i tell you, it's All happening in London.
22 April 2007
someone else said this to me, sometime, somewhere. (Coco?)
Julia Roberts is 38!! [sigh] I remember when she was just a hooker with a dream.
19 April 2007
very large unfinished clock.
So Pontiac Quarterly was wicked. Liz Clayton, you're So.Cool, and thanks thanks for the invite.
Pictured below are shots of the screen projection of my hand drawing a very large clock (3'x2.5'). In three hours I managed to complete, erm, three hours of the clock face. Can you say OCD?
And, time consuming as it will be, I will most likely finish this drawing. I mean, who wouldn't want a huge broken clock gracing their kitchen wall?
Pictured below are shots of the screen projection of my hand drawing a very large clock (3'x2.5'). In three hours I managed to complete, erm, three hours of the clock face. Can you say OCD?
And, time consuming as it will be, I will most likely finish this drawing. I mean, who wouldn't want a huge broken clock gracing their kitchen wall?
18 April 2007
Pontiac Quarterly. Tonight.
I was most honored to be invited to participate in this month's installment of Pontiac Quarterly, happening in the Drake's underbelly tonight, starting at 7pm. It's a live magazine, that is, live readings and live artistry, which is, erm, where I come in. The theme is impatience, I will be drawing a Very Large Clock on a wall, and I will be doing it Veryyyy Verrryyy Slowly. And given my cross-hatching nature, I have Absolutely No Idea how it will turn out. Eek. But don't say I didn't warn you.
and another object of interest, from the annals of my digital camera.
Utterly Hollowed. Astounding. NOT EVEN AN EYEBALL.
i've wanted to take a photo of this, Forever.
And yesterday, on a mid-day constitutional/proofreading break, I Did.
things that should be illegal: no. 413
the last dollop of milk, meant to expire FOUR DAYS FROM NOW, which WAS FINE YESTERDAY EVENING, going off AS IT POURS INTO THE TEACUP, forcing its owner to wander disconsolately out into the street, pajamas on, hair asunder, TEALESS, in search of a new carton at the corner store.
Not to mention the more than a bit disturbing phenomenon of being eye-level, first thing in the morning, TEALESS, with the weird antiques man who sits in his store across the street from me, night after night, gazing up at my window 'til all hours, (since there is NOTHING More Entertaining than watching me sit at a drafting table for hours on end, ladies and gentlemen, Absolutely Nothing).
Grr.
Not to mention the more than a bit disturbing phenomenon of being eye-level, first thing in the morning, TEALESS, with the weird antiques man who sits in his store across the street from me, night after night, gazing up at my window 'til all hours, (since there is NOTHING More Entertaining than watching me sit at a drafting table for hours on end, ladies and gentlemen, Absolutely Nothing).
Grr.
oh, Giles.
[to Wesley, of course]"You have the maturity of a blueberry scone. For gods sakes HAVE AT IT and stop fluttering about!"
15 April 2007
the first rule
of Facebook is, you do not talk about Facebook. The second rule of Facebook is, you DO NOT talk about Facebook...
...except when you're talking about Facebook. Which is all the bloody time. [sigh]
...except when you're talking about Facebook. Which is all the bloody time. [sigh]
14 April 2007
my sick taste.
I was told the other day, over guiness and a tattoo gun, about this European artist named Wim Delvoye, who tattoos pigs. And though I found that highly amusing, what I found even better was his Euterpe project, where he got friends of his to paint themselves with barium, have sex in actual medical clinics, and made the x-rays into huge stain glass windows. For example: 
11 April 2007
word of the day: incunabulum.
Definition: (1) A book printed in the earliest period of printing, especially from Gutenberg's invention of the printing press in 1436 up to 1500; an incunable; (2) any product of the earliest stage of development; (3) a cocoon.
a COCOON.
a COCOON.
10 April 2007
little! dog! monday!
