Little Africa

I was ten, and excited to be on my first camping trip. As the bus of girl scouts groaned up the 405, I wondered what it would be like. The campsite was called Little Africa. I wondered why. Would there be a jungle? Zebras? Elephants?
Little Weedlot in the Middle of Nowhere would have been a better name. Gravel as white as moon rocks. Clumps of blonde grass... ...few wimpy oaks. This was no jungle. This wasn't even the woods.
It did have a stream. This excited us. Then we saw the duck. It was dead, slumped on the rocks as current flowed around it. Nothing like a dead bird to keep you out of the water.
On the last day I found the cage. It was the size of a garage, rising from the weeds like it grew there. Steel bars as thick as a broom stick grew from the cement base. It creeped me. A dilapidated trailer stood nearby. One girl claimed it had belonged to a former owner. She'd kept tigers in the cage, but they escaped, clawed into the trailer, and killed her. Was it true? I thought, Even if it wasn't true, why was there a cage? Who or what had lived in it?
It spooked me. The thought of it chilled the skin on my back. The chill followed me home.



Note: The park still exists, under a different name. There's very little online info about it, except brief (and favorable) campground ratings. I used a Google Earth photo to get the the tones for the background of the second image. I don't know if the cage is still there.
I never found out what it was for.

Grandfather Clocks

Grandfather clocks didn't terrify me when I was a kid, but there was something spooky about them. So tall and imposing. Part casket, part evil Victorian robot.
They'd stand there, patiently ticking, as if to say no, I'm not waiting for a chance to pounce on you or anything like that.
Then came the striking. First a snap like a twig breaking. The clock hissed.
A deceptively friendly chime played. Then the hour chords. Deep and angry, like the clock was mad at you. Or telling a morbid story in clock language.

Even broken ones made me nervous. They looked down on you with angry faces. What if they fell on you? Or started striking on their own?

The Old Man Who Likes to Kill Children

Click picture for larger image

He lived behind the school, my fellow first graders said. In the overgrown yard of trash and weeds, facing the play field. He was purple, had a shotgun, and picked off kids that got too close.
It seemed plausible. There was evidence. The distant jar lid was, in fact, a the badge of a hall monitor he cooked and ate. The sun bleached BBQ potato chip bag was the last meal of some careless kid. The doll's head? It wasn't really a doll...!
A scaly, gall infested tree guarded his fortress. It had a menacing scowl and a sap oozing eye that glinted in the sun. A rusty barbecue stood in the distance, waiting to smoke the next victim.
We'd sneak up to the yard in groups, looking for evidence. Looking for him.
"There he is!" someone would shriek. Or perhaps "I see his gun!"
Everyone screamed. Everyone ran. We'd escaped serious peril. Fooled him again!
I reported him to the yard duty ladies. A purple kid snatcher! They didn't believe me. At the time, I couldn't understand why.

Nina

Nina is my niece. She's ten months old and trusts nobody. Visitors and strangers alike get the "Who the hell are you!? Stay away from me!" look.
I was just like her when I was little:
Strangers were scary! It was unnerving when a they got in my face. Who were they? Sometimes they smelled: mothballs, coffee breath, hairspray, to much cologne... Why did they have to get so close?

Are You Dreaming? Part II

So we usually don't recognize we're dreaming.
Sharks fly by, teeth fall out, you're back in school (and probably late for the test), the room fills with water. Wait! you think. Is this a dream?...
A chimney dances a jig. A fireplug melts.
...Nah.
It seems that there are some tests you can run, mid dream, that give more reliable answers. I snagged them off Wikipedia's article on Lucid Dreaming.

• Read something, look away, and read it again. Letters change in dreams.
• Flip a light switch. In dreams, the light usually stays on or off.
• Try to stick your finger through the palm of your hand.
• Look in a mirror. Dream reflections are wonky
  

Maybe I'll try them.

Are You Dreaming? part I

Ever been in a bizarro dream, wondered if you were, in fact dreaming...
...and concluded that you weren't?
I do this.

