BITCH STOLE MY LOOK

          If you've watched "Fashion Police" on "E," then you're familiar with the segment where they find pictures of Hollywood starlets wearing the same or very similar outfits.  Joan Rivers always gets the studio audience to rasp along with her, "Bitch... stole... my... look!"
          Then Joan and her bony, bitchy cohorts vote on which vapid celebrity wore it best.
          Well, in the library we were discarding an encyclopedic set of books about "peoples of the world" or some shit like that, and I happened across this picture and thought, "OMG, that is EXACTLY like 'Bitch Stole My Look!'"
          If you ask me, the woman on the far right wore it best.  Why?  Because she obviously saw her gal pals stealing her look, and ditched her own shawl/mosquito netting.  She probably stuffed it angrily behind a cactus.  The lack of it shows off her figure better, and besides, the two shrouded ladies look like amputees. 
          Our diva on the far right took a fashion risk that sets her apart from those other bitches, and for that I applaud her.

DAY PLANNER 2011

It's crafty!
          A few years ago our tax lady convinced me to keep a day planner with all my appointments, trips, etc.  Now I find it indispensible, and write every deadline or obligation in that one place, rather than scattered between 2 wall calendars at home, and 2 at work.
          The first couple day planners I purchased on the cheap, but then I realized it's pretty stupid simple and I could totally just make my own for even CHEAPER.  So I did.
          I found a 99 cent children's book on birds at the used book store and tore out the interior pages and decorated it all DIY gay, as you can see above.  I even used felt and Velcro for a fastener, and Martha Stewart brand wedding invitation embelishments spray-painted black.  WTF, right?  I was in a frenzy, so I even busted out the pinking shears, duct tape, and Dymo label gun.
          For the interior calendar pages I just used Word and created tables with the right amount of cells and filled in the date info.  I printed and stapled it half-size zine style, which fit inside the book perfectly, and glued the end pages to the inside book covers.
          It's a little ugly.

ALBINO SNAIL: cursed by God

Grainy cell phone photo, but you can see this little fellow is clearly an unnatural freak
          On the way out to my truck this morning I passed a small herd of snails making their ponderous way toward the pool.  One of them was set a little apart from the others, and I noticed right away that it was offensively different from its fellows.  Instead of the normal gray, this one snail was a horrid, god-cursed milky yellow-white.  With just a hint of a greenish tinge.  Exactly the color of glow-in-the-dark stuff, know what I mean?
          I crouched down beside it and hissed, "You make me SICK." 
          Then I took pictures of it and left for work.

THE DOG BARFED ON MY WEEK

          I've been having a pretty crappy week because I have a really bad cold that started late Sunday evening, thankfully AFTER I had spent a lovely Mother's Day with my lovely mother.
          Monday was my last scheduled furlough day for this school-year, which kind of sucks because I don't get paid for it, and I spent the whole day sitting around at home coughing and blowing my nose and battling a sore throat.
          Tuesday I was still sick, but went to work anyway because the Librarian and I had already planned for me to take about 6 boxes of donated old books to the used book store, to exchange for store credit so I could buy cool stuff for the library.  That was kind of a lot for me to do while still being sick, especially since the used book store does not have air-conditioning.  I was already confused and feverish and it just made me more-so.
          Last night I awoke in the dark because Esther was wiggling around under the covers, licking my leg.  I reached down to move her away and felt something... WRONG.  I lifted the covers to find she had BARFED ALL OVER ME and the bed, and was LICKING IT UP.  That is both disgusting, AND an invasion of my personal space.  What I have learned from this incident is that startling and revolting things can happen when I least expect it, in a place I think I'm safest.
          Anthony the night owl was still up, so I got his attention by running down the hallway yelling "GROSS GROSS GROSS!!!" 
          He was a total lamb.  While I was changing into non-barfy clothes, he helped strip the barfy sheets and put clean ones on.
          When I finally tried to go back to sleep I was torn between wanting to comfort Esther and let her know there were no hard feelings, but also being wary of another barfing episode.  And she was right back at my side again, way too close for comfort if she was gonna blow more chunks.  But those big dark sensitive eyes... how can you turn her away? 
          That's one of the many reasons I'm not sad that Anthony and I chose not to have kids.  When I'm tired I wanna be able to SLEEP, not have to deal with someone else's barf, or pee, or poop or whatever.
          It's gross and inconvenient enough when I barf, pee, or poop.  Or cry. 
          Speaking of things that do all of that, I have to go to a BABY SHOWER today.  I am not thrilled.  It's been sneakily incorporated into a Library meeting, so there's no escape for someone like me who does not think a baby is necessarily a reason to celebrate. 
          Babies are just little people, and people are mostly crappy.  I don't like many of them.  Nobody can give me a guarantee that this baby won't turn out to be a total asshole.  Hitler was once a baby.  Was THAT a reason to celebrate?

