Category: Uncategorized

>Ok, so people have wanted to know what I’ve been working on. Other than steampunk, that is.
Here ya go.
None of it is completed, because, well, I just don’t do that.

voulez-voulez-vous OCD anyone?

> The first rule of Fight Club is…
You don’t talk about Fight Club.

The second rule of Fight Club is…
you don’t talk about Fight Club.

I dunno, seemed to fit…?
Maybe I’m stretching a bit.

Voulez-voulez-vous the third rule is…

>Ok. I have to confess to a certain irritation to the branch of office politics that is the “Office Birthday”.
On my way out the door yesterday I was accosted by one of “The Ladies” (I’ll elaborate on this sub-species of the office environment in a moment) asking me if I had the cash to contribute to the purchase of a birthday cake.
“No, sorry…” I tell her.
“It’s only a couple of dollars…” she insisted.
“I really don’t have it…”
“Well, the party’s not until tomorrow; maybe tomorrow?”
Standing firm by my decision, I shrugged her off and walked out the door.
What I did not want to tell her (mostly because I’ve only been here a month and I don’t want to damage any inter-office relationships) is that the whole idea of “forced financial contributions” to “office birthdays” pisses me off.
First of all, why the hell is the office a place to celebrate people’s birthdays? I mean, does the taking an hour from your workday to sing a half-hearted “Happy Birthday to You” when all you really wanted was a piece of the cake you financially contributed (and you’d damned well better get a corner piece) to constitute your lunch hour? How does that work, exactly? If we choose not to participate, do we get essentially a 2-hour lunch break? Or is it penance for being a bunch of cold-hearted bastards who agree that this whole phenomenon is a soul-sucking event?

And, “The Ladies”. You know who they are. They’re the ones who live for this kind of shit. They’re the ones who bake cupcakes for the entire office to celebrate someone buying new socks. They get a high from spending hours hunched over their dining room tables with their cadre of scrapbooking supplies constructing handmade cards while they pet one of their eight cats. Clutching their hand-made creations they float from cubicle to cubicle like honeybees with a pen and this heavily (bordering on overly) decorated card instructing you to relay your sentiments to “X” person’s birthday. So you scribble a less than enthusiastic “happy birthday” and go back to your spreadsheets.
But these women go all out. Especially when the birthday is for someone in upper management. They decorate the break room like it’s someone’s wedding shower and set up paper plates and plastic utensils like it’s a grand catered event. They send cute little birthday spam emails with large, pink letters in Comic Sans font complete with animated gif’s and exclamation points. I see the Red Hat Society in their future.
Okay, maybe I seem bitter. But it’s principle, people. How sincere can forced birthday sentiments be for chrissakes. Additionally, I should not be confronted with judgmental looks from “The Ladies” whenever I see them in the restroom. I’m sorry if doing the “birthday thing” provides them with a great delightful purpose, but don’t force your priorities on me. It’s not like I’m expecting a piece of aforementioned cake of which I chose to decline sponsorship. I’d just rather stay in my cube in all my curmudgeonly glory instead of standing around in the miniscule breakroom noshing on over-sugured store-bought cake and engaging in impromptu bullshit conversation in a room of people of whom ¾ I don’t know. I’d rather hang out at my desk and listen to my co-worker sing the Mango song at random intervals.

Voulez-voulez-vous “aargh here’s a pirate…he’s after my booty!”

…by the way…the cake was awesome!!

