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I am writing this on a new keyboard, since last night I clumsily overturned a bowl of miso broth on my original keyboard. (Dammit.) Surprisingly, the only thing that seemed (initially) affected was the space bar. SoIendeduptypinglikethis. Several expletives were uttered.

Thanks to many friends with many computers I was able to procure a replacement, albeit a Dell keyboard and not even close to coordinating with the pristine white of my Mac and it’s accompanying mouse. There’s no way I can invite people over now.

Doppler is staring out the window again. Looking for CAT. CAT has now become this annoyingly persistent saga. Spraying water in CAT’s face no longer deflects CAT. Doppler barking: no effect. Must find CAT solution. Because as it stands, it’s a 0-0 tie between Doppler and CAT, with 99% of altercations involving standoff in which Doppler has his paws on the windowsill, growling menacingly, and CAT on the landscaping logs, with a crazed, wild-eyed gaze, back arched in a manner not unlike a Slinky in the arc position. And then it’s as if someone hits ‘pause’ on the DVD. Until I bang on the window to upset their strange domesticated-animal-seance or I close the blinds, which results in Doppler walking about in circles, whimpering…pining for his one and only love/hate relationship. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him it would never work; the whole dog/cat dichotomy, CAT being from the wrong side of the tracks and seemingly harboring a deep hatred of his species. I can’t be too harsh on the old boy. I’ve seen people fight tooth-and-nail for much more complicated relationships.

Admittedly, he’s still easier than a kid. I can leave him alone in the apartment all day and not go to prison. Pure win.

Though we’ve got to work on the underwear-stealing issue.

VoulezvoulezvousIneedspace.

I’m not altogether sure why I (as well as several friends of mine) were given Monday, July 5th as a holiday from work. My assumption is that due to Independence day falling on a Sunday, the injustice of not getting an extra day work-free was just too overwhelming for our over-worked employers, thus a three-day weekend was in order. Had the 4th fallen on a Tuesday, the same considerations would not have been made. At least I don’t remember that ever having been the case. At any rate, as a result I had all of yesterday to do with as I pleased.

Well, not necessarily as I pleased.

As most of my weekend had been spent with friends and just general running about I had failed to notice the disheveled state of my apartment. Having no such activities planned for Monday, and knowing I had to work on masks for the Steampunk Festival for the upcoming weekend, the idea of cloistering myself in my unkempt apartment for hours on end while sitting amidst the chaos was not ideal. So. Dishes, laundry, etc etc.

Then Doppler started barking incessantly at the window. What the hell. Investigate.

Ah.
Notice the complete look of not-terror on the cat’s face. This is because, as I observed over the next several hours, this feline was completely unfazed by the obnoxiously loud beast menacingly barking at it through the glass. Not just from my windows, but also from the windows next door, where a rather large Burnese Mountain dog resided.

Cat bounces back and forth among the ivy.
Boingy boingy boingy.

The dogs react predictably. “ARGHARGHARGHARRRRHHHH!!!!”

Cat pauses, sits. I swear to god it fucking smiled at them.

This proved exceedingly annoying when I was trying to do fine detail work on the aforementioned masks, and in a moment of highly focused silence Doppler launches into his full-blown canine tirade, I jump, the paintbrush shoots off, and triage is required.

I began to look for heavy objects around the apartment to hurl at the cat.

Thankfully I did have dinner plans that evening with a friend of mine so I was able to escape the randomly noisy seclusion for at least a few hours. Dressed, put shoes on, grabbed sunglasses, bid farewell to the dog, flipped off and yelled obscenities at the cat, and headed for the wine bar.

Lovely evening ensued with good wine, good food, good conversation. At the end of the evening, we headed towards my apartment. As we drove past my building, we noticed a Seattle PD cruiser in front and the main door propped wide open.

Terrific.

Parked the car, cautiously strolled up to my building where, oddly, there was no one to be found.

Then I happened to notice the droplets of blood on the tile in front of the door to my building.

Terrific.

Maintaining caution, trepidatiously approaching my unit (which is midway down the first floor), I slowly unlocked and opened the door, ensuring that Doppler was still alive and breathing. Check. Ok. My place seemed to be in order, at least. As Seattle’s finest was still on property, and nothing seemed amiss with my apartment, my guest bid farewell and I hurriedly locked the door behind him explaining to Doppler that his walk would have to wait until morning.

After some time had passed, I decided to check the hallway and see if the officer had returned to his vehicle. Indeed he had. And he had already left.

It was then I noticed some pieces of paper taped to the door. Despite my apprehension at leaving my apartment, my impulse control failed and I walked to the doors anyway. The small, robins-egg blue post-it caught my attention first:

“Do not touch door handle –

Blood!

I looked down at the door handle.

Terrific.

Then over at the yellow sheet of legal paper.

