Apr 232013
 

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I have owed Barb a painting for quite some time now. The problem with me and painting is that most of the time, I just really don’t want to do it.

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But then I get these creative (that word is used loosely)  spurts, and this current one is mostly thanks to that Castle Blood craft show I did a few weeks ago. Granted, most of those paintings were older ones that I had stowed away, but I did make several new ones and it felt kind of good. So I figured, shit, I better just do Barb’s painting now before my painting muscles atrophy once more.

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I wanted Barb’s painting to be personal, so I included a photo of Bill Paxton, for whom she has pretty intense feelings. And I painted this while watching all of the Boston Bombing stuff on CNN, so there is your cultural significance. I guess you could say my paintings pretty much have it all, you guys. (Jokes.)

Anyway, I have a few blank canvases left so I figure I will slather them up with God only knows what and then probably go back into hibernation for a bit. So if you want something, now is your chance to ask!

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And there are still several older ones left over.

Apr 082013
 

Here is a completely half-assed, unprofessional listing of the remaining paintings from the craft show. Just like with the pendants, if you see something you like and want it, leave a comment with the name of the painting and make sure you use a valid email address in the comment form (which only I will see), and I will send you a Paypal invoice.

A big thanks to all of you who have expressed interest and have been so supportive! <3

NOTE: Please do NOT leave your email address in the actual comment portion. Some lady has been stalking me and is now resorting to contacting anyone who has left their email address here. She has already contacted two of my blog friends in the last two days and I am ready to scream.

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Class of ’97 – 6×6

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“Blahloons.” (I don’t have the exact dimensions of this one — waiting for HENRY to get back to me on that.)

 

“Whoever Blinks First” – 5″x7″

 

The Hob Nob! This is actually one of my all-time favorites. 5″ x 7″

 

 

“Birds on a Wire” (a large size?)

 

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“Francis Shakes That Ass” – 5″x5″

 

” Somnambulant Skullz” – 8″8″

 

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Frederico in the City” – 8″x8″

 

“Spectacles ” 8″x8″

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“Robotic <3″ – 8″x8”

Apr 042013
 

 

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Well, you guys. I finally found the one thing that could potentially break up Henry and me: vending craft shows. It wasn’t so much the actual “vending” part, as much as the “getting shit together” part. We had an explosive argument Friday night which culminated in me savagely knocking over a bucket of water AND THEN HENRY LEFT IT THERE ALL NIGHT.

By morning, we had patched things up enough to get to Castle Blood with a little more than 30 minutes to spare. We drove in silence though, with me staring out the window and pouting to the soundtrack of Jonny Craig.

“I didn’t think you were coming!” Gayle said when we arrived. She and her husband Jeffrey were selling prints and jewelry in the room next to us.

“You have no idea,” I laughed without mirth.

“So, I guess you probably won’t be doing any more craft shows?” Gayle jokingly asked, after I ranted and raved about how stressful this was.

“Not with me,” Henry mumbled, walking away.

Then Gravely, Castle Blood’s proprietor, came in and was looking at my stuff  while I whined about feeling like it was all crap and that I didn’t have enough to show.

“It’s fine!” Gravely insisted encouragingly. “You’re going to do fine.”

“I guess,” I whined even harder. I was even annoying myself at this point but I just couldn’t cheer the fuck up.

“There you go, Erin! That’s the attitude that will sell your stuff!” Gravely joked, and then I finally laughed for the first time in approximately 18 hours.

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Setting up wasn’t too bad, except that Henry literally only brought me five nails to hang my pendants from the styrofoam heads, an idea I came up with several weeks ago and thought would be fitting for Easter weekend. You know, suspending things from nails. Woo, Easter!

So yeah, FIVE NAILS, wtf Henry!? I sent him away to forage for more nails, and hung up what I could with what was available. My heart was racing with so  much hate-adrenaline, and then a girl (presumably either another vendor or a Castle Blood cast member) walked through my room and asked if I was having an ok time setting up.