IN THE DREAMHOUSE: the Winchester Mystery House

          Last night I dreamed about the Winchester Mystery House YET AGAIN.  I dream about it probably once a month, and have done so fairly regularly since I first visited there with my parents when I was about 7.
          I had been staying there, like it was a hotel, and was actually crying about having to leave it.  There was wallpaper with a pattern of weeping cherub's faces in relief, and I kept running my fingers across their faces.
          In the dream, Anthony and I were staying there with my stepsister and her husband and sons.  Our beds were on this broad second-floor gallery, and our last morning there a sinister man with a black mustache served us brunch.  He obviously hated us, and I was afraid he might be slipping poison into the food and drink.  I glanced up and noticed a procession of ghosts serving themselves from a sideboard along the wall.  I eavesdropped on their conversations, and discovered many of them saying perverse and obscene things.

          Somewhere along the way my stepsister and her family turned into the cast of I Love Lucy.  Anthony and I were moving furniture with them, and of course hijinks ensued.  But the hijinks element was incongruous with the spooky setting and huge unwieldy gothic Victorian furniture.
         
          Part of my dream was also the story of two children, a brother and sister, who were trapped in the Winchester House, and only the girl survived.  She had to fight an evil ghost woman who wanted to trap her soul there forever.  The ghost lured the girl up into the highest reaches of the house, even a vaulted attic.  But the girl managed to trick the woman and cast HER into the heart of the house forever. 
          When the girl finally escaped the house and walked along the seashore, she came across a crab that had her dead brother's face, and realized he had been reincarnated.  This was like a happy ending to their story, though, because she was glad his soul wasn't trapped forever in the Winchester House.
       

THE DEVIL'S CALORIES

          (Obviously these are the Devil Days of February...)
          I go through periods where I'm pretty disciplined about working out.  But then something interrupts my groove and it's a sudden mudslide into donuts, cookies, and lots of cheese and other carbs.  On my way down I grope for something to hold on to, to keep myself from sliding to the very bottom, but all I manage to grab are chocolate bars and extra pounds.
          Lately I've been grimly determined to correct my many wrongs by spending time on the treadmill.  Once I worked up to it, my daily goal became to burn 666 calories, according to the treadmill's readout.  (Maybe not entirely correct, but possibly close?)  I grit my teeth and think of it as "burning the Devil's calories."
          I feel very accomplished every time I reach that goal, which has been a lot lately.  There is much at stake.  But I'm not sure who the triumph is for or against.  Am I keeping the Devil AWAY by burning 666 calories?  Or am I HONORING the Devil?  I figure it's a good thing either way I imagine it.  Maybe if I only burn 665 and 1/2 calories, the Devil wins my soul and drags me to Hell?  By reaching my goal I either please him or defeat him, and either way I'm safe, right?
          The flaming pit yawns hungrily beneath me and I MUST reach 666 calories or the treadmill will bang open like a trap door and down I'll go... 
        

DEVIL, DEVIL, WHO'S GOT THE DEVIL?