Louis Wain Tribute

This started accidentally.
I was fooling around with painter. At one point I thought That looks like something Louis Wain would paint. I steered it in that direction.
Louis Wain drew cats. His cute anthropomorphic ones made it to postcards and calendars. His zany, psychedelic wallpaper-looking cats were often used to demonstrate how mental illness (he had schizophrenia) affects art.
p.s.
The correlation between his mental deterioration has been exaggerated.

The Spigot and the Damage Done

Click pics for larger versions
At a recent social gathering...



Thanks a lot, Leaky Spigot.

Fake Smile

Click image for larger version

Ever have someone flash a fake smile at you?
The "say cheese" smile where the mouth grins and the rest of the face is frozen?
This freaks me out. Why the fake one? I wonder. Do they dislike me? Are they secretly wishing they could strangle me?

Morningmare

Click picture for larger image.

I'll sleep in, I thought, when I saw what time it was. I deserve some extra rest.
Big Mistake.
It was one nightmare after another. Monsters. An angry Mastiff with huge teeth. Scary puppets. Moaning alarms. Buzzers. Attack machines. Bugs. Being grabbed, dragged and shaken. I'd wake up terrified, calm down, then drift off into more freakiness. It was ridiculous.
So much for extra rest. I should have gotten up and watched T.V.

Super Elastic Bubble Plastic (from Wham-O)

It was a tube gloop. Multicolored gloop.
According to the commercial, just put some on the end of a straw (provided) and you can blow beachball-sized balloons which "last and last!"
They didn't tell you it smelled like rubber cement spiked with insecticide. Or that any balloons you made would be runty lopsided blobs. If you were lucky you'd get something the size of a baseball. Rough it up and it'd deflate, shriveling into a scrap of gunk. The texture reminded me of peeled skin after a sunburn.

What was I doing wrong? Was it a skill I lacked? A special blowing technique?
Where were the big balloons from the commercial?

Now, decades later, I think I've figured it out. I should have been sniffing the fumes. Then maybe I'd see big floating blobs.
p.s.
thanks to Sally C. and Linda for inspiring this post.

Inner Beauty

click for larger pictures

Ever notice that people who won't shut up about "inner beauty"

1. Don't have outer beauty
2. Don't have inner beauty either.
   

Unusual People

I've known some unusual people.

Tales of Clyde

Clyde helped inspire my post about liars.
We met in high school. Originally quiet and mild mannered, he blossomed into a flashy blow hard, deeming his schoolmates too uncool for his company (like they cared). I was one of the few he'd associate with. He'd call several times a week to chat, even after I graduated (1986) and moved away.
I appreciated his calls. I'd taken a year off between high school and college. I worked (tropical fish shop) while everyone else my age was at school. There was also nobody my age in the new neighborhood. A friend ghost town. Clyde was it. He never tried to meet up with me, but called nightly to talk about current events, philosophy, and, increasingly, about how cool he was.
I first sensed he wasn't being straight with me when he claimed to have met a teen celebrity (let's call him "Sitcom Star) " at a party. This was plausible. This was Southern California, but I didn't quite buy it.
Soon Clyde boasted of weekly run-ins with Sitcom Star. They didn't get along. Sitcom Star was a jerk! Clyde always got the better of him! I wanted to believe this, but couldn't picture Sitcom Star commuting to Clyde's drab suburb each weekend to party.
Clyde stayed in touch through college, calling once or twice a month. His claims grew wacky. He bragged he was a mastermind of a profitable drug ring, complete with a minion of goons to do his bidding, including shooting up the competition. His day job bagging groceries? Just a ruse, he said.
We met again in 1990. He was in town. We went out to lunch- and his credibility went out the window. He'd been in the army for five months, yet was already doing "top secret missions" in Southeast Asia. "Do you know what an M-8o does do a guy when you shoot him point blank?" he asked, wide eyed. Now he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, with all those spies and villages he took out. I changed the subject, pointing out that a local lighthouse was supposed to be haunted.
"Once when I was in New Orleans," he said "This guy got in my face and wanted to fight, but when I swung at him my hand went right through him, and then he disappeared!"
What was I supposed to say?
"That sounds scary!" (in other words, "I'm so dumb I believe this")
"How stupid do you think I am?" ("Liar!")
"Not that I question your military expertise or anything, but an M-80 is a firecracker, not an automatic weapon" (Dumb Liar!)
I didn't say a thing.
It's been decades since I've heard from Clyde. What became of him? What stories does he tell now?