“Do not use door – handle has blood on it”.

Yeah, I got that.

Thus my mind began conjuring up all of the endless possible scenarios of what occurred in my building that evening (murder, assault, rape, robbery, slaughter with an axe…). I checked the Seattle PD blotter online but alas no information was provided for my location for that evening.

Sleep was difficult. When I finally did nod off, I was awoken at 2:00 am by Doppler vomiting all over the carpet.

Terrific.

This morning, I was able to reach an officer at one of the precincts and was given a brief rundown of the previous evening’s events.

“Robbery, 2nd floor, suspect cut open hands, fled scene bleeding (obviously). No arrests, still at large.”

Voulez-voulez-vous…

Terrific.

It goes something like this.

Voulez-voulez-vous…

Perusing my old college’s Visual Arts and Technology page, I noticed they had their 2010 Student Juried Exhibition online. This is often one of my favorite pastimes, since I am able to witness how little the curriculum has changed since my attendance. This is due to the same instructors teaching the same classes semester after semester, apparently never tiring of seeing the same output of product. Nowhere is this more evident than the following.

Observe:

This is a piece I did for my 1998 2-dimensional design class, called an “Isometric” problem.

Media: acrylic. 12″X12″. Instructor: Tom Willome.

1998 Juried Student Exhibition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twelve years later:

One Mr. Random Second-Year Student.

2010 Juried Student Exhibition, 2-Dimensional Design.

Isometric Problem.

Media: Digital Print. (Cheater). Dimensions: 10″X9″.

Instructor: Tom Willome.

 

 

 

 

I rest my case.

Though it probably took Mr. Random Second-Year Student a total of 45 minutes to complete his assignment wheras mine, more like nine hours. Craftsmanship, people. Process. These are principles which rule my world.

Voulez-voulez-vous maximum technical effort results in maximum visual output. Niff’s principle #1.

This is the interior of St. James Cathedral, just a stone’s throw from my new place and the home of the Archdiocese of Seattle (the cathedral, not my new place). If I knew what an Archdiocese was, I could tell you. As it stands, you’ll just have to Wikipedia it, or phone the Pope.

Each day as I walk past this architectural giant I crane my neck so as to take in the elements that make it so stunning, sometimes cutting through the courtyard in order to listen to the fountains and gaze at the marble sculptures.

Alas, I’d never seen the inside.
Ironically, on my way home from the Gay Pride Weekend festivities on Sunday, I am confronted by the peals of the bells of St. James as I pass by, and to my utter delight the doors happened to be open, the bells no doubt a “last call” to parishioners to get their asses inside.
I pass by churchgoers, making my way to the large, bronze-cast doors to get a peek into the nave of this oft-admired structure, alas it is obscured by the large, rose-marble columns flanking the interior. I try the opening on the other side. Damn. It occurs to me to take a few steps onto the threshold, but my fear of being struck down by fire and brimstone gives me pause. I climb down the portico steps in solemn defeat.

Then halt.
Then think.
Then about-face…
Think some more.
Then inwardly giggle.

As I ascend the steps back towards the entrance, the short, roundish, smiling usher who watched me peek in earlier gestures me inside, a knowing look of amusement on his face. Now, mind you, I hadn’t been in a church since May of 1996, the day of my ill-fated nuptials. Mostly due to the fact that, despite my fixation with secular architecture, I do not identify myself as Christian, so attending church services seemed pointless and until now, didn’t appeal to my wicked, hedonistic, foul-mouthed self. But I wanted to see the interior, dammit. And this seemed the most logical and efficient way of going about it.

Growing up, my family identified themselves as Baptist. Went to Sunday school some as a child, nothing exceptional. We stopped going because though my mother believed in God, she did not believe in religion. Which was just fine by me as I found church to be exceedingly boring and sometimes thought I was being dragged along as punishment for something.

Having infiltrated St. James as a non-Christian and thus a non-Catholic, I thought it best to hide in the back row of pews lest I be found out. I was completely unfamiliar with the ritual and protocol, my only urge being to bust out my sketchbook during the service. However, the Catholics make this impossible as every five minutes you are standing, sitting, kneeling, standing again…I felt as if I had signed up for an aerobics class. That and I wasn’t sure how my doodling in church would be received, and I didn’t want to be kicked out. Not that they would have, mind you, but like I said, unfamiliar with protocol. And though I’m not a bible-thumper I do know that doodling in church is not one of the seven deadly sins. Thanks to that Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt flick.

The interior was massively beautiful, screaming of a Romanesque Neo-Classical Renaissance hybrid that I admit choked me up for a moment. I spent most of the service looking up instead of at the preacher-guy, noticing details like the Corinthian capitals, instead of having rosettes between the scrolls, had cherub faces with wings, a detail I tried to capture with my camera phone later but failed miserably due to lingering battery power. The chanting and singing was beautiful, however…made the impact of the environment completely surreal. It amazes me what faith can inspire in art and architecture.