Now, normally when someone asks me how I’m doing, I will always say “Fine” even if I just found out I have Snooki’s Kooka disease. That was something my pappap taught me — no one wants to hear some stranger’s dirty laundry, just say “fine” and move along. But I was a woman on the edge and this poor girl caught me at the wrong time.

“Oh it’s fine,” I started. “Except that my boyfriend and I FIGHT A LOT!!” I added with out-of-control huffiness. She laughed nervously, and I went on to say, “It’s going to be a long day with him in such a little room.”

Right on cue, Henry returned and barked, “Here’s your NAILS,” slapping them into my hand with force. Our spectator burst out with laughter and wished me luck  before retreating. I never saw her again that day. I can’t imagine why.

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I sent Henry away for coffee and immediately sold $65 worth of merch (two paintings and three pendants!) to my first customer! My outlook on life changed drastically after that.

Obviously.

Henry was so pissed because no one was actually looking inside the cards. We sold approximately zero of them. Tough crowd.  A ton of people got a kick out of the serial killer Valentines though, and my business cards were taken for (hopefully) future reference. 20130403-183631.jpg

I am cripplingly shy around strangers, ESPECIALLY when there is any sort of attention on me. I just can’t deal with it and the fact that I had to sit there while people filed through my room, scrutinizing my wares, it made me want to fillet Henry so I could crawl up inside his body cavity and strangle myself with his intestines.  I let some people walk through and browse without trying to bug them with small talk, but sometimes I would get brave and blurt out, “THIS IS MY FIRST CRAFT SHOW AND I AM AWKWARD.” The honest/self-deprecation route seemed to work and I wound up having some pretty good conversations with some cool people.

And then sometimes I would resort to the classic “Are you from around here?” line, like I was trying to pick them up in some sleazy tavern.

Of course, there were also the people who would frown at my stuff and then walk into Gayle’s room, where I would hear them carrying on lengthy, jovial conversations. Gayle is fucking good at this shit! Maybe next time (IF THERE IS A NEXT TIME) I’ll just put all of my stuff in her room and go to the nearest strip club for the day.20130403-183801.jpg

I had a stack of my blog cards laying out with a sign that said “FREE – PLEASE TAKE ONE” and literally only one person took one (and it was the one with this picture on it — she said it was her favorite and I said, “Funny, that’s my boyfriend’s favorite too!”). God, even for FREE no one wants to read this stupid blog!

I would get so nervous when other vendors would walk through my room for a look-see. I feel like such a fake! My art is so childish and outsider, and even though it means a lot to me, I always feel like a fraud when I’m around real artists. My self-esteem was dry-heaving all over the place last Saturday.

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I really am proud of these pendants, though.  TEN DOLLA!

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Laura came out to visit (and PURCHASE!) right around the time I started getting really slap-happy. I mean, I had been sitting in the same small room since 11:30AM and had eaten nothing but 20 almonds.  I finally sent Henry to fetch me a chocolate rat pretzel from one of the other vendors, so that was good. But I was really getting out of hand with my giddines and even resorted to spying on Gayle through a crack in the wall at one point.

I think my favorite part of the day was when a couple who had already passed through my room actually had a Castle Blood denizen assist them in fnding their way back so they could buy one of my bathroom plaques. I think they were considering buying one of my octopi paintings, but that was the same time Laura arrived and snatched it off the shelf with purpose — she had claimed that one weeks ago! Now that I think about it, I should have charged her extra. And then had her repeat it each time a new customer walked through to give me the illusion of being a hot commodity.

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This is what I looked at all day.

Ironically, I think I met the boyfriend of the girl with the pink mohawk that I see sometimes on the trolley and desperately wish to befriend. He was vending there too and when I spoke with him, all I could think was, “Wow, he looks familiar.” Then he told me where he lives and it’s right near the trolley stop where I’ve seen the mohawk girl get on (you know, as any good stalker would note) and there was one time when she was on the trolley with some dude and I’m pretty sure it was him.

A quick Facebook creep-session later and it all came together. Now if I ever see her on the trolley, I can tell her this entire story and she will either chuck her coffee in my face (she always comes on the trolley with coffee — of COURSE I would know that) or invite me to a round of Ruzzle.