Star Bright

"That's Vega," I pointed to the the star glowing through the Riverside smog. One of was my classes let out at dusk. The girl who sat next to me lived nearby. We were walking home. She knew I was taking an astronomy* class and challenged me to name what few stars we could see. "And over there is Altair, and that's Deneb and..."
"Can an astronaut touch a star?" she asked.
I thought she was kidding.
She wasn't. "Can he bring one back to Earth?"
"They're too big. Way bigger than the Earth. And far away. Except for the sun, that is. And they'd be way to hot to-"
"The sun is a star?" she said.
I couldn't believe it. I'd been proud to get into University of California at Riverside. Yet here was a fellow student who thought a star was something you could slip in your pocket. How could someone be college age and not know what a star was? How could someone be bright enough to get into college and not know what a star was?

*An astronomy class "for non science majors," I might add. I'm no genius myself.

Lying

Ever chat with someone and suddenly realize...
...they're lying?

Beauty and the Body Snatcher

I almost didn't post this due to the yeech factor, but this story is so bizarre, so ridiculous so freaking weird that I couldn't resist. It's true, too.
In 1933....

1. Key West resident Carl Tanzler had a wife in Europe, but he was more interested in a young lady named Elena. He knew they'd end up together. Some day.
   
2. There was a problem. Elena had died two years earlier.
3. Always the "out of the box" thinker, Carl snuck into the cemetery, opened her mausoleum, and took her home.
4. He cleaned her up. He covered her skin with silk dipped in Plaster of Paris and wax to maintain a healthy glow. Glass eyes, a wig, a nice dress and jewelery completed the makeover.
5. Disinfectants and perfumes kept his home smelling Springtime Fresh.
6. He kept her in his bed and slept next to her...
7. ...for almost seven years!
8. Then, (rather stupidly) he showed off his handiwork to her sister. She called the police. Carl went to jail.
   
9. Instead of being freaked out, many folks felt sorry for him. They saw him as an eccentric romantic kook. People sent fan mail!
10. Elena was on display at a local funeral home. Thousands (children included) swung by to check her out. Later she was was buried in an unmarked grave.
    
11. The statute of limitations for grave robbing had expired, and Carl was freed.
12. He died 12 years later. An Elena-like doll was found near his body.
    

I've heard a lot of strange stories, but this is one of the strangest.
Here's the Wikipedia link (including pics of Carl, Elena and her mummy) if you want to know more. Don't want to know more? I can't say I blame you.

Ah, Namowal, Maladroite!

I'm clumsy.
Something on the ground? I'll trip over it. A sliding glass door? I'll walk into it. A doorknob or piece of furniture? I'll bump into it. How I've lived almost forty years without breaking any bones is a miracle.
For example, I tried skiing when I was nine (can you see what's coming?) I couldn't master the chairlift By the time I got out of the chair, it had already lifted from the drop off point. I crashed into the snow was almost struck by the next one.
Any sport was trouble. I couldn't throw (or kick) a ball straight. Even Frisbees flew the wrong way.
What was going on?
Some blamed the problem on "not concentrating" or "not trying hard enough". The former made sense when I crashed into things. But in sports? Be it the baseball diamond, the bowling alley or a tennis court, there was a big incentive to try hard. Nobody wants to be the slob who thwacks tennis balls sideways and bowls gutterballs.
My klutziness came in handy once: I took a tap dancing class in college. I was awful. I clunked around like a Clydesdale, botched steps, and fell behind. The teacher laughed at me. Another girl in the class had trouble too. We became friends. I learned she worked for the school paper and learned the name of the guy I could submit cartoons to...

The Kid Wuz Robbed!

