Calamity Cove

I need somewhere to sleep the nights of June 25 and June 26. My original plans fell through.*

I don’t have a car, and I strongly prefer not to be late/miss part of the (expensive!) writing workshop because I screw up the bus schedule. So I need a place on Capital Hill–then I can walk there! If you live on Cap Hill, or if you’re staying in a hotel for the Locus Awards, please consider having me.

Reasons you should offer to house me for two nights:

1. I won’t get cooties on you or your stuff. I will bring my own bedding, and I definitely want the floor. (It’s possible I would even prefer your porch/balcony.)

2. You won’t have to see me, speak with me, or acknowledge me unnecessarily. I’ll either be at the workshop, or doing homework from the workshop for the entire weekend. (If you like, I’m sure we can arrange to have dinner and hang out a bit… after all, I don’t make a lot of social trips outside Bellingham, and whoever you are, I probably like you! I just mean you won’t be obligated to entertain me.)

3. I’m perfectly capable of wearing a pair of headphones as I sleep (or all the time) to tune out whatever it is you’re doing with that jackhammer and those aardvarks.

4. I don’t expect charity. I don’t have much $$$ left after the workshop tuition, but I can pony up about $30 a night. Or we can trade slave labor! I can brush your teeth for you or something.

5. Being in my near vicinity is scientifically proven to give you super powers. And not shitty Aquaman powers, either, but like, laser eyes.

6. You can gawk at my gorgeous new hairstyle/color(s). No, I’m not showing you a photo. That takes away incentive!

* A few people have already offered to house me, but I’m hesitant for various reasons–they live too far away, they already have company, etc. So I probably won’t have to sleep in an alley, but my options at the moment, in spite of the fantastic spirit in which they were offered, are less than optimal.

Photo by John Poor

I didn’t look much like Lady Gaga, but it was close enough for most drunk people to figure out who I was, and then holler encouraging nonsense at me from blocks away. They were only excited because they didn’t see this photo:

(You don't want to know. But you can probably guess.)

However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At the beginning of the evening, I looked like this:

Click the jump to see the rest of the step-by-step process! » Continue Reading…

This is just a fracion of my colossal pigsty.

Okay, all finished? Here are the answers:

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Me vs. Me

I haven’t gone to bed yet, so I’m pretending my post still counts. It’s more like Pangender Day of Visibility over here, though. Or maybe Ungender. Or Ilikemakeupanddinosaursboth. Whatever!

This took me an hour.

My boss is getting this tattooed on her foot.

A collective hour, that is. You wouldn’t believe how many pieces of paper I killed, how many times I put it in a drawer for a month and then accidentally found it when I was trying to look for character sketches for a comic. I don’t even believe it.

I hate those flowers, you guys. I HATE THEM. I’m not saying that so you’ll tell me they’re great (please don’t). I’m saying it so you understand why I’m contemplating a bit of therapeutic madness that coalesced in my mind after a comment on my tantrum from the wise and venerable Bear:

“flaws are what make the world beautiful.“

Whether she left out her capitalization as a subtle but powerful statement or whether she just didn’t feel like hitting the shift key for the largely uncaring audience on Twitter, it got me thinking.

I don’t know why I’m so scared of my art sucking. I don’t actually care. If I’m not specifically creating an original for sale, I use inferior art supplies on purpose because they’re cheaper. Archival quality? I don’t care if my art lasts years, or minutes. Nearly all my joy comes from the process of making a drawing, not gazing at the finished product.  I have just as much fun drawing with my finger on a fogged-up car mirror or a filthy pickup as I do on a piece of Bristol board with Copic liners.

And yet because I don’t particularly enjoy the finished product, I always assume others won’t either. And I also assume they will judge how much I care for them or how much effort I put into their work by the end result. So if I don’t make it perfect, my own logic insists that they will think I am rude or careless instead of just an unskilled artist. It’s taken years to dig this deeply into my neuroses, and I’m sure there are many more layers to my insanity. But I do know it’s hard for me to let go of art if I can’t ctrl+z, because those flaws might come across as a statement instead of mere accidents.

(I also undervalue my own skills and can never be good enough, but this neat article on pricing your own skills made me feel a little better about just giving people what they need from me instead of what I would need from me.)

Anyway, flaws ARE beautiful. I love this picture, which is a partial nude, so careful when clicking:

» Continue Reading…

Take a look at our Christmas tree.

Every light is like an Alienware power button.

But wait… What is that up on top? Look closer:

You don't even want to know how much our tree-topper cost. Try... an arm and a leg! HA!

Yes, my friends, to the best of my knowledge, that is an actual preserved Pygocentrus nattereri, also known as the red-bellied piranha. Have an even closer look!

OM NOM NOM

When I was putting the ornaments on the tree, I dropped one. Seamus burst out laughing and turned to my cat Every, who was sharing the couch with him, and said, “Haha, you were totally right, man! Here.” Then he pulled five dollars out of his wallet and tucked it under Every’s paw, like this:

Joke's on Seamus. Every paid me to take a dive.

Also, in a less flesh-rending version of Christmas: while we were shopping for tree stuff, I found this strangely confused Santa Claus.

I always get it mixed up and think the elves live at the north pole and penguins live in the south. Silly me!

So, is there anything special about your holiday decorations? Perhaps one of your ornaments is an heirloom, or you cut your tree from a hanged man’s grave under a full moon and it comes alive at night and murders your neighbors. Please, do tell.