          We watched M. Night Shyamalan's "Devil" last night.  (Netflix)  I'd really been looking forward to it.  I would also like to mention that I just checked the spelling of his name and I got it correct on the FIRST TRY.  Gold star, please. 
Stuck in an elevator with the Devil!
          Anyway, when it was over Anthony made a dismissive "meh" sound to illustrate his opinion of it, but I was like, "Well, I liked it!  I thought it was pretty good!"
          Anthony had guessed the "twist" about halfway through the movie, and was unimpressed with the way events played out, and the lackluster devily effects.
          The more I thought about it, the more I realized that when I said I "liked" it, and that it was "good," it was by my new and evolving Shyamalan rating system, which isn't really based on how good the movie is, but rather how much or how little I'm disappointed in it.  Because I know going into it that I WILL be disappointed. 
          Shyamalan started out strong with "The Sixth Sense," and "Signs," the latter being only mildly flawed but forgivable because of some really freaky and effective scenes in the first half.  But it was all downhill from there, hence my new rating system.  For example, I was tragically disappointed by "Lady in the Water," and seriously pissed-off with disappointment over "The Village." 
          "The Happening" left me cold, but was of a less furious disappointment, more of a mildly frowning, "Hm.  That's it?"
          So "Devil" actually had a pretty cool concept and a few creepy scenes that might have been chilling if you didn't know you were going to be let down by the end.  If Shyamalan had perhaps turned the concept over to better writers, it could have been very interesting.  Therefore, for a Shyamalan film, it was sort of good.
          But somebody better make a REALLY good Devil film soon, one that is seriously scary.  Is that even possible in this jaded era?

MY OWN DAMN CALENDAR : February

"Cupid VS the Bee of Hate"

          For this month, even though I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd go all out with the pink and the hearts and the angel wings.  Not sure why I drew Cupid as sort of a koala/Care Bear, but it made sense at the time.
          Naturally there has to be a yang to Cupid's yin, hence the Bee of Hate.

          The casual observer might ask, "Are they pooping hearts and death's heads?"  I perceive it as more of a being propelled by a stream of hearts, and being propelled by a stream of hatred. 


LET'S GET PHYSICAL

Here is the current state of my hair, my right foot, and my fat ass:

HAIRCUT
          I'm actually kind of proud of this.  Last weekend I got fed up with my hair being too long in back, but knowing that every time I go to an actual hair stylist and tell them what I want, they deny me.  I just want it left long in front, and short in back.  The stylists always tell me that you can't do that and make it look right, but I'm gay.  I have my own ideas about these things.  Can they not just humor me?!
          Anyway, I started thinking about it, and a cutting plan formulated in my mind, involving sectioned-off locks of hair, cutting each section a certain way.  So I did it.  I used my little-girl barrettes to do the sectioning, because I like the absurdity of a 39-year-old dude with little kitties, balloons, and plastic daisies clipped to his head.  By the time I was done I was quite pleased.  Even my detail-oriented husband approved, although he did have to even up a little bit of the back.

BLOODY FOOT
          Yesterday as I was leaving work I kept feeling what I thought was a sharp rock in my right shoe.  It hurt like a mutha, but I didn't want to have to take my shoe off at work, or in my car.  I just wanted to get HOME.  By the time I got home and in the door, it REALLY hurt.  I took my shoe off to find my sock had a bloody hole torn in it.  I was whining and moaning, so Anthony took my shoe and discovered there was a piece of BROKEN GLASS wedged into the sole on the inside.
          I could have DIED.  But he pried the broken glass out, so I guess I'll survive the next time I wear those shoes.

MY FATTEST ANGLE
          In the mirror this morning before work I discovered what is undeniably my fattest angle.  It had a lot to do with the pose, too, and the fact that I was wearing unfortunate khaki pants, with a light blue dress shirt tucked in.  It's my ugliest work outfit.
          I found that by turning to sort of a 3/4 angle, and keeping one foot behind the other, and kind of slouching and letting it all hang out, I could make myself look truly bloppy and horrendous.  Just a big beige sack of potatoes on a stick.  With fabulous hair.

FIRE SAUCE

          I keep noticing this stray packet of Fire Sauce in the floorboard of my truck.  It's on the driver's side, right by the door.  Who knows how long it's been sliding around there under my feet.  It's definitely an accident waiting to happen. 
          Yesterday I arrived at work with my man bag and a big box full of books from the used book store for the library.  Normally I don't even think about actually throwing the Fire Sauce away, but for some reason it occurred to me while my hands were full that I should probably do that.  I poked at the packet with my foot, and sure enough it was full.  (I don't even use the stuff)  But since I didn't have any extra hands, dealing with the Fire Sauce was beyond my problem-solving abilities.
          So there it sits, waiting for me to accidentally burst it and then curse myself for being so lazy.