>This is Kiddo. Kiddo is unhappy. Kiddo is unhappy because I was unhappy that Kiddo was eating the baseboards and chewing on the drywall in the bathroom. Which also made Eric unhappy because, well, it’s his house.
I had reservations about the color of his exercise ball…looking at the world through fluorescent magenta rather than rose-colored plastic might make him erratic and perhaps cause him to lapse into a coma.
I took him downstairs to show Zoe this critter in his basketball-sized contraption (ensuring that she was in no way within kicking range…she’s 2…). Zoe and parents were in their room, as well as a 21-year old curmudgeonly never-gonna-die cat who, upon seeing this rat-like creature in a fiery red orb, began this low howling-growling business I have heard neither before nor since. Kiddo just chewed on the ball.
Took him back upstairs, making certain that I closed the door behind me. (thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk…); set him on the floor. Went to work on steampunk projects.
And he…just kinda…sat there.
Chewed on the sides a bit.
Turned around.
Took a shit.
And just kinda—sat there.
I realized he might need some tutelage.
As I was unable to personally demonstrate the purpose of his globe-like prison, my only choice was to roll him a bit to get him started. He didn’t quite get it. After several attempts which resulted in him remaining perfectly still while his rump rolled up the backside, I realized this was just one of those things he was going to have to work out on his own. After I arrived at this conclusion, I went back to work.
And…he just…sat there.
And chewed.
After a time I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. He had figured out how to loll about. He seemed excited. And befuddled. Or, considering his condition, be-bubbled.
He also didn’t appreciate the photo shoot he had suddenly become a victim of. Bright flashes of light coming through magenta skylights…that’s f*cked up.
Thud.
The door! He had rolled into the door. He was getting it, by god. Of course, due to the extended amount of time he was spending in it (I spent $23 on the goddamned thing…he was going to learn to use it) he had made several deposits that made a pleasant rattling sound as he lolled about.
He eventually made his way to the bathroom which mercifully had hard floors which helped facilitate his movement. Recognizing where he was, he made his way to his favorite baseboard-chewing spot and despite the obvious barrier to his goal he began chewing on aforementioned barrier, I suppose to eventually work his way through to his chinchilla rendition of crack.
He is as of yet unsuccessful.
As horrid as it sounds, I did imagine what it would look like if he did make his way through the doors and down the (fortunately) carpeted stairs. It’d look like a Looney Tunes skit in my mind. Of course, the floors at the bottom of said stairs are hardwood so the nightmare wouldn’t end there. If he rolled just right he’d find himself careening down yet another flight of stairs, these being not-so-carpeted and inertia would be high.

Voulez-voulez vous thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk…

>So, Nostalgia Thursday.
It all started yesterday, so I suppose it should be Nostalgia Wednesday…but it very well can’t be Wednesday today, can it? That would mean tomorrow would no longer be Friday and I see that pissing a lot of people off. Don’t be daft.
So, yesterday. My coworker felt it necessary to inform me thay the New Kids on the Block (I shit you not) are on a “reunion tour”. Reunion tour? Are you mad? They made me nauseous the first time around. This should not be allowed to happen. They were like the gateway drug for atrocities such as Backstreet Boys and N’Sync (did I spell that right? I’m sure one of you knows…you sick bastard).
I was not about the teenybopper Tiffany/Debbie Gibson/Kylie Minogue madness. (Though you have to admit, Kylie did morph into an uber-hottie, even after surviving breast cancer…she kicks ass.) I was the one of the Original New Wavers. Fuck the Emo’s man…they’re a bunch of poser wannabe’s. I bet they’re all closet Hannah Montana junkies anyway. They probably have razor blade parties jammin’ to the Spice Girls.
(aren’t I just a retro elitist bitch, eh?)
My peers and I were all about Depeche Mode, New Order, Pet Shop Boys (though they were kinda boppy), Camouflage, The Cure, the Smiths, Morrissey…and wearing as much black as possible, shunning the Jelly Shoes and L.A. Gear’s.

So needless to say I will not be waiting in line to see Dirk Diggler (I’m a star I’m a star I’m a great big shining star…) belting out “Step by Step” with his late 80’s denizen cohorts. Shudder.

However…
I did see a poster on the way to work this morning announcing that Duran Duran, too, is on tour. Swoon… I have to admit an early-pubescent crush on the entire band. I could happily fall into a naked pile of Duran Duran. Even now…they’re like, what…50 years old or something? Doesn’t matter. Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode is about that age and I could still chew on his bottom lip for hours…

Voulez-voulez-vous Sweet Dreams are Made of This…

>To recap:
Beginning a couple of years ago, I developed a completely random and unexplainable fascination with pi. Not so much in application of pi, but the fact that I had a difficult time trying to comprehend that the number goes on…and on…and on…