My friend Shan has ressurected (Yahoo!) little dog monday, her blog, and you should Go Forth and Visit, because it's gorgeous. (Warning, those ever shorn of dreadlocks will suffer bouts of Intense Hair Nostalgia and renewed desires to house birds in their heads)
Her website is Awesome too, and right now she is looking for submissions for her next Stones and Ghosts, which are the small bookish packages of Love she sends through the post to her lucky subscribers. I absolutely Must recommend and encourage anyone who might be reading this to take a gander at the call and send material. (Guidelines are at her site, click above)
Her website is Awesome too, and right now she is looking for submissions for her next Stones and Ghosts, which are the small bookish packages of Love she sends through the post to her lucky subscribers. I absolutely Must recommend and encourage anyone who might be reading this to take a gander at the call and send material. (Guidelines are at her site, click above)
from a Bloody Child Genius (with an apology for its proximity to the subsequent, erm, less G rated posting)
The below drawing was sent to me today in honour of an upcoming night i'm hosting, to feature scotch and children's programming, specifically 2 dvds worth of the incalculable genius that is Dr. Snuggles.
In the hopes that you will disregard the show/character's unfortunate name, dear reader(s), I assure you this is one of the best kids programs that ever existed. I got into a discussion about it quite a while back now, and couldn't take it any more. I surfed the blessed internet 'til i found a second-hand copy of the seasons on dvd.
Soon after, a fellow fan made himself apparent, and two more promptly popped out of the woodwork. And I do confess it gives me hope for the human race. Hope and a strange kind of faith.
That said, i will now post for you a visual interpretation of said Snuggles, by the self-proclaimed bloody child genius, one Steve McKay. Truly Excellent.
(The evening in question will take place on the 21st of this month and all are welcome. Email me for details. Be prepared for spotty camels, tea, the multi-coloured rainbow, Madame Dumpy-too and Copious Amounts of Scotch Whisky.
In the hopes that you will disregard the show/character's unfortunate name, dear reader(s), I assure you this is one of the best kids programs that ever existed. I got into a discussion about it quite a while back now, and couldn't take it any more. I surfed the blessed internet 'til i found a second-hand copy of the seasons on dvd.
Soon after, a fellow fan made himself apparent, and two more promptly popped out of the woodwork. And I do confess it gives me hope for the human race. Hope and a strange kind of faith.
That said, i will now post for you a visual interpretation of said Snuggles, by the self-proclaimed bloody child genius, one Steve McKay. Truly Excellent.
(The evening in question will take place on the 21st of this month and all are welcome. Email me for details. Be prepared for spotty camels, tea, the multi-coloured rainbow, Madame Dumpy-too and Copious Amounts of Scotch Whisky.
London Whores: #2
(location of phone box: central London, further details, undetermined. circa 1995) 
09 April 2007
goddamit. One more. On the advent of "rasping pepperpot overlords"
Click here for a fantastic article forwarded to me about new electronic scrutinisers that the Brits will be putting up on street corners in the near future. They are CCTV cameras that scream at you when you break the rules. I'm particularly impressed that according to news reports, "children's voices are to be used initially to make the encounter less confrontational".
The columnist who wrote the article, Charlie Brooker, obviously a Very nifty sort (I love him), points out that "it's not yet clear whether the children's voices will address miscreants using formal language ("Attention, citizen: you are committing a felony; you have 20 seconds to desist") or in "kid speak" ("You're a bad man and I'm telling on you and my dad's going to tear your head off").
He has proposed that they make the cameras into daleks. Roving daleks to keep the population in line. Colour coded to signify the degree of infractions (yes, i'm taking the money out of this article link, but what if you don't click on it, dear reader(s)? You would miss it ALL!!!) Blue dalek=minor transgressions (minor shocks and warnings), red daleks = real crimes: (emotionless killing machines).
Screw London. Makes me want to move to Barking or Ipswich.
The columnist who wrote the article, Charlie Brooker, obviously a Very nifty sort (I love him), points out that "it's not yet clear whether the children's voices will address miscreants using formal language ("Attention, citizen: you are committing a felony; you have 20 seconds to desist") or in "kid speak" ("You're a bad man and I'm telling on you and my dad's going to tear your head off").