This picture was done by a third grader in West Virginia.*
It was a finalist a contest for kids- they had to design their own Google logo.
This one is much more original than the others. Too many had a cloying "I'd like to teach the world to sing and buy it a coke and keep it company" vibe.
I'd give first prize to this kid (with honorable mention to the entries which included a toucan, space aliens, an octopus, flying pigs, eyeballs, or clocks.).
The text it came with is pretty funny too:

"What if a fish swallowed a Google? He might oogle, zoogle, or boogle. He might get full before the gle and eat only the Goo...."

*no relation of mine.
Broken link fixed!

Unfinished Business

This piece wouldn't cooperate. The shading wasn't right*. The details were off. The mood was wrong.
I fought it, reworked it, paint, undo, blur, paint, undo, etc.. By last night it'd been days since I last posted. Finish it! I told myself. Your blog's gonna go stale! Make something worth publishing.
I should know better. Once you start fighting a drawing (or anything creative,) you lose. (They should make a special keyboard for artists that sounds an alarm if "undo" is hit too much.)
Then it hit me. What's this "worth publishing" rule? Why not publish it unfinished?

*part of the problem was a custom brush (Painter 8, airbrush) variation that made a cool texture but was difficult to control. Click the picture to see the texture better.

The Kelton Avenue Mystery Head

I was bleeding when I first saw it. Not badly. Just a skinned knee from a pratfall a few blocks back (I walked the neighborhood for exercise.)
A face peered out a window several houses ahead of me. Its plaster skin and glass eyes made me think it was a prop or an educational model. Closer inspection proved it could only be an educational model about hallucinogens.
Two heads fused at at cheek level, sharing a chin, neck and twisted mouth of clenched teeth. My depiction is stylized. The original had realistic features and was creepy. There it was, propped in the front window like a vase of silk flowers.
What is this thing? I wondered. Where did it come from? And why is it propped up in the window? Did it freak out the neighbors? The local kids? (I'd have flipped if I saw it when I was little.)
I wanted to know more. Someone had designed and built this awful/funny/fascinating thing. Someone wanted it in the front window. Why?
I considered knocking on the door and asking. What would I say? "Sorry for interrupting your dinner, but what's with that freaky thing in the window?" I never had the nerve.
Then the Mystery Head got coy. Sometimes it was there, sometimes not. I often passed the house with friends on the way to the shops and eateries on Pico Blvd. I anticipated pointing it out to them. Would they think it was as weird as I did? Would someone recognize the artist (or horror movie) behind it? Invariably, it was gone when I passed with a witness (Why? Did the homeowners bring it to the table for meals? Borrow it to freshen up the bathroom?). A few days later, I'd pass the house and there it was, staring me down with four eyes.
It's been years since I've seen it. The house was demolished and rebuilt:
I checked the windows of the new home when I passed it. No mutant heads peered back.
I still wonder about it.

100 Most Beautiful

**click image to enlarge
I see People Magazine released their 100 Most Beautiful People issue.
I didn't read it because:

1. I didn't make the list.
2. The people who did make the list have nothing to do with me.

Seriously, why would I want to read details about a bunch of celebrities in a "aren't they wonderful!?" context? Get out of here. They probably wouldn't make eye contact with me if I met them on the street.
I've seen issues like that before. They usually toss in a few toads to show how deep they are. As if to say "Yeppers, this three eyed, toothless leper has made our beauty list because she rescued baby seals. We see her inner beauty. Aren't we profound? (Okay, enough of this inner beauty crap! Turn the page for more gods and goddesses!)"

Gutterball!

I knew a radio psychic. It was an act. He knew what to tell callers to sound credible. Most calls were hits but a few bombed. When that happened, off air, he and his co-host exchanged looks and said "gutterball!"

We had a mini party at work. I chatted with some friends, then worked my way to the tortilla chips and salsa. Some strangers stood nearby, one joking loudly about some "f*@!ing" thing that was drove him nuts.

"You said the F-word!" I teased. This shtick worked among friends. They'd drop profanity and I'd react in mock indignation. The childish nature of the observation (compared to, say "Geez, you talk like a sailor") made it clear I wasn't serious. Or did it?

He shot me a Huh? What's wrong with you!? look.