MY OWN DAMN CALENDAR

          Like usual New Year's came and went and I suddenly realized I hadn't picked up a new calendar.  By that time it was all Jonas Brothers, barns, and bikini girls in the 50% off bargain calendar racks.  I decided to make my own calendar.  It's a little belated, but here's January:
"New Year's worm is fierce and focused"

ROYAL HISTORIAN OF OZ #5

          I have to write a "catalog description" for each issue of any comic book I'm working on.  We used to be limited to 50 words, but now we can go over that, which makes it a little easier.  It's still a tricky thing to do, condensing something complex, nuanced, and rich in detail (or so I like to think) into a bite-sized paragraph to instantly grab someone's attention in the midst of a giant catalog full of garish, dynamic comic book plots.
          Anyway, it's time to turn in my catalog description of the 5th and final issue of "The Royal Historian of Oz."  Here's what I came up with:

The Royal Historian of Oz #5
Written by Tommy Kovac
Illustrated by Andy Hirsch

It's time to mobilize! Scraps the Patchwork Girl has been possessed by the soggy ghost of the Wicked Witch of the West, and wrested control of the powerful magic on display in Jasper Fizzle's Oz Historical Library and Museum. Ozma and her immortal friends join forces with Frank Fizzle and travel to the mortal world (with the help of a giant space/time continuum-crunching friend) to right the tangled wrongs of two worlds. Is there any way for Jasper to redeem the Fizzle family name in the eyes of the citizens of Oz or the literary snobs of the Official Oz Society? The pen may be mightier than the sword, but how mighty is a rickety old manual typewriter?

THAT WHICH SHALL NOT BE NAMED

          I never listen to radio because I hate everything on every station.  Hate DJs, hate callers, hate 99% of music that gets played for mass consumption.  The radio in my truck is tuned to KROQ just because... well, that's what I grew up with in the '80s, back when 50% of what they played was passably listenable.  Now if I catch even a snippet of their programming, it's usually Linkin Park (HATE) or some totally tired and thoroughly played-out Red Hot Chili Peppers, or Sublime (also HATE).
          Anyway, to continue with my tirade, the other morning I was driving to work and thought maybe I'd briefly check in with the world at large, so I paused my iPod and allowed the radio to take over.  You know, just in case we were under attack, or Godzilla was headed my way, or there was something I truly needed to be aware of.
          At first they were talking about the Foo Fighters (rolling of eyes, yawn...), then without any noticeable transition (I swear!) they were speaking live with one of the retard guys from Jersey Shore.
          At first it was like being bitten by a snake.  I froze, paralyzed, my eyes wide with horror.
          The poison began to spread throughout my system, filling me with nausea, loathing, incredulity.  Why does such a thing exist?  How could any loving god create such a thing and allow it to take over the way it has, so that seemingly EVERYONE on the planet is familiar with this hideous... THING.  I understand the concept of guilty pop culture pleasure, and partake of plenty of that myself, but surely there must be a limit.  Some things must not be allowed to continue...
          Why wasn't I turning it off?  Why was I still listening?  And why didn't Kevin and Bean give us some kind of warning, so those of us who are more sensitive could have dodged the deadly pop culture poison in time?
          Then abruptly, like a dark cloud moving aside to reveal the sun, I realized I really WASN'T interested in what the retard from Jersey Shore had to say.  Not even the slightest bit.  It didn't seem entertaining even in the most guilty, bottom-of-the-barrel kind of way.  The constriction in my chest loosened, and I poked the button to switch from radio to iPod.
          Whew!            

CHRISTMAS CRAFT MANIA

Fancy!
          Being a crafty sort, I enjoy the challenge of trying to use only things we already HAVE for wrapping and stuff.  Plus we're poor, so the more money we save, the better.  We printed out our own Christmas cards using a drawing I did of Krampus & Santa, and it ended up being an odd size. 
My drawing of the Krampus battling Santa

          I made templates and cut envelopes from scrap paper, even fancy lining from scraps of Christmas wrap. Double-sided tape is my friend.
Variety!

          Here are some more hand-made bows, but I changed things up a little by using scraps cut from discarded library books, and even some packing paper.
Awesome, right? Destroying library books is fun!