He has proposed that they make the cameras into daleks. Roving daleks to keep the population in line. Colour coded to signify the degree of infractions (yes, i'm taking the money out of this article link, but what if you don't click on it, dear reader(s)? You would miss it ALL!!!) Blue dalek=minor transgressions (minor shocks and warnings), red daleks = real crimes: (emotionless killing machines).
Screw London. Makes me want to move to Barking or Ipswich.
and all of this...
Has successfully procrastinated me away from my work on my comic storyboards and all the way to dinner-time. I am a clever and sneaky sort. [sigh]
London Whores: #1
Years ago, one of the things I used to collect was (were?) LondonWhorePhoneBoxAds (one word).
A few weeks ago we were discussing whores or something at work, and one of my co-workers (who has also lived in London) had never seen a LondonWhorePhoneBoxAd. I was dismayed. Could it be the bustling metropolis has finally cleaned itself up so much that there are no longer cue cards and titillating fluorescent card-stock tit-bits gracing the majestic red phone boxes of that lusty old city?
And now there is a whole underground of horny harlots and busty poets whose needs for expression (not to mention moonlighting clients) are no longer being adequately met.
Well.
I have finally found my old collection, and shall be peppering my blog with samples over the next little while. Be forewarned, these are all from the years '92-'95, so likely the phone numbers are defunct. If anyone finds out differently though, I would love to know.
#1. (a christmas special)
(it's the complimentary drink and mince pie that does it for me.)
A few weeks ago we were discussing whores or something at work, and one of my co-workers (who has also lived in London) had never seen a LondonWhorePhoneBoxAd. I was dismayed. Could it be the bustling metropolis has finally cleaned itself up so much that there are no longer cue cards and titillating fluorescent card-stock tit-bits gracing the majestic red phone boxes of that lusty old city?
And now there is a whole underground of horny harlots and busty poets whose needs for expression (not to mention moonlighting clients) are no longer being adequately met.
Well.
I have finally found my old collection, and shall be peppering my blog with samples over the next little while. Be forewarned, these are all from the years '92-'95, so likely the phone numbers are defunct. If anyone finds out differently though, I would love to know.
#1. (a christmas special)
(it's the complimentary drink and mince pie that does it for me.)
tea, sociability, and a clever observation.
I found myself in a lovely tea-time discussion this weekend about the styles of different magazines (that is, many seem to have an actual style in which they are put together.) This turned to a discussion about drawing, and I thought about my tendency to belabour and perfectionize (should be a word) and draw and redraw until I get just what i'm after. And suddenly I had the most clever realization. My drawing style and process is to doodling what Brick Literary Journal is to DIY. How utterly perfect. And yet, now the pull to work amidst them both makes itself so abundantly evident.
as you can see...
the pattern seems to be NOTHING for days, weeks, and then TEN THOUSAND sundry bloggy postings.
And an innate tendency towards exaggeration.
Anyhow, onwards.
And an innate tendency towards exaggeration.
Anyhow, onwards.
"Exorcise Caution"
A friend, who i have promised shall remain nameless, (believe it or not) told me about something scathingly brilliant she sent to a long-distance...erm...interest of hers through the post a few weeks ago:
The envelope contained:
several feet of yellow Caution tape and two sheets of paper.
One sheet read
Caution statement: exorcise caution
The other sheet read
Instructions for use:
1. Roll into tight ball
2. Throw to wind
SO. EXCELLENT.
Her next idea involves a re-creation of a cake she made about five/six years ago with someone else in mind. It was white organic vanilla with a red hacksaw baked in the middle to facillitate a prison break. She called it for those immured in prisons of their own making
Ah, performance confectionary tactics. Who knew?!?
The envelope contained:
several feet of yellow Caution tape and two sheets of paper.
One sheet read
Caution statement: exorcise caution
The other sheet read
Instructions for use:
1. Roll into tight ball
2. Throw to wind
SO. EXCELLENT.