"I was kidding," I assured, touching his forearm to prove I was friendly. It was like touching a mannequin. "Just fooling with ya!" . No smile, no laugh, no "Dang, for a moment I thought you were serious."

I'm not the best body language reader, but his message was clear:

What the f*@! is your problem and why the f*@! are you touching my arm? Freak! His friends stared like I was a leper, a vibe I hadn't gotten since junior high .

Gutterball!

Killer Bunny!

I love this scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It's funny (and ironic) in many directions:

1. They expect a ferocious beast to emerge, but it's a white lab rabbit.
2. Yet, they're warned, he's vicious.
3. Surprise! He really is vicious!
4. His attacks (and gore) are ridiculously fun-house fake.
   

I also like how King Arthur (Gram Chapman) speaks in a formal, medieval style, but is reduced to modern slang when he's disgusted or frustrated- a shtick that runs throughout the film.

Swine-chronicity

I'm borrowing someone's desk this week. As I scooped up my supplies, I considered bringing my beloved flying pig with me, but chose not to. I feared I'd break him. I figured I could last a week without my desk ornament.
When I got to my temp desk, I found it had a single ornament too. Another flying pig!

Weird without Trying.

Critic Namowal: I told you it was a dumb idea! Didn't I? Didn't I?

Loser Namowal: It was worth a try!

Critic Namwoal: And it gets better. Not only was it a bad idea, but you botched it! I'm not sure how this was botch-able but you found a way. Amazing.

Loser Namowal: I did my best.

Critic Namowal: "Your best?" Fat lot of good that did! Might I add you made a fool out of yourself? Why don't you just write "weirdo" on your forehead?

Loser Namowal: I don't wanna be a weirdo. I'm not trying to be a weirdo!

Critic Namowal: That's the problem with you. You're weird without trying.

Namowal's Ghost

"There's Namowal's Ghost!" a catty gal in my college dorm would say. "She looks awful! If only she'd get some color! " Catty Gal went to the tanning salon regularly. So did friends. The only person who didn't say I was too white was my dermatologist. My light freckling meant I was getting too much sun. He insisted use sunblock daily.
In the late 1980s, a marshmallow complexion was uncool. Self tanners looked orange and streaky on me, so I was stuck with the vanilla soft serve look. Friends goofed on me, and even strangers sometimes called me "Snow White" or "Casper."
Flash forward twenty years later. The pasty look doesn't stand out the way it did in the eighties. I know sun worshipers in their twenties with more wrinkles than me. I guess the dermatologist was right.
I'll end this post with an open letter.

Dear People Who Made Fun of Me for Not Getting a Tan in the 1980s, We're almost forty. I still get carded. How about you? Nyaaaaaaaaaaah! Sincerely, Namowal's Ghost

Cosmetic Surgury for Fish

This link covers an article in "Fish Love" magazine about how to perform cosmetic surgery on fish! We all know pet fish are snazzier with tattoos or docked tails.
What bothers me most about the instructions are the total disregard for how the fish might feel about this. He's treated like a plant getting pruned. No concern about frightening or hurting the little guy. What's wrong with some people?

Olympia

I love the story of Olympia. It's probably most famous as it appears in the opera (and movie), The Tales of Hoffman (Les Contes d'Hoffman.)
Hoffman loves Olympia. She's pretty, charming, and talented. She's also a robot. He doesn't know this, and brushes off his friend's warning that "[they say] she's a dead thing, or never was alive!" Hoffman learns the truth at a party. Her feuding creators break her to pieces before his eyes. He's horrified.
Everyone laughs at him.
Ouch.
If you've never seen The Tales of Hoffman, you may want to peek at the trailer*. It's a very strange, yet very charming film.

*Broken link now fixed!

Ouch My Head II: Doc Saturday.