My luck, she will probably have already read about it on my blog and I’ll get the coffee-punch before even saying anything.

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GRAMPS. (Ironically, I made all of my sales when Henry wasn’t around.)

Janna and Chooch came out to visit later in the evening, as well as my friend Kristy, who bought one of the hand job pendants! I was really appreciative that they came out to support me. It’s just really hard to get people to take me and my stuff seriously (you know, “Oh, here’s Erin and her cheap crafts again”), so whenever anyone does, I feel even more grateful. (Maybe if it had been a bake sale, more people would have come out — I mean, if Henry was the one baking, haha.) 

Overall, t was a really scary, yet rewarding day. A BIG THANKS to Castle Blood for having me!

(NOTE: Janna did not buy anything!! To be fair, she was pretty busy chasing Chooch around.)

Feb 132013
 

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The weather was way too nice on Sunday to sit around crying about my club foot, so we went to Jefferson Memorial for a family walk (Henry is not a fan of these). The subject of Bloody Mary came up and Chooch just kept pressing me for more and more information. I was like, “I don’t know! She’s some bitch who comes out of the mirror and scratches your face off! What more can I say!?” So then he took my phone and emailed Andrea, figuring she would have some sort of greater insight on the matter.

(Andrea, aren’t you pleased to know that you’re the go-to girl for these things?)

“Chooch look! It’s a woodpecker!” Henry cried, swiveling on his heels and pointing toward tree tops. I started to groan. “What?!” he snapped.

“Oh nothing, just acknowledging that you’re being a know-it-all as usual,” I said with a fake yawn.

“Sorry if I want my son to learn about things other than Bloody Mary and Minecraft!” Henry retaliated. Hey, I’m not the one who taught him about Minecraft.

Some older man was sitting in his car with the windows down, watching Chooch’s antics and laughing. I knew, just KNEW, that he was going to try and engage us with words as we walked past. I was right. He was saying something about how don’t we all wish we had that kind of energy, and I almost said, “I DO, but some motherfucker broke my entire will to live with a bowling ball yesterday!” Instead, I just smiled and told him to have a good day.

“That was weird that he was just sitting there!” I whispered (loudly) to Henry after we passed the car.

“Maybe he was parked next to his wife’s grave!” Henry snapped, all defensively. God, maybe they belong to the same beverage cult or something.

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Henry didn’t notice this plane in the sky, or else Chooch and I would have choked on an ear sandwich about what kind of plane it is. You know, since Henry was in THE SERVICE and loves talking about PLANES.

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Look at my poor, broken Big Green Glasses in the background. :( They’re missing an arm (is that what you call the part that goes behind the ear?) but I still wear them even though they’re lopsided and give me a headache.

Elsewhere, Henry and I have been on a roll with these pendants! I’m hoping to have a good stock built up for that Crafts in the Crypt show next month, and then who knows what. I really don’t want to get into selling these on Etsy. The greeting cards are one thing, but Etsy is a bitch to deal with. Henry was supposed to set something up LAST YEAR so I could sell shit on my own site, but that was project #879 that fell between the cracks.

If you’re interested in any beforehand, let me know and we’ll figure something out!

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This is not the best picture, but the image is part of mural inside the Bayernhof Music Museum. When I was there last November with Corey and Kristy, the curator caught Corey and I giggling over it and said, “They’re SHOEING A HORSE,” with an exasperated sigh.

I mean, there IS a horse in the picture….

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My friend Sean wanted a Frown of the Day pin, so we made him this fabulous Cafeteria Anger Frown. He put it on immediately and people at work were like, “OMG I WANT ONE!”

That’s a lie. No one said that.

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Silly Willie* Silhouette.

(*Willie is actually short for Wilhemina. She’s Marcy’s daughter and has zero personality so I don’t talk about her much.)

 

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My friend Brandy found this Chiodos shirt when she was thrifting and sent it to me! I almost died! It’s too small for me, but it fits Chooch perfectly and you better believe he rubbed it in when he wore it to school yesterday.  And apparently, after he taught his entire first grade class about Bloody Mary, he went on to teach them about Chiodos, too.