Her next idea involves a re-creation of a cake she made about five/six years ago with someone else in mind. It was white organic vanilla with a red hacksaw baked in the middle to facillitate a prison break. She called it for those immured in prisons of their own making
Ah, performance confectionary tactics. Who knew?!?
Alfred Jarry, born 100 years and three weeks before me.
I was forwarded a link to this article the other day, which made my night. (Thank you, Robert!) I can't quite tell if it's fact or fiction, but it is by a guy named Jim McGurn, about the french writer Alfred Jarry and his Fascinating relationship with bicycles.
Favourite passages include the following:
Jarry soon became notorious. He took, for example, to riding around Paris with two revolvers tucked in his belt and a carbine across his shoulder. Some say that Jarry fired off a revolver to warn people of his approach. But it is known for certain that at one point he fixed a large bell from a tramcar onto his bicycle. All the same, Jarry was an athletic, no-nonsense cyclist and enjoyed tearing around the countryside. He criticised those who "thinking themselves poets, slow down en route to contemplate the view".
that's right, all you poets. (insert devious chuckle here.)
In 1897 Jarry and his bicycle moved into some most unusual lodgings. The landlord, feeling that high ceilings were a waste of lettable space, had put in extra floors, dividing each existing floor into two. Being only 5 foot tall Jarry did not scrape his head on the ceiling, unless, perhaps, he had swapped his flat cycling shoes for the ladies' style high-heeled boots which he sometimes wore. Here he lived with his scaled-down furniture, his mountains of books, his owls and his chameleons. A visiting friend remarked on the bicycle which Jarry kept near his bed. "I use it for getting around the room," said Jarry, and he promptly leaped on the saddle and gave a skilled demonstration.
Favourite passages include the following:
Jarry soon became notorious. He took, for example, to riding around Paris with two revolvers tucked in his belt and a carbine across his shoulder. Some say that Jarry fired off a revolver to warn people of his approach. But it is known for certain that at one point he fixed a large bell from a tramcar onto his bicycle. All the same, Jarry was an athletic, no-nonsense cyclist and enjoyed tearing around the countryside. He criticised those who "thinking themselves poets, slow down en route to contemplate the view".
that's right, all you poets. (insert devious chuckle here.)
In 1897 Jarry and his bicycle moved into some most unusual lodgings. The landlord, feeling that high ceilings were a waste of lettable space, had put in extra floors, dividing each existing floor into two. Being only 5 foot tall Jarry did not scrape his head on the ceiling, unless, perhaps, he had swapped his flat cycling shoes for the ladies' style high-heeled boots which he sometimes wore. Here he lived with his scaled-down furniture, his mountains of books, his owls and his chameleons. A visiting friend remarked on the bicycle which Jarry kept near his bed. "I use it for getting around the room," said Jarry, and he promptly leaped on the saddle and gave a skilled demonstration.
and why is it significant that Alfred Jarry was born 100 years and three weeks before me?
Because this is a Blog. And it is about MEEEE. ME, ME, ME.
Just in case you forgot.
(ME.)
Just in case you forgot.
(ME.)
05 April 2007
being a MANAGER.
it occurred to me, only the other day, with no small amount of awe, that i am a MANAGER.
A production MANAGER. Which means that, without even knowing it, for the last almost two years, I have been attending, daily, along with my MANAGING editor partner-in-crime, MANAGERIAL lunches.
And here i was feeling like a non-corporate bum.
Well. Today is therefore officially Completely Dedicated to our upcoming MANAGERIAL lunch, now that we can officially exhale, safe in the knowledge that we have unhanded the next issue of our magazine to the bouteous serfs that prepare it for us, post-layout. Shameless slave-drivers. The lot of us.
A production MANAGER. Which means that, without even knowing it, for the last almost two years, I have been attending, daily, along with my MANAGING editor partner-in-crime, MANAGERIAL lunches.
And here i was feeling like a non-corporate bum.