The headache wasn't that bad, but it struck me as strange that it
1. Was on one side of my head
2. Had hung around for ten (now eleven days)

Nothing some Advils couldn't handle, but friends (including some readers) urged me to "get it checked out," on the outside chance it signified trouble.
I went to the weekend walk-in medical joint. Doc Saturday awaited.
I explained my story, saying it probably wasn't a big deal, but was checking with a pro just in case.
"Does Aspirin or Advil help?" he asked.
"Well enough," I answered.
"Then why don't you just take Advil and see if that makes it go away?"
Was he joking? I know how to take a stupid Advil. I thought, I can get the safety cap off and everything.
"I'm not here because it bothers me. I'm just making sure it's not trouble. You know. Something more serious." I said.
"You should see if you can knock it out with Advil first, and if that doesn't work, switch to Tylenol or Aspirin and then see me." he said, with a smug you silly malingering hypochondriac tone. "Of course," he added, "I can prescribe stronger painkillers if want"
Huh? I thought, he thinks nothing's wrong yet he's willing to prescribe freaking Oxycotton to me? Bad, Doctor. Bad! Bad!
We played I'm-just-here-to-be-safe and take-painkillers-to-make-it-go-away conversation badminton for a few more rounds. Finally I squeezed an "if it's still bothering you in a few weeks come back" out of him. Yeah, like I'm coming back to you.
Why didn't he just say "I wouldn't really worry about it unless it lasts several more weeks," when I explained why I was there? What planet was he from?
To give him credit, he did ask if I had other symptoms (vision problems, sensitivity to light, dizziness, recent clunk on the head etc..)
"Nope," I answered. "Just the headache. Nothing seems to trigger it, but it's worse when I nod or turn my head."
His answer?
"Then don't turn your head."
Geez

Flying Pig!

It's the flying pig! Stray g. gave me the kit (thanks, Stay g!) and I put him together.
He's 100% paper, yet he's an automaton. Turn the crank at his base and not only do his wings flap, but his legs move and he rolls like a carousel horse!
Now he guards my workstation, inviting me (and others) to take him for a spin.

Ouch My Head

Whiner Namowal: My headache's back.
Stop That Namowal: You know where the Advil is.
Whiner Namowal: It's like someone stuck a carpet tack on the right side of my head!
Stop That Namowal: Oh please. On a pain scale of one to ten this is a one.
Whiner Namowal: but... but... it's been bothering me for more than a week.
Stop That Namowal: Better start writing that tear-jerking autobiography. Ouch, My Head: Whiner Namowal's Ten Day Journey with a Slightly Annoying Headache. That should get you booked on all the talk shows. Don't forget to mention those hangnails, paper cuts and acne.

Going over Niagara Falls in a Giant Teacup

"[The Many-worlds interpretation*]", claims Wikipedia, "means that there are an infinite number of universes and that everything that could possibly happen in our universe (but doesn't) does happen in another." What if this is true?
I had my coffee black this morning. Is there another universe where I had it with milk? And one where I had tea? How far can this go? Is there another universe where I went to work in a chicken suit? Where I'm an astronaut? Where I'm going over Niagara Falls in a barrel?
How about going over Niagara Falls in a giant teacup? Or going over Niagara falls in a giant teacup with... Jack the Ripper? (Who talked me into that, anyway?)

*this is the simplified explanation. I'm no physics whiz, but as far as I can tell, the Many-worlds idea was cooked up as one (of many) explanations about how sub atomic particles behave. They're more rascally than than bigger things.

Talking to Myself

It's been one of those weeks. I avoid whining out loud, but I do have an inner whiner of sorts that I need to keep in check.

Whiny Namowal: Some week this has been! Nothing's working out. One disappointment after another! My life is a joke.
Stop That Namowal: Aw, the Big Baby didn't get her way! Maybe you should call 911 or book your horrible ordeal on Oprah. Wuss.

The Watch: Reactions

My "Remember you will die" watch is getting mixed reactions. About half of the people who read its message find it cool, the other half are horrified.
Some good reactions:
"Cool! Were'd you get it?"
"I want one!"
"Heh, that's clever."
And the bad ones:
"That's terrible!"
"That's mean!"
[rolls eyes] "ugh!"
[gives me the what's WRONG with you!? look]
Of course, the point if the thing isn't "Muahhaaa ha ha! You'll die! Die! Let that ruin your day!"
It's more like "Some day you'll die, so don't neglect your life. Have fun! Try new things."
It's already had a minor influence:
At the market:
Should I try that new brand/flavor of yogurt? (Remember, you will die.) I try the yogurt. (Actually I tried a bunch of new stuff instead of the usual. What fun!)
At home:
Should I watch television or do something creative? (Remember, you will die. ) I do something creative.
At work:
Should I work unpaid through lunch or go out with my friends? (Remember, you will die.) I go out with my friends.