Thank god his teacher likes him. (He’s a joy to have in class, she said. HAHAHA.)

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This is me, your host of Oh Honestly, Erin, modeling the Malachi pendant.

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I gifted the rosary I stole from the hospital chapel to Apple Head. It was too small to fit over her big ass dome, so I had to help her step into it last night.

I think that’s about it. Except for another foot injury that happened on Sunday night, but I’m waiting for Chooch to write his part of it first. He’s as averse to guest-blogging as Henry is, though.

Sep 112012
 

Maybe some of you have been around these parts long enough to remember when I (Henry) used to make pendants featuring miniature versions of my paintings and some of my photographs.

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We stopped making them because the process was a huge hassle and we would end up losing money on it.

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But Henry has since found a method so much simpler, even I can make them, which is what I’ve been doing since Sunday and I’ve only had one freak-out!

I even figured out that if I lay down parchment paper, they won’t get stuck to the table when the resin is drying! I figured that out ALL ON MY OWN!

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Almost all of them come with a little storycard and I’m planning on another batch of the larger ones this week with all newer photographs. I won’t be selling these on Etsy again, but probably just right here on my blog as soon as Henry sets up some sort of shopping cart action for me.

$8 for the small ones
$15 for the larger ones
Probably $1.50 shipping within the States.

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If you buy one during the upcoming Law Firm Walking Challenge, I can just walk it to your house.

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I realize these pictures are incredibly crappy. I’m going to take some with my real camera tomorrow!

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Nov 142011
 

Thanks to everyone who contributed to last week’s blog birthday party thing! It was a lot of fun to go back and read the posts that my friends favorited and who knew Henry was going to come through at the final hour. I hope you guys enjoyed it.

And now the giveaway is finally here!

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I wasn’t lying this time!

To recap the bounty:

  • 5 eyeshadows and 1 blush of your choice from My Pretty Zombie cosmetics = $33 value
  • a custom Somnambulant painting from the skullz0rz series = PRICELESS. J/K, probably like $20

  • one mp3 CD chockful of all the bands I mention on here constantly.
  • random last minute miscellanea.

So go! Enter, and enter often! There are tons of different ways to get extra entries, like by submitting a sketch of Henry! (If you’re one of the awesome people who already sent me one, you can already check that off as one entry.

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) Comment on the posts that my friends chose as their favorites last week – each one counts as an entry! And if you’re a dude, you should still enter.

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You never know when you’ll be entering a drag queen pageant and then you’ll really be glad you have 5 shades of hot, glittery eye shadow at your disposal. Or just give it your wife/mistress/daughter/mistress’s daughter/bus driver.

Just, thank you. Thank you so much for reading my stuff and making me feel nice. You guys rule.

Giveaway ends on Saturday.


Nov 102011
 

One of the items in the THANKS FOR READING giveaway will be a custom version of this painting:

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If you win and don’t like it, it would probably make a good door stop or fireplace kindle.

Hopefully that gives you incentive to keep reading and enter.

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If not, I can maybe throw in a Henry-prepared casserole and some through-the-kitchen-window Polaroids of Hot Naybor Chris.

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Tip: the giveaway possibly has something to do with the old blog posts my friends have shared on here throughout the week.

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You don’t think I’d make this EASY do you? Pop quiz all the way!

Oct 262011
 

The first mix tape I ever made  I was 3 or 4 and using a Fisher Price tape recorder, the kind that came with the attached microphone on a coil. The mixtape was opaque yellow with a rainbow on it and I vividly remember jamming the mic into the speaker of the TV while the video for Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” was on. Years later, I taped over some of the more frivolous recordings with speaker-crackling songs from my favorite 80’s movie, Back to the Beach.

In addition to that were snippets of adult conversations I would clandestinely record: my mom and Grandma whispering in the kitchen, my Pappap on business calls. God, I miss mix tapes. I miss THAT mixtape, especially.