Well. Today is therefore officially Completely Dedicated to our upcoming MANAGERIAL lunch, now that we can officially exhale, safe in the knowledge that we have unhanded the next issue of our magazine to the bouteous serfs that prepare it for us, post-layout. Shameless slave-drivers. The lot of us.
TONIGHT!
(What follows is a shamelessly plagiarized announcement.) (I have no excuses for this. Except perhaps that the milk in my tea was off this morning, which didn't bode well for the day, so I thought I'd conserve energy wherever I could)
Toronto is home to some of the best known comics artists in North America. We have an active and vibrant community putting out some of the highest quality comics to be found anywhere. The SpeakEasy ComicsShow features an eclectic mix of Toronto's talented comic book artists- from those who do newspaper strips and political cartoons, to underground comix and mainstream superhero comic books!
The event promises to display an exciting cross-section of the comics communityhere in Toronto, as well as a glimpse into how good comics are made. As the old cliché goes, there really will be something for everyone.
Time & Space: Thursday April 5th, 8pm-Midnight, The Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen West Second Floor Lobby
Cover: Pay What You Can ($4.00 Donation Suggested)
This Month's Featured Artists:
Attila Adorjany
Kalman Andrasofszky
John Bride
Willow Dawson
Arthur Dela Cruz
Tom Fowler
Jesse Gayle
John Lang
Jeff Lemire
stef lenk
Francisco Ribas
SketchKrieg!
Diana Tamblyn
Come visit us!
Toronto is home to some of the best known comics artists in North America. We have an active and vibrant community putting out some of the highest quality comics to be found anywhere. The SpeakEasy ComicsShow features an eclectic mix of Toronto's talented comic book artists- from those who do newspaper strips and political cartoons, to underground comix and mainstream superhero comic books!
The event promises to display an exciting cross-section of the comics communityhere in Toronto, as well as a glimpse into how good comics are made. As the old cliché goes, there really will be something for everyone.
Time & Space: Thursday April 5th, 8pm-Midnight, The Gladstone Hotel, 1214 Queen West Second Floor Lobby
Cover: Pay What You Can ($4.00 Donation Suggested)
This Month's Featured Artists:
Attila Adorjany
Kalman Andrasofszky
John Bride
Willow Dawson
Arthur Dela Cruz
Tom Fowler
Jesse Gayle
John Lang
Jeff Lemire
stef lenk
Francisco Ribas
SketchKrieg!
Diana Tamblyn
Come visit us!
04 April 2007
subject heading (an email that somehow made its way into today's spam box)
You inherited a small dick from your father and there is no way to help it.
It's the personal touch that impressed me.
a] They know my father is defunct
b] they've one-upped my actual (non)-inheritance to a small dick (so that's where that small dick came from),
and
c] they know I am powerless to help it.
Today I feel like the world is looking out for my needs, however meagrely.
It's the personal touch that impressed me.
a] They know my father is defunct
b] they've one-upped my actual (non)-inheritance to a small dick (so that's where that small dick came from),
and
c] they know I am powerless to help it.
Today I feel like the world is looking out for my needs, however meagrely.
01 April 2007
ok i'm going now.
I really am. I'm walking away from the blog. Trawling my ample bosoms behind me.
for now.
for now.
sundries of an editorial nature from my little office.
I remember trying to get my head around the concept of nothing as a kid and couldn't. I just didn't get it.
It's dramatic irony, i think i can't take.
(Re: comma use.) Do you like open style?
I don't know it's kind of growing on me...
ah yes, the bourgeouis pronoun error.
It's dramatic irony, i think i can't take.
(Re: comma use.) Do you like open style?
I don't know it's kind of growing on me...
ah yes, the bourgeouis pronoun error.
Magpie helmets.
I was informed the other day that magpies attack children in Australia in the springtime and so they wear ice cream tubs with eye holes cut out to protect themselves. Tubs they cover in stickers. Excellent.
UnUtterably Busy.
