I guess the LJ cross posting thing I have for my blog doesn't work any more? Anyway, if you want to keep up to date, point your RSS here.

There was much clamour for a dance remix of the answering machine message that I posted last. Nick, however, did one better:

(original vid source)

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

I’ve been doing stuff and things, but it is far more important for you to hear this insane message left on our answering machine:

It’s from some sort of hell

We get faxes to our phone a lot (we’ve a landline) but this is beyond that.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

After the total concert cockblock, we ended up going to Scissor Sisters the next week. It was an amazing show (I did a nail for it) and it answered the question that’s been in the back of my mind for ages, “Would I like clubbing?” Answer: YES. They made us work for the encore, came out with a costume change and right at the climax of the last song the ceiling exploded confetti and it was essentially magic. Drifting down, among the little tissue paper and mylar bits, were three dollar bills (ha) with a q-code on the back that goes to RentBoy.com. Perfection.

There’s been a kick to ramp up creating, making and being, which has been overwhelming but awesome. Chase has added a bunch of amazing stuff to his site. Things that have been sitting in my sketchbook for ages are getting done, like the Black Metal Eyelashes.

I’m embroidering again, and not being very good about documenting it, the latest big piece has a happy home and lots of snaps of my obsessive detail. The idea of showing my work at these things called “galleries” isn’t as hateful to me as it has been in the past, I’m dipping a toe in cautiously. The kitchen sink creature, in its tiny gross glory, packed itself down to Bloomington, Indiana, to be part of the opening show at Paper Crane Gallery.

I’m at a point where I feel like I can be “this is who I am,” not worrying so much about making others uncomfortable, or keeping things in my head. It is most probs because the people I share my heart with are all terrible, wonderful people who are in concert with me as to when a round of high-fives need to be served. And who totally approve of my leering about in padded bra and soft-packed pants in an attempt to present androgyny as a smorgasbord of choice.

Here’s something I did this week that made me proud:

I commute by bus and lightrail, about 1.5-2 hours, depending. As a small person I have to sometimes remain vigilant about my space. I don’t expect much, just, y’know, the space that I and my bag (slung in front so it doesn’t hit people unawares) take up. Some folks—let’s not call them yuppies, that would be mean—tend to exist only for themselves and will ooze into your standing or seated space with their elbows and bags and coats.

Due to some malfunction, my full train of commuters had to disembark and squeeze onto the next train behind. Which, sighs, but such is commuting life. So we all find space and stand and I luck out with a pole to hold onto instead of a strap, most of which are a little to high for me. Commuters continue to pack on at each stop.

I realise that the man next to me is taking up more space as time goes on, shifting about, resettling his bag so it swings into people, things that are hard to explain if you’ve never commuted on a full train. In short: being a dick. Resting my arm across the top of my bag, I go into my defensive commuting posture. I am not taking up more space, but attempts to take my space result in an elbow to the back. Which, totally happens. And the guy? Does not care. I was little more than a post to rest against. The drone of a bathroom remodel conversation continues.

Staring into space with loathing for my fellow man, I realise the jerk’s bag is open. And I did not spit in it, though I thought about it. Instead, tucking arms in and trying not to fall as the train hit curves, I pulled a pen and paper from my pockets and wrote a note—”Just because you’re white, male and middle class doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be aware of the space you take up on public transit.” I folded the note and slipped it into his bag, where it nestled next to the New York Times and Wall Street Journal.

So I’m learning to be comfortable in my happiness. But I will not be complacent.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

And, as power surged to the stage from black-clad hears, we knew that truly, God Hates Us All.

When you live in the rural suburbs, music is your idol. You sift through the detritus of junk shops masquerading as antique stores for records, paw through clattering suitcases of cassettes from when your parents were young and cool, saving up for trips into the city to buy new music—fingers crossed at a place that isn’t scared of “explicit lyrics or content”.

The internet makes it easier. It’s all there, without waiting for your older brother to discover grunge, or a stray chance introducing you to an album that blows your former Sousa-loving mind. But the internet doesn’t bring concerts to the middle of fucking nowhere. You still have to go to the city for that.

When Slayer and Megadeth were booked at the Washington County Fairgrounds, well outside the teeming urban environs of the city, it was like a gift directly from the gods of metal to the scattered farming and bedroom communities on the western rim of the Portland Metropolitan area. Where thunder eggs and amber had dully gleamed just weeks before at the annual gem show, perfected screams would vibrate the air.

The primary paper for these far edges of Washington County, the Forest Grove News Times, was ready to herald the event as “Slayborday Weekend”, a refreshing change from the rote new-school-year staples and heart-warming, if repetitive, events that make up the bulk of rural suburban news. They secured their press passes and entry to what was, frankly, one of the awesomest events to hit the area for years.

But the News Times, one of (if not the) best performing papers in the community newspapers group that includes the Portland Tribune, didn’t reckon on one thing. It turns out that at a second glance their coverage was considered absolutely not worthy of consideration by Mike Thrasher, the man who is presenting Slayer and Megadeath to the Washington County Fairgrounds and who, apparently, gave out too many press passes.

In the face of this overwhelming quagmire, the day before the show Thrasher revoked the two passes given to the Forest Grove News Times. After extensive emailing by the News Times’ photo editor, who’d been looking forward to shooting the show, Thrasher relented to issuing press credentials—but not the passes. If they wanted to cover the biggest show in their county, the News Times would have to purchase their own tickets to get in. In short, Thrasher was cool with the event being covered, but he wanted to make more money, too.

The photo editor’s off-record reply is unpublishable.

Whatever Thrasher’s reasons for cock-blocking the Forest Grove News Times from covering the event, the end result is a hole in next week’s paper, both design-wise and in information. As great as the free alt weeklies in Portland are, they are not necessarily where the board members of the fairgrounds get their news. If a fantastic chance like this concert comes up again, there will be only the most basic paragraph—if that—detailing how Thrasher’s Slayer concert was received. The News Times could dig into their empty pockets to scrape up the money for last minute tickets, but it would be giving publicity and promotion to a man who has proved himself to be unworthy of basic consideration.

Disclosure: I was set to go as the writer for the News Times, to work up an extended caption/mini story to accompany Chase’s pictures. I’m really fucking pissed.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

I’ve been blogging for work, helping Chase with his art book and reading the crap out of City of Roses which has been crazy fun, and everything is ramping up to busy season again, so here’s a quick dump o’ stuff:

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

There is this guy I know. Dogs cross the street to get pets from him, and even the most hateful cats love him, because he exudes some sort of “nah, I just want to romp too” vibe.  He will spend literally hours learning about a breed of animal and is now full of more facts about bizarre wildlife than most public television.

He is a ridiculously good photographer with an even pickier sense of self-confidence than I have, which is saying a lot.  He has a job in a dying industry and gets into godlike rages at the pitiful excuses for first aid his superiors half-heartedly attempt. I can’t understand how he is such a good photographer, every time I see a snippet of a new project of his I am floored.

For various reasons he has stopped eating grains and feels about a million times better.  For breakfast he has “bear cereal”, which is berries and nuts with cream poured over.  He yells at crows out of the car window.  He has the prettiest hair and likes to have his toenails done.

When I want to buy something particularly ridiculous and glam I just need to ask him if I should and he says yes.  He always goes for the sparkliest thing.

I’ve known him since he was nineteen, but I don’t want to think about that too much because we’re both twenty-seven now and that is kind of a long time.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.

The VS Miraculous™ Push-up, blogged here.

The state of the periodical archives in a five year old, 50 million dollar university library.

Originally published at something or other. You can comment here or there.