This painting is an homage to those neon-flavored lo-fi years. It’s painted on a repurposed piece of stock art I found at the flea market & purchased for the frame. It comes varnished and ready-to-hang. Get stoked!

With the frame, this measures approx. 9in. x 9in.

If you want it, you can get it here.

(I was  going to keep it for myself, but it’s time to let go of some things.)

Aug 082011
 

I came home after randomly spending NINETY MINUTES conversing with Momesis* at the playground (yes, this really happened and I can’t believe my fingers are about to admit this, but: it wasn’t so bad) to find a package from the lovely and oh-so multi-faceted Brandy of Zen Master Flash fame.

(*A preschool mom who hijacked the class Halloween party last year, which did not sit well with me. I’ve referred to her as “Momesis” ever since.)

She made me my own personal scene kids for my birthday, you guys. I was stunned when I unwrapped them. Stunned.  Unless you just met me a minute ago when you tried to sell me ya-yo out of that hobo’s boot,  you should know how much I love scene kids and wish to be a mother to them all.

Of course, Chooch immediately tried to swipe them, so I brought them to work with me, which is where they will live, next to my picture of Austin Carlile and Chiodos, because the other thing you would probably learn about me after spending like, an hour on my blog is that I don’t like to share.

Not even with my own kid.

And also, Chooch and I fight like rabid siblings. Henry’s mom was over my house when I was opening the package and it looked like she was getting ready to take a wooden spoon to both of our asses for acting like spoiled bitches.

It’s funny, because Brandy posted a picture of the scene kids on her blog last week, and I fucking flew to her Etsy shop, hoping to find them because I was so ready to buy the shit out of them. I had no idea they were made for me!

And she gave me one of her signature Freak Flags!

You guys should all check out her blog and her Etsy shop if you’re not previously privy, because she’s a real class act.

***

I know I don’t get serious on here a lot, but I am just genuinely struck by the kindness and generosity I’ve encountered in the people I’ve met through blogging. In the last week alone, the outpouring of love and condolences from you guys after I broke the news of my grandma’s death was astounding, and just what I needed to get through the week. I never really had much support growing up, so to have it now is a really incredible feeling, and not something that I take for granted. There are so many times I feel like I just want to quit blogging, but then someone will remind me that at the end of the day, this is why I do it: To make friends. To feel less alone. To feel like I matter.

So to all the people who come back and read this even though I might be abrasive and obnoxious a lot of (most of) the time: You matter to me, too. Thank you. <3

Mar 082011
 

When Milly came calling on Ethel one afternoon, she was a bit unnerved by the soft plopping sensation she kept feeling on her shoulders.

Milly tried not to look distracted while Ethel yammered on about the new compost pile her husband Jim-Bitch had engineered right there in the backyard, next to the rusted 1967 pick up truck and behind the pig sty. As more gentle plops landed upon her shoulders and gingham’d bosom, Milly tightened her grip on the mason jar of moonshine Ethel done served up. Trying her darndest to retain eye contact, she waited for Ethel to get up and whip her kids before flicking and swiping at the hardening lumps on her shoulders.

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Twenty-eight minutes into her visit, Milly was taking a long slurp of ‘shine when something wet and mushy went splat-squish on her head. And then, a second later, a thick brook of warm goo glooped right on down her forehead, right on past the whisker-sprouting mole, before pooling into a moist inlet of fecal marsh at the bridge of her nose.

Looking up slowly, Milly was met with ruffled feathers and at least eight sets of beady eyes.

“Ya’ll gots some birds up in there,” she drawled to Ethel, pointing up at the rafters. And she took another long gulp of moonshine while Ethel went to town with a leather belt on the backside of her redheaded stepson for burying the neighbor in the brand new compost pile, goddammit.

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***

New size pendants up in here! Measuring 1.22 x 1.22″, a print of my original painting Ya’ll Gots Some Birds Up In There has been miniaturized and sealed with resin so that you can have your own piece of lilliputian art to string around your neck.

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Or the neck of your dog. Or perhaps you want to dangle it from your rear view mirror. This thing was practically made for dangling. Get yourself one here.

