Dress Up Your Devices with My Art!

After a few too many complaints about the quality of their products, I have moved on from Society6 and am now selling through the company formerly known as GelaSkins. You can view my new shop here. (use code SUMMER25 for 25% off)

I had seen the prints that Society6 has done over the years at people’s homes, and thought they were pretty good. Perhaps Society6 should have stuck with them alone. The amount of people who told me they got orders refunded because of shoddy cheap products was finally getting to me (and that is just the people who told me!) I admit that both my iPhone cases cracked in a strange area — I don’t think I ever dropped it. I’m not a fan of my art on throw pillows, tote bags, or any of that nonsense. The other thing was Society6 didn’t have iPad cases or anything for Kindle. Well, as of now you can find skins for all those things, even Nook and other products!

I am getting something for my Kindle Fire for sure…

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I’m curious to know how well the prints on fancy paper, and on canvas turn out, so someone order a few and let me know!

Waste

Lately I’ve been in a fog: forgetful, spaced, and over all just not seeing the point of anything. The only thing giving me structure is the looming deadlines for the next several art shows I have and that’s all I can manage to pay attention to. Painting is a compulsion of mine whether I give a crap about it or not.

Three of my friends have died in the last year and a half; one a freak accident that still doesn’t seem real; one stabbed to death; and one of natural causes, but it was a long slow process with ups and downs. I was mad at myself not being able to attend the funerals of the first two, but attending the last one, that pretty much did it for me. I hadn’t been to a service since I was in 4th grade and this one — for reasons I won’t go into — made me so angry. If anyone deserved a crazy Michael Jackson-like spectacle it was this man, but his life was reduced down to a few well known facts and audio selections. He wasn’t Christian, but let’s pray for the salvation of his soul anyway. I still feel like shit I didn’t get up and say something; I’m such a chicken at public speaking (despite being an over all loud mouth) and I was so angry that it wasn’t going to happen. In the end, I didn’t see the point of anything, because I will one day end up as dust in an ugly vase in a funeral home that looks like a Ramada conference room. That’s it. There you go. Although if I have the money, I’d much rather have a big obnoxious tombstone with a statue  — always wanted one of those.

Now I know everyone will lecture me on the whole, “it matters more what you do in life” bla bla bla, but at this point I really don’t think so. Dust in a damn box, that’s where I’m headed, so I may as well do what the hell I want while I’m around because none of it will matter. Those three people were some of the smartest and most talented I knew, and they went out painfully, and violently. Does it matter that they didn’t deserve it like that? No, because “shit happens”. No more planning ahead for me, everything is unpredictable anyways, and the things I plan for won’t matter later. If anything I’ve realized all the things I don’t want to do, or become, because it is just an even bigger waste of time on top of the waste of time I’m already experiencing.

I think I’ve become a bit of a nihilist.

Indie Rock Wall of Shame

Was it holiday here in the U.S. of A? I’ve spent my weekend numbing a lingering migraine with Zombie drink mix and champagne. While our friends The Sky Drops were excellent as always on Friday night, I had forgotten something about going to live gigs that one should always remember: the most awful sucky opening “bands” play for a really long time and crank up the amps to let the suckiness overcome you, especially in a small room. Seriously people, save the amatuer rehearsals for the basement. I know its not very zen to outright tell people they suck and should stop doing something, but I’ve gotten to the point where my time gets wasted enough that I don’t care anymore. Maybe they need to be told they suck? Maybe that will stop the madness. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing.

I’ve entered a new phase of my life where if I don’t like how something is going, or I’m bored, or I feel like going koo-koo-crazy-Michael Douglas in Falling Down-bang-bang-punchy-stab-stab, I will just leave. This goes for live gigs, art shows, film festivals, bars, dance clubs, BBQs, house parties, plays, lectures, readings, auctions, boxing matches, camel fights, county fairs, monster truck rallys and rib cook-offs that feature the Gin Blossoms as the main entertainment — like this past weekend at the Berea Fairgrounds. Okay, I don’t see how I could leave a Monster Truck Rally as it should be fun no matter what, right? I’ve never been, I’d like to go sometime…really!

This weekend wasn’t a all bad. Friends made yummy food, got to catch up with people, and I started reading my Joan Crawford book; that basically is telling me I’m a lazy untidy unfeminine fatty and should keep my mouth shut and be my husband’s slave, but also have a real job, otherwise people will think I’m boring. All with perfect hair and makeup of course. I love you Joan baby!

I was also productive and decided to hang some framed pictures. Better than them sitting in my warehouse right? This is the “indie rock wall of shame” now in our bedroom, because it is all my drawings inspired by hipster indie rock groupies and the like. There are actually even more framed drawings, but I thought this looked like a good amount to hang. All are still for sale too by the way…

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Woo Girls

While working on a piece to possibly be in a book, I came up with this little thing yesterday:

But then I realized there’s another type of woman that I can’t stand — even more so than these — so you will have to wait and see. These are called “Woo Girls” obviously, because when they do a jello shot they all yell, “Woooo!” They also have a tendency to knock their drinks over repeatedly and fail to notice when some chump is rubbing their ass. Yet I’m still fascinated by it all; a sort of anthropological fascination in that I like studying them, you know? When these faces came about, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I even knew or seen these girls somewhere. The one on the right after I drew her looked awful familiar. But, as the case with most of my portraits, I end up meeting the people I draw later in life — freaky eh?

