirely Overinflated Ego.
Anyhow, this morning, post breakfast cuppa, I found myself writing a loose-lipped little jangly piece of four quatrains (how redundant is that?), and despite the fact that I Do Not Like It, I am writing again! As our favourite Swiss stoner would say, 'yuppee.'
Except he's not my favourite Swiss stoner.
I haven't one of those at all.
Anyhow, I get the feeling that people think I'm too arrogant for the modest level of talent I exert. This is Simply Not True. I am just the right level of arrogant. If you're Too Modest, it's not my fault. In fact, it's more of an expression of pride to be self effacing.
If I write something that is Downright Wretched, with very little Excuse for Being Alive, I acknowledge it. Go to WF, and look up my latest. It is simply Not Very Good. I wrote better material when I was thirteen.
Anyhow, I am going to be very busy over the upcoming holidays. So if I don't update, I don't want the three of you who Are My Readers to whinge. Which you don't, anyhow.
I love you, Mum and Dad.

Second Violin

Sometimes it's best to be second strings, or even a last resort.

Mishy Mash

Gut morgen, my naughties!
Eight thirty in the am and I'm seriously regretting not having tea yesterday. Well, I had some caffeine-free herbal tea, but I did neglect having my soothing cuppa. I introduced a midget and a Platunia to the joys of lemon tea with honey and milk. And this morning the midget shrieked because I put mayonnaise on her fried potatoes.
I blame the Jews.
Hah. Watch those words come up in a random search of the internet, and I get sued for anti-Semitism.
Speaking of which, it's hilarious how the Jews called 'Semite.' As if we were the only ones.
Josch.
Do you know what I miss? I miss my compleat Shakespeare, and my battered, duct-tape-mended copy of Les Misérables. I miss Les Mis the mostest. I have a copy on my computer, but the translation isn't nearly as competent, and the prose is, to say the least, purple and overblown. Difficult to read.
Notwithstanding, as I read over the death of Valjean (oops, did I spoil it for anyone?) I found myself now, as when I first read it almost a decade ago, completely choked up. Pathetic, huh? I lose two grandfathers in the course of a year and all I have is a sad smile for them. Some fictional convict croaks and I get as weepy as a fat kid confronted by a cake he cannot eat.
I've always had a massive hero crush on Valjean. Aided along, of course, by the fact that Liam Neeson plays him in the '98 version of the film. Sigh. Despite the fact that I wanted to punt Hans Matheson between the legs by the end (and Claire Danes as well, for that matter), I can say that Neeson played around the gaping shortcuts in the film pretty sodding well.
Oh. Speaking of big handsome thespians...the film 'Love Actually.'
No, no. Don't throw tomatoes. Please. I'm humiliated to admit it, myself, but I truly appreciate that film. It's light enough that it takes my mind off Christmas, and it has enough brilliant actors to make me forget that I despise chick flicks. I mean...Alan Rickman AND Emma Thompson...how can you not love that? AND there's that adorable bird who's Hugh Grant's secretary.
I think I'm going to have to watch 'Much Ado' tonight.
Wow, that post was really out of it. Please, don't think I'm all about films and Alan Rickman. I watch about a film every two weeks (if that), even if Alan does, admittedly, live on my cell phone wallpaper.

Seven O'Clock is Perverse

Seven o'nine to be precise, in the AM. Disgusting, isn't it?
I want to give you something creative, but I haven't got anything new. I was, however, going over some things that are older and I am determined to write again, soon.
In other news, I have been branching out artistically...I have a little silk bound pillow book that I usually ramble into, but I recently realised that, despite the fibrosity of the paper (it's hand-made), I could really go to town with some dip pens and light washes, if I was careful to use blotting-paper.
Guh. Yes, I know...I know.
I'm going to try to have another WIP of my painting up today or tomorrow. Because we all know that come Friday I'm going to be up to my knees in other things.
Namely, poo.
Well, being incapable of posting my own work, I'm going to post one of my favourite writers ...*drum roll*...Tiger!
This one is called 'Elliptical'

When the light sparkles every eyelid eats the sky.
The purple skirts of flesh
That blossom through the legs so tantalising ----

Each smile equals
A rose-beam
that reddens in the sun

with it's fiery flames screaming like an engine
The streets red with its demon eye.