Chain not included, just in case the dangling gets weird and verboten; I don’t want to be held responsible.

Feb 032011
 

[This little guy was just adopted last weekend, so I thought I’d post his story as a going-away tribute thingie.]

 

It wasn’t so bad at the orphanage after Sister Nutbuster’s interest in birds piqued upon receiving a sign from God. She had always paused to admire squawking woodcocks and bobbing robins, even as a small leg-braced girl, but now that she knew their feathers were saturated with the holy spirit, she spent hours at a time in the courtyard foraging for loose plumage to rub over her pious undercarriage.

This meant less time for Sister Nutbuster to crack the grubby orphans on their ruddy bottoms for sneezing, missing a bead on the rosary, and communicating with Satan through cracks in the bathroom tile.

Eventually, avian mania reached its apex when God told Sister Nutbuster to steal the money from the chicken pox vaccination fund and build a lavish aviary, one with gilded gazebos and fountains bloated with holy water and fenced with statues of big-titted Greek broads.

Trayvon, a ten-year-old orphan whose broom closet bedroom was stationed next to the aviary, really reaped the rewards from Sister Nutbuster’s obsession.

At first, the incessant chirping made it hard to sleep; but after a few days, the birds began telling him important facts like how to build a bomb using pulpit dust and communion wafers, and cooed lullabies to him every night in the style of Gwar.

For the first time since he was dumped on the front steps of the orphanage, Trayvon felt content, like he finally had a family.

A few weeks later, Trayvon expired from bird flu.

Dec 072010
 

thehobnobBilly Nedermeijer arrived at his friend Patty Dogwood’s house with a bottle of Lambrusco and a cube of cheddar. Inside, he found the house atwitter with idle chitchat and soft music humming from a hidden stereo.

There was a large, oblong crate in the middle of the room, atop which Dixie cups and crumbled napkins had been absently discarded.

Billy’s friend Pietro arrived behind him, a small box wrapped in joyful floral tucked under his sweat-stained pit.

“What is this, a birthday party?” Billy asked with a sarcastic laugh.

“Yeah, that’s what my invitation said,” Pietro responded, his caterpillar brow flexing.

Billy glanced around the room and found his sister Yvette with a basket of matzoh. He wove his way over to her, and her answer to his kosher inquiry was, “This is a seder, is it not?”

Confused and slightly panicked, Billy withdrew his invitation from his blazer pocket. It clearly said “Come get wined and cheesed” in yellow comic sans.

Swiveling, he noted that Amber Flushbum was holding a battered Trivial Pursuit and Kevin Kickscrotum, clad in fluorescent mesh, was corkscrewing two pink glowsticks in the air.

Just then, Patty made her grand entrance, her lazy eye obstructed by the thick black veil which draped from her crown.

“Friends, thank you all for coming to my little soiree.” And with a dramatic flourish, she wrenched open the lid of the crate, causing an avalanche of red plastic cups and cookie-crumbed napkins to cascade to the floor.

Inside was the rotting corpse of her mother, her mouth frozen in a twisted snarl.

Little gasps burst throughout the room like breathy firecrackers. Beverages were dropped to the carpet in shock. The person in the kangaroo suit passed out by the foyer, but not before the unfortunate situation caused them to drop a deuce in their panties.

Pandemonium rippled through the house. “I thought this was a baby shower!!

“—game night!”
“—key bowl party!”
“—porno exchange!”
“—furry club!”

Patty laughed sadly, and began to choke. She raised a red Dixie cup filled to the brim with Billy’s Lambrusco and took a hearty swig to wash down the piece of matzoh that had become snagged in her esophagus.

“No my friends, I sent out those invitations because I couldn’t find any that said, ‘Come Celebrate the Murder of My Rapist Mother’.”

[Original painting available on Etsy. Great Christmas gift for your garbageman!]

Oct 052010
 

Last year, Henry took Chooch and me to some goddamn flea market in Ohio that was supposed to be some sort of God’s gift to junk-riflers.