Why I Can’t Have Nice Things

This is Milkshake

Oh, don’t let him fool you. He fools EVERYONE with the little baby white kitten routine. What Milkshake would really like to do after earning your trust, is to take your Blood! Human flesh and blood is tasty to this fellow. But people will still pick him up, cuddle him and then, “Ow! You fucker!” and repeat this cycle over and over because he does the, “oh did I do that? I’m so soweee, I’m just a siwwy widdle kitten” and then roll around on the floor in that cute way.

Milkshake also responds to the names: Boner, Polar Bear Butt, McMilkerstein, Honey Bear, Uncle Slappy, Uncle Chewy, Sparky, Princess, Twinkletoes, Jerk-shake, Fucker, Whitey, Cracker, Fuzz Nuts, Little Guy, Slappy McGillicutty and others I cannot even remember. The other problem? He knows he is handsome, and knows how to ham up the cute factor for sympathy.

Milkshake likes to chew and scratch…a lot. We’ve spent a good $200 the past couple of years just on replacing cables, wires, computer speakers, and two answering machines. He chews metal, and likes it. He took the platinum fountain pen as a personal challenge. Abusing my husband is his real passion though. Anyways, because of this, my apartment is in a constant state of chaos and our belongs get recycled often due to Milkshake putting them out of commission. I cannot have nice things, expensive things, luxury items or anything that might actually mean somthing to me. Milkshake had the knack for finding which ones of daddy’s records were worth $100 or more…out of a pile of a thousand LPs. That New Order LP mint condition since 1980? Undone in one swoop. I can’t shop like a normal person, not even furniture, because “what will Milkshake do to this-n-that?” It doesn’t help that two of our closet doors don’t shut all the way (faulty globbed painting and craftsmanship), or that he has actually learned to open doors himself by jumping and turning the knob. He turns every punishment we could think of, into a game. The water squirt bottle? Oh no, he thinks that is super fun! ‘It’s a game of tag!’ Getting a time-out? Oh, that’s silly, he’ll just cry and turn on the bathroom faucets until you let him out. Loud noises? ‘Whatever dude, I’m just going to nap in the other room and then chew on the stereo for a while’. He just won’t respond to threats I guess.

He has managed to destroy: All of my books, all of my husband’s records, all wood furniture, the curtains, the couch, the expensive-ass designer chair, the persian rug, the Kilim rug, all sets of bed linens, all sets of towels, my wedding dress, my favorite evening gown, two dresses I had bought and not even worn yet, my Prada fucking shoes, my wood heeled boots, anything made of leather, the TV console table, the TV wires, my Prada fucking handbag…oh you get the point. If I leave my birth control up on the counter for just a moment, he runs up, snatches it and then hides it somewhere.

Little teeth marks cover every surface of everything. He cries at 6am, takes nasty stinky poops, doesn’t like meat, only eats things that are white (like Mayo or ceasar sdressing) makes us bleed, slaps us while we’re asleep and is so needy that he can’t even be left alone for one full day (aren’t the point of cats is that they can take care of themselves?). I have never experienced a little bastard cat like this one.

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But still, he’s my little guy.

The DNA results are in…

I’ve been witnessing the decline of class, decorum and any hint of shame during my afternoon lunch TV sessions. I know, daytime TV pretty much caters to the unemployed trash of the western world (I do not have cable so I can’t just watch a cooking show) but it has become increasingly so, to the point where people are actually tricked into thinking this is the way to behave. Kathy Hilton is just as much of a skank as her daughter Paris, yet she was even given a show where she dictated and judged the behavior of country bumpkins in accordance with how an heir or heiress should act (I’ve known country bumpkins with more natural class than the Hilton money can buy). If you have ever seen episodes of Flavor of Love — that’s what trash TV has done to a generation of women. That’s what they think is fine and classy. Of course those women have the combined I.Q. of a Tic Tac and are competing for a man who’s only claim to fame in the past 20 years has been, “Yeeeeaaah Boyyyyy”.

First I  watch Tyra, just because she is camp — and knows it. But lately it has just become one big commercial for whoever the sponsor is that day or celebrity guest: Naomi Campbell perfume, Hilary Duff clothing line and of course every girl needs a makeover courtesy of Caress skincare products before they go to meet their long lost relative….esh!

What I want to know is, how much money do these DNA diagnotic centers really have that they are advertising non-stop and sponsoring all these damn paternity test shows? Maury Povich and Judge Hatchett have got to be rolling in it! Really now, every court show and talk show is all about the woman who brings on 7 guys and none of them are the father! Ah, remember the good ole days when having a bastard was shameful enough that A. you didn’t publicize it B. you had to use the last name of another relative for the baby and c. you were viewed as used goods? Oh yeah, and you didn’t humiliate the baby by bringing it on national TV with several men in tow calling you “nothin’ but a ho” who of course high five eachother and do a touchdown dance when the results are negative. Why would you do that to your kid? You think they aren’t going to be showing reruns by the time they are in 5th grade? Great, now the whole school will know your mom is a slut, with bad taste in men too retarded to use a condom. Yet throughout all of these shows — no one has any shame. I guess if they had shame or were even slightly concerned what impact this may have on their families, they wouldn’t be going on a TV show in the first place huh?