Digital Grunt

Some jokers threw together this spoof of visual effects industry work.
It will appeal to anyone who works with computers, clients and deadlines.
(In all fairness, my boss is way nicer than the one in the movie.)

Creep

Here's a quicky I started while "Creep" was playing.
For those unfamiliar with the song, it's about a rejected misfit with lyrics like
I'm a creep! I'm a weirdo! What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here...
What song does it make you think of?

Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head

Another quick sketch to radio music effort. I cheated and added the frame later.
I like the attitude of the song. Things are going wrong, nothing seems to fit, but he's not complaining.

The Gandy Dancer's Ball

Here's a long forgotten number I found on You-Tube.
It's delightful (the song, not my quicky sketch.) So upbeat and catchy.
You almost want to meet Mackinac Mack and Toledo Jack and...
"Gandy Dancers" was slang for "Guys who maintained railroad tracks." How'd they afford "The biggest band/in all the land" for their hoedown?
Here's the You-Tube clip that inspired my fast sketch:

My New Watch

I normally don't sink big bucks for wristwatches, but I couldn't resist this beauty:

The pic is from the website (easier to read), but I'm wearing one as we speak.
I'm more apt to take risks, try new things and have a good time if I remember that I'm temporary. And who knows how long "temporary" is. Weird stuff happens!
When the Reaper rolls in, I don't want to be the chump who thinks Geez, I should have done X, said Y, tried Z etc... It's like I've spent my life at an amusement park and never got on the rides. Whoops!
Interesting tidbit:
I was admiring my "you will die" watch when I caught this add from Alaska Airlines:


Hopefully this isn't prophetic.
If a piano drops on me today, you can't say I wasn't warned.

Spooky

Another "draw while the song's still playing" pic.
The song: "Spooky", by Classics IV, about the coy girl who "always keeps [him] guessing."

Gumballs Gone Wild

This is based on a flash Action Script tutorial from Flash Mx Studio.
It took me fifteen minutes to type the code, but much longer to get it to work.
My clerical skills are atrocious. My perception doesn't match what's on the page.
It took me the longest time to catch the two typos:
"=+" instead of "+="
and
"_" instead of "._"
(This is why I'm not an air traffic controller.)
Any time I catch myself thinking This is hard! I can't do this. I tell myself to stop whining and keep at it.

Owner of a Lonely Heart

Another quick "while the song's playing" sketch:
Owner of a Lonely Heart, by Yes.
I liked the song when it was popular, but now it bums me out.

Eight Things I Learned the Hard Way

1. The oven cleaner label says "wear gloves" for a reason.
2. The toaster says "warning, hot surface" for a reason.
3. An old toothbrush is a good bathroom cleaning tool, but don't store it near your real toothbrush (unless you want to know what Ajax tastes like).
4. Hang the sticky fly tape by the lamp? Wow, that should attract lots of flies. Why don't you put it right next to the pull chain...
5. The whistle on your roommate's tea kettle is a detachable cap. It will let some water trickle into that teacup you're holding, then fall off, dumping scalding liquid onto your hand and arm.
   
6. You can outwit the school bully with snappy comebacks. This makes the bully mad. When the bully is mad, you'll get pounded. (Substitute "crazy person" for bully to make this applicable to adulthood.)
   
7. Inebriated? Bad time to tweeze the eyebrows.
8. Out of acne cream? Wart remover is not a good substitute.

What have you learned the hard way?


p.s. was crunched for time when I made the picture

Another Recent Conversation

Namowal and Someone Else, viewing film footage shot from moving camera. (A foreground detail needs to be digitally removed)

Namowal: The parallax will make this tough.


Someone Else: No! It's the stuff passing in front of other stuff that will make it tough!