It’s much the same when I try to think of the universe; I mean, ok, it’s big and all that…but how can something just be, big? Um, and if there is an end, like, what’s containing it? I mean, is there really such a thing as infinity? Can there really be such a thing? I don’t see how! Just WHAT the hell is going on here?
(This is where I start to question my existence by feeling the need to consider believing in an omnipotent superbeing who created the universe just so I don’t have to think so hard and give myself a nosebleed. Fortunately, I usually come to my senses and can go back to focusing on things like the Doomsday Vault and wondering if there really IS some cataclysmic event that would necessitate such a thing, won’t the environment be inhospitable to new growth, like, the soil would be depleted of it’s bacteria and stuff? And, if there is some earth-shattering disaster, just how in the hell is anyone supposed to get up to the friggin Arctic to haul all these hundreds of seeds down for planting in aforementioned useless sod thereby defeating the purpose of the damn thing in the first place????)

So, that being said…pi. So, anyway, the unending-ness of pi caught my interest and as such I decided I would see how many digits I could memorize within an undetrmined period of time. As I tend to obsess a bit, I reached 192. I was trying to shoot for a clean 200 by Pi Day this year, but I was distracted by unemployment and a general sense of self-loathing and forgot.

In my research of the history of Pi and it’s discovery and theories, I was directed to Phi, otherwise known as the Golden Ratio, Divine Proportion, Golden Mean, blah blah blah. As an artist I was pretty familiar with the idea of phi, but I didn’t realize that it, too, had an unending ratio (and as such I don’t want to go into too much detail here so just Google the damn thing if you really want to know.)

So that’s been my new gig. So I’m working on memorizing Phi, and as such in my Gmail chat status I had put:

1.61803398874989484820458683436563811772030917980576

Tina pops up, and the following conversation ensues:

Tina: ?
you are odd, do you know that?

me: moi?

Tina: uh huh

me: You must be thinking of another Niff

Tina: um…dont think so…

me: So…you just thinking that in general or was there a sort of trigger…

Tina: your latest chat tag

me: it’s Phi!

Tina: I know

me: Who doesn’t love Phi?

Tina: it’s still odd

me: Just sharin’ the love
It’s a Phi and oatmeal kinda morning

Tina: so, if phi and pi got into a fight, who would kick ass?

me: ooOOoooo…
That’s a toughie…

Tina: kinda like the superman,batman question

me: hmm….
Like particle Man and Triangle Man

Tina: course i think superman would take it

me: But Triangle wins…
and Pi can’t refer to a triangle…

Tina: or mermaid man and barnacle boy?

me: But Phi can be interpreted into a Golden Triangle…
so therefore…
Phi wins.
I have a dizzying logic, don’t I?

Tina: dizzying, truly
Im telling pi on you

Tina: I mean, does pi know you have a thing for phi?

me: Im “mathematically poly”

Tina: ah

me: if Pi can’t accept who I am…

Tina: well that explains it then

me: then, Pi can go elsewhere

Tina: mainstream mathmeticians really don’t get you.

Barman: Did you say the end of the world is coming? Shouldn’t we all lay down on the floor or put paper bags over our heads?

Ford Prefect: If you wish.

Barman: Will it help?

Ford Prefect: Not at all.

voulez-voulez-vous:

>Graffiti that made me giggle.

voulez-voulez-vous mmmkay…

>Something has been plaguing me for a time now and I must ask: have any of you ever tied the shoestrings together on an old pair of Converse-es and flung them over telephone lines? If yes, please…who are you, and why do you do this? What does it all mean, man!! I just can’t take it anymore…I just can’t!

I need to know. I tend to obsess about such things.

Spent a late, lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon with Kira and Zoe out at Seattle Center. I did this because I rationalized that being exposed to some collective mayhem, complete disregard for established social protocol, clowns, for god’s sake, children run amok and despondent looking teenagers working their weekend jobs monitoring children on the “bouncy things” might provide me with some insight and appreciation for my life and I’d realize that certain things aren’t quite as melancholy-worthy as I make them out to be. I mean, clowns, really. Bloody hell.

And I think that may just be the longest run-on sentence ever.