Every time I would see something I wanted (which wasn’t often), he’d be all, “THEN WE HAVE TO CARRY IT ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE CAR.” Well, excuse me, geriatric. And I love how he slapped down $3.50 for a fucking jar of horseradish with no hesitation.

It was a decidedly non-fun outing. But I did convince him to barter on an old Coke crate and you know he bitched about it all day because poor, weak Henry had to carry it back to the car, poor baby.

A short time later, I painted the inside of it.

“1 Apple, 10 Of Us”

I stare at it a few minutes every day and it drives me nuts because it just doesn’t look done. Then this morning, it hit me. Artificial grass. It needs artificial grass.

Then I will finally be able to make Henry attach some wire shit to the back of it, so it can hang from the wall and constantly remind us all of that horrible day at the flea market where I walked for miles with a broken toe and Henry grumbled a lot and wouldn’t buy us a puppy.

In other non “fake art” news, I went on a field trip to the pumpkin patch yesterday with Chooch’s class and it was pure, unadulterated terror, from the bus ride all the way down to the song we learned about dirt. I will maybe write about it tomorrow, but I will be honest – I’m a little traumatized.

Sep 282010
 

thebigtangle2



It didn’t sound so bad when he thought about it quietly to himself. But when Jorge heard the words as they tumbled off his wagging tongue, it occurred to him that perhaps he sounded crazy.

Pretentious.
Fatuous.
Obsessive.
Brain-fucked sociopath with a speech impediment.

He had good reasons though, for avoiding epidermic contact. It wasn’t the feel of flesh that diddled his nerves, no not that at all. Peggy Snorkleton had luxurious skin that felt like the distressed hide he wrapped around his Glock, and he did so enjoy a good rubbing against her.

It wasn’t until his mother accidentally lost her balance at the traveling freak show and collided with a leper that he began to see just how vile a human’s hull could actually be. The varying degrees of elasticity, the blemishes that sprung up the closer you got to a person, the moles dripping off bare backs like stalactic raisins.

Stretch marks.
Psoriasis.
Scars.
Freckles on an albino.

And then there was the dermatitis; the dandruff, the miniscule vellum scraps piling up like abraded artifacts across bathroom sinks.

Lately he was petrified of flesh-eating diseases.

Mersa.
Parasites.
Ticks.
Lice.
Crabs waiting to hail a new carapace cab from a dirty pubic pelt they’ve outgrown.

And still, after all the careful explaining, the guests at Francis Featherflicker’s birthday party didn’t understand why Jorge chose to stand in a corner while the rest of the revelers partook in a riveting round of Twister. It was nearly too much for Jorge to bear, even as a spectator: the mashing of limbs, the entwining of phalanges, the friction of bare flesh against the plastic mat, the rubbing and sloughing of a half dozen human appendages catapulting derma debris into the air.

He could be inhaling someone’s scalp scales.

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Somewhere in between right-hand-red and left-foot-yellow, a boy with jagged-edged hair gave a diminuitive girl an Indian brushburn. For kicks, he did this. The sound of her flesh twisting beneath the boys clammy palm sent a fissure through Jorge’s psyche.

It was here  that Jorge began to notice that his teeth were grinding.

He was used to being excluded, though he supposed he excluded himself.

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He was used to mostly sexless relationships; and on the occasion where he woke up feeling a bit randy, a sheet with a hole in the exact positioning of the genital vicinity would need to be laid down between him and whatever person was willing to be his partner in such Amish-styled relations. He was used to declining invitations to pool parties, the thought of all that moist skin, amalgamating into a filthy stew of sweat, urine, chlorine, saliva once sent him reeling into panic.

Jorge was accustomed to people regarding him as a pariah.

Freak.
Outcast.
Asocial.
Queerbot ripping entrails from roadkilled hobos.

But when, in the middle of quite some intense limb-locking, Curly Dustbin wafted a legume-laced bubble of flatulence into the faces of several unfortunate guests fighting for the green spot, causing a chain reaction of chunky purging, Jorge was thankful to be standing alone in a corner.

(Originally published April 14, 2009. Reposted today because I can do shit like that.

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