And why do I
Stand listening to the siren sound
Awaiting the dent, a crush, a smash, a wail?

Every flower has a life, the red is evidence.

I know I shouldn't but I have to.

Mummy, what's a rutabaga?

Well hiya. Did you know that it's National Rutabaga Month? Apparently loads of people are calling November as their particular 'national month.' It's National Novel Writing Month, as well. I'll admit, I am a little tempted, every year, to pick up the writing fever and produce 50,000 smarmy, ill-conceived words, but I do that so much already, I figure that adding more smarm to the swill-pile is not going to help me finish my already-ambitious projects.
That having been said, I'll likely not have my first 'real' novel finished by the time I'm thirty--not at this rate, anyhow.
Erm...so...

Cheddar Bunnies

I recently encountered something that worries me deeply. You know Goldfish...the healthy snack that smiles back until you bite its head off...yes...those...they have imitators. And these imitators make bunnies. and these bunnies do NOT SMILE AT YOU!
Dear god, PEOPLE ARE MADDENING!
All right, so I write, yes? I have a rambly little piece of prose that doesn't really mean anything, and good CHRIST I have people correcting my grammar. MY GRAMMAR! I wrote a sentence in the following general structure:
'Don't touch it!--it is too delicate to be altered.'
Some ignorant wanker called me on the capitalization.
They called me on repetition. Honestly, do you not think I caught the fact that I began two sentences in a row with the same word?
I am so disgusted by people who don't catch nuances in reading.
AND FURTHERMORE! Osch. Sometimes, when you read something in a different language, it really sinks in. I bought a hue of vermilion last week, and in French, the word 'hue' is 'nuance.' That made me angry. I don't want a bloody 'nuance' of vermilion, but hey...the proper pigment costs twenty bucks, so I'm not going to shrew too much about it. Because, quite frankly, I'm not worth twenty bucks for thirty mililitres of oil and powder.
Maybe someday.

First Frost. Robert, that is.

I do not like pastoral poetry. You, knowing me, and reading this blog, are very likely aware of this. I like narratives, sure...Tennyson will always strike that chord in me that glares at Lancelot for being such a ruddy prude, and I like abstract vers-libre. I even like some love poetry. Take my last post about Rumi, for example. I even like whingy-emo poetry if it displays some originality (like the Lamentations of Jeremiah, for example). I like, especially, strange, personal pieces that are moving and real, even if they're not in the best of styles (Rupert Brooke). But pastoral poetry has always left me frigid (like Meg Ryan's face). It's like a rubbish lover, they're just not worth staying awake for.
But I will admit a certain fondness for Frost's 'Road Less Travelled.'
It is difficult, in fact, not to entertain a fondness for it.
I'm not going to include it here, because I'm sure you know it, and if you really want to go read it, you can look it up yourself. I'm merely expressing my own astonishment at liking a piece by so gimpy an author.
In other news, I am rediscovering my watercolour roots. That was actually my first wet medium, would you believe it? Most children use tempera or poster colours, or some other water-soluble plastic derivative, but the late, great, Spike Marowitz gave me, at the age of eight, a set of 50+ year old watercolour tubes and some fantastic brushes, three of which I still have and use.
Anyhow, I figured I shouldn't be so phobic of the medium as all that (I despise watercolours, they're difficult and they give me the heebie-jeebies), and I'm reworking a Japanese-themed piece that I originally did back in '02. Hopefully I'll make a better mash-up of it than I did then.
In other news, OMG I JUST REMEMBERED!
Hah. I just typed 'OMG!' I'm going to go have a good laugh about that.
But erm...all kidding aside, I went to the art shop the other day and the Winsor-Newton brushes were all 50% off. I nearly came right there in the aisle. I got two fantastic Fitch brushes, little ones, cause I've got plenty of big brushes, but very few detailers. I'm going to go have a glee-fit over them, and perhaps finish my Gerry study.
Toodles!