While Zoe was playing in one of the smaller (“Zoe Size”, she says) air-inflated contraptions designed to look like a gumball machine I wandered over to the other side of the staircase and discovered to my combined utter amusement and curiosity a chess setup which defied all established size parameters that I was familiar with. Not “Zoe-Sized”. (Yes, I know, they’re nothing new…blah blah blah. This was my first encounter with such an anomaly so humor me.)
I felt very “Alice in Wonderland”. Kind of rocked my world view a bit…I felt small and unsure of myself…very cool. I must return sans two-year old in tow. And with someone who enjoys chess. Actually, I don’t care if they enjoy chess. In fact, if they don’t know how to play at all, that would be ideal…for I would appear to be a ruddy genius and I could take complete advantage of their handicap. What a great way to bolster one’s self-esteem. I could totally make up my own rules…like, when your bishop takes out their knight, the proper procedure consists of swinging the bishop a la cricket wicket, sending their knight careening into the poor innocents involved in the nearby oversized checkers board. Though they may retaliate in a discus-throwing onslaught…pawns would be sacrificed…

I just don’t think these things through. I apologize.

The evening wrapped with a jaunt to Madison Market where Zoe had great fun pushing the (“Zoe Sized”) shopping cart around and coming rather close to committing attempted vehicular manslaughter in the produce section. I fear this continued disregard for Washington State’s driving laws may result in her license being suspended. And then no more shopping at Madison Market. Which means no more fruit leather. (“Froot leh-doh”).

So sad. =( The apricot is really yummy.

Voulez-voulez-vous checkmate.

>Often, on my walks to and from work, I usually encounter an “oddity of the day”, which I often find somewhat blog-worthy. However, as I have been lackadaisical about my writing as of late (I’ve had shit going on, aiight? Don’t judge me…) the noteworthiness of aforementioned oddities dissolve into the far reaches of space where employment and financial stresses have no domain.
During my jaunt to work this morning, I was traversing the I-5 bridge. I usually get a small giggle out of this, as my favorite thing to do at this point is lean over the railing and look at all the wee little commuters stuck in traffic and cramming onto exit ramps with a smugness that can only come from someone who tries not to drive if she can help it. I find that walking and the bus keep me in far better spirits than sitting in a confined space for hours a day, dealing with Seattle traffic and beginning to hate the universe for allowing such idiocy to exist. (Not ME…Seattle traffic).
Okay, I have strayed from my intentional path here. Oddity, yes…that’s it. Bridge…got it.
SO.
As I am crossing the aforementioned bridge I look down and notice what appear to be wet footprints left by someone who obviously forgot to put their shoes on before leaving the house. I smiled and followed them down the sidewalk, as they faded into evaporated nothingness. Though the nothingness was short-lived, as the prints re-appeared immediately with renewed intensity and continued down Denny unabated. It occurred to me that this was not a recent act…and what I thought was water was indeed paint. As such, realizing this was more of an artistic statement and less a case of involuntary barefoot-edness, I was tickled for the second time this morning and, intrigued, I knew I was exactly the type of person such an exhibit was intended for. (Someone with a fondness for the odd and an obsessive personality).
Alas, I had to be at work shortly and could not pursue them farther than Westlake. I have now found myself plagued by this all morning and feel I will not rest easy until I know the terminus of said feet. Perhaps there the answer lies.
I am babysitting for my housemates around 7pm to I figure I have a good hour to further my investigation. I need closure, dammit.
I will post updates as they occur.

voulez-voulez-vous that is a good prize

>After a less than thrilling Wednesday and the ever-increasing uncertainty about my job placement along with sever other blah-esque things I convinced DaBoon that she and I needed to skip the gym/yoga, buy Peeps, and watch Coupling all night long.

Found the Peeps. Took the dog for a walk. Came back. Busted out the Peeps.
The manufacturers of Peeps also make a “do it yourself” Peep egg-decorating kit. So you can paint Peep eggs. I saw opportunity there.

So since I am now in the throes of a Peep hangover and I feel like if I don’t go to bed I will vomit on my keyboard, I leave it to the photos to tell the story of peep wednesday.

enjoy the peep show.