         



THE PONIES OF CHRISTMAS

          What would Christmas be without my collection of special holiday edition My Little Ponys?  Here we see them gathered around a magical color-changing Christmas tree candle.
There's an angel pony, a reindeer pony, and several over-dressed fashion victim ponies
          When the lights go out it's all crazy 'n' shit.  They'll all have hangovers in the morning.
         

THE NEW MARTHA

          Check me out, I figured out how to make one of these bows by HAND.  Using strips of paper and double-sided tape.  The method came to me in a heavenly cloud and a flash of angelic light.  And a voice said, "Let it be so..."
          Here's a close-up:
          Anthony thinks I'm insane for doing this, especially since we have several boxes full of pre-fab bows ready to just peel and stick.  But shouldn't I win an award for this?

"NUTCRACKER" WASN'T ALREADY GAY ENOUGH?

Is it... Tom Hulce in "Amadeus?" -or... a Cirque du Soleil "clown?" -or... an escapee from the gayest Mardi Gras ever?
          Nope.  It's supposed to be Godfather Drosselmeier from Nutcracker, based on the book by E.T.A. Hoffmann.  And sure, that's a pretty strange story all on its own, but THIS is just plain alarming.  Unsettling, even.  The image above is from a flyer I saw tacked to a restaurant bulletin board in the Inland Empire, advertising a local production of Nutcracker.  This version of Drosselmeier looks like he just took a buttload of Ecstasy, is probably wearing sequined high heels, and probably still has shards of a shattered disco ball still scattered throughout his fright wig.  I'd say we're lucky if he's even wearing pants.
          I will not be attending this production, but then again I don't even like musical theater in the first place, whether they're dancing or singing, or some foul combination of both.
          I do, however, enjoy this horrific image, because I'm a horror fan.  I love horror novels, horror movies, and the better horror genre magazines.  To me, this image would be at home next to a poster of Hellraiser's "Pinhead," or perhaps Freddy Krueger, or even the Wayans brothers in "White Chicks."
"One... two... Wayans comin' for you..."

IN THE DREAMHOUSE: Tidal Wave Canyon

          Last night I had a long, arduous dream about being part of some survival trek over a mountain range.  There was a whole troop of us scaling this rocky, uneven terrain, and I was exhausted, my legs aching from trying to find purchase in the crumbling slope.  I was really anxious about my speed, wanting to make sure I wasn't in last place, so I kept looking behind me.  Most of the time I was in the very middle of the line of people, but I wished I could have been studly enough to be at the front.  I was self-conscious about my puffing and straining, worrying that my legs (or heart) would just give out before I made it to whatever our goal was.
          When we finally got through that part of the journey, we ended up in a vast red canyon, with no sign of civilization anywhere.  Only in a dream could you climb a mountain range and find a canyon at the top.  There was also a bunch of towering palm trees, which quickly became very important.
          A huge tidal wave was headed our way, the wall of rushing water stretching up farther than we could see.  The only way we knew to possibly escape being killed by it was to scale the palm trees and hang on for dear life.  We climbed as fast and as high as we could.  My tree was very skinny, and bowed low with my weight (too many Reese's Peanut Butter Christmas Trees?), which worried me since I needed to be higher than the water after it settled.
          The wave hit and we all blacked out from the force of it, each of us clinging to our individual palm trees.  When I awoke, the water had mostly drained from the canyon, but I was perplexed about how I survived drowning in the initial deluge.  Even in the dream it didn't make sense to me.
          Susan, an old friend from school, had the tree next to mine, and she had also survived.  After that, though, we all went our separate ways.
          Then came a period of rebuilding after our ordeal.  I wandered through the canyon, finding small groups of people from the original survival team that had splintered off into sub-groups.  Each little enclave seemed to be building houses right into the canyon walls, kind of like the cliff-dwelling Anasazi.  Most of the new communities told me they had first asked permission from the local native tribes, before building their houses.  But the last group I came to, and for some reason decided to stay with, had NOT asked permission.  Instead, they had built their housing using very raw materials, trying to mimic the color and texture of the canyon walls, and carved native animals into their furniture and household items like clocks and kitchen ware.  They were hoping that if they simply showed enough respect and reverence for nature, it would be enough to keep the native tribes appeased.
          I was nervous about that.  It just seemed stubborn to me, and I was considering seeking out these mysterious natives, none of whom I'd seen any trace of on my travels, on my own. 
          But then I woke up.