But a moment at least, for a few of my stockpiled bloggables.
on Busking
I ran into my neighbour Fred the other day as I journeyed on the streetcar up to Jane and Finch, and he gave me a lowdown on the politics of busking in this city, which I had NO idea about. I was shocked (or maybe i wasn't) to find out it's practically corporate.
One needs to audition (250 people are chosen), acquire a license (100 licenses given out, a bunch of people are put in a waiting line) schedules are made, and said qualified buskers have a particular station they are allowed to stand at which rotates every three days. There are a few loopholes; if you arrive at a designated busking spot and if it is vacant you can perform there until the performer scheduled arrives; if s/he doesn't, you're in. There are all the typical human foibles: hogging the "sweet" spots, holding places for strategically chosen colleagues, waiting in "line" so if the scheduled busker doesn't show up the sweet spot is yours, etc.
I guess what I find strange about it is the realization of just how much our "public" spaces are commandeered.
I suppose this administration is yet another helpful tactic in that endless struggle to end natural human conflict, but one never hears about this sort of thing in the storybooks.
(No I haven't. But I would, in a pinch, read a storybook about a busker. If one existed.)
my last book-making class
Why Jane and Finch you say? Friday was my last class teaching a book-making workship affiliated with AGYU up yonder. I had this moment of envy; The kids, who had come in with cell-phones and chatter and that buzz of gossipy worry one always has after school (or so I found) were practically transfixed an hour later by the task of sewing pages into a book. I'm sure there was a time when simple things like threading string could override my own worries and become just as valuable an occupation.
my little window-home at Pages
Has been passed on. As of about an hour from now. May the rain hold off until I get everything home. And though those drawings now feel ancient and I'm happy to retire them, it's like handing off the flame or something, I'm back to that little vacuum of "private beneath-the-bed artistry". It's amazing they don't create an art gallery whose rooms house all their art beneath beds. Or in old suitcases or atop armoires. It would be very accurate.
That said, I must to Pages now. However not before I record this:
peregrine vindemiator.
I remain, dear reader(s), despite the relentless pursuit of business, your humble and most obedient blogger.
I ran into my neighbour Fred the other day as I journeyed on the streetcar up to Jane and Finch, and he gave me a lowdown on the politics of busking in this city, which I had NO idea about. I was shocked (or maybe i wasn't) to find out it's practically corporate.
One needs to audition (250 people are chosen), acquire a license (100 licenses given out, a bunch of people are put in a waiting line) schedules are made, and said qualified buskers have a particular station they are allowed to stand at which rotates every three days. There are a few loopholes; if you arrive at a designated busking spot and if it is vacant you can perform there until the performer scheduled arrives; if s/he doesn't, you're in. There are all the typical human foibles: hogging the "sweet" spots, holding places for strategically chosen colleagues, waiting in "line" so if the scheduled busker doesn't show up the sweet spot is yours, etc.
I guess what I find strange about it is the realization of just how much our "public" spaces are commandeered.
I suppose this administration is yet another helpful tactic in that endless struggle to end natural human conflict, but one never hears about this sort of thing in the storybooks.
(No I haven't. But I would, in a pinch, read a storybook about a busker. If one existed.)
Why Jane and Finch you say? Friday was my last class teaching a book-making workship affiliated with AGYU up yonder. I had this moment of envy; The kids, who had come in with cell-phones and chatter and that buzz of gossipy worry one always has after school (or so I found) were practically transfixed an hour later by the task of sewing pages into a book. I'm sure there was a time when simple things like threading string could override my own worries and become just as valuable an occupation.
Has been passed on. As of about an hour from now. May the rain hold off until I get everything home. And though those drawings now feel ancient and I'm happy to retire them, it's like handing off the flame or something, I'm back to that little vacuum of "private beneath-the-bed artistry". It's amazing they don't create an art gallery whose rooms house all their art beneath beds. Or in old suitcases or atop armoires. It would be very accurate.
That said, I must to Pages now. However not before I record this:
peregrine vindemiator.
I remain, dear reader(s), despite the relentless pursuit of business, your humble and most obedient blogger.
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