I passed on the stroll up to the altar for the wine and cookies bit, feeling like a complete poser and again fearing the fire and brimstone aspect. I did enjoy the shaking hands with my pew-mates and the exchanging of the “peace be with you”‘s, even receiving a hug from an elderly woman who was suffering from a L’Air du Temps overdose.

I put a big, hefty fiver in the collection plate, showing my gratitude for being allowed in to admire the place and I figured it was cheaper than a movie, even if I did pass on the free wine. After the service was over (and the 50th “let the lord be with you” “and also with you”) they let me hang out and take several photos with my rapidly-dying camera.

I must confess that I did pause in my gawking long enough to listen to the sermon, which, even though littered with scripture, was ironically applicable to this phase in my life and got me thinking about certain things a bit…which caught me completely by surprise. Who’d a thunk it. I go to church for the architecture and come away with a message.

Don’t think I’m converting or anything. Hell no. I like sinning too much.

Voulez-voulez-vous forgive me father…

To commemorate Niff.Dot’s 5th birthday, I give you: “The Best Of”. Well, “The Best Of” in my biased opinion.

Here is a list of links with a brief description.
Clickety those that catch your fancy.

December 12, 2005
The Leaf Blower Series
My observations on the futility and inconveniences of the ubiquitous leaf blower.
Part I
Part II.

November 2005
My frined Naiah dubbed these “Surreal Poetry”. I’ve linked them
Here
and
Here.

October 2007
Organs in a Bag
The tale of a woman on the bus transporting human innards. True story.

September 2007
Cigarette Stonehenge
Photo Entry. Self-explanatory.

February 2007
Capslock Wednesday
This upset a few people.

December 2008
Desktop Love
When pomegranates go wrong.

August 2008
The Penny Chronicles:
Part I
Part II
An examination of the value of U.S. currency.

And, last but not least:

July 2008
The Haiku Collective.
A demonstration of my mind-control abilities.

Voulez-voulez-vous share and enjoy.

Niff.Dot is a whole FIVE years old today! I’m so proud. I’ll write more later, maybe even with some “best of” recaps because I’m just that kind of egomaniac. I just wanted to wish Niff.Dot a happy birthday straight away because it’s sensitive and well, I’d never hear the end of it if I’d forgotten. The elaborate post comes later because if you’ll notice the post time, it’s 6:45 in the bloody morning and I’m trying to get ready for work.

Voulez-voulez-vous yes. This is unadulterated geekdom.

Yes. I have written about this before. Yes, I will write about this again. I think I began this monstrosity somewhere around 2007. With a giant “X” on the canvas and a dot in the center. It’s disheartening, the lack of progress that has been made in such a lengthy span of time. I doubt I’ll finish it before I meet my untimely end in a meteor shower, or a train wreck, or a swarm of diseased pelicans. Which is unfortunate, because it’s challenging to sell an unfinished painting unless you were at your creative peak sometime around the 1400’s and were funded by someone with the last name of Medici. I think I missed the window on that one.

So year after year I periodically pick and poke at this canvas, visiting it when I feel the need (usually times of stress or emotional strain) upon which I have to go rummaging around my supplies in search of my vast collection of black and white inks, wee brushes, and pen nibs. When you haven’t touched such things in several months and have also moved house in such time, this can prove to be a daunting task. I have found myself wont to give up at times like these and simply purchase new supplies.

My timing…impeccable.

Blick Art Supplies finally opened a store right on Broadway and Pine.

This pleases me.

The type of work I do, both in paintings and in masks, requires an intense amount of detail, a very tiny brush, and a steady hand. Acrylic paint? Trying to get the desired effect with acrylic paint is akin to flossing with knitting yarn. And yes, just as painful. Acrylic paint tends to glob on the canvas, wrap around the brush as you’re painting…flow release is no help.

Acrylic ink…ah, now that’s the melody. Graceful, flowing, opaque…synchronizes harmoniously with my vast collection of size 00 sable brushes. Unfortunately, the only art supply store (until recently) in my city houses a paltry supply of virtually everything I need save for brushes. It has been a frustrating four years of being an architecturally-obsessed artist living on Capitol Hill.

But now, oh my…
My initial visit to Blick yesterday. Opening day. Made a bee-line for the drawing supplies aisle. And Oh…the beauty, the splendor…the choir of angels that poured down from the heavens…

I thought to myself, “They will do well here…”

To add to the bliss of the situation, I learned upon my arrival at the check-out counter that the prized inks I clutched so eagerly in my hands were buy two, get one free.

Shit.

So back I went. Which proved to be dangerous as I had to pass an extensive collection of graphic pens, of which I have more than is considered natural or healthy. I won’t comment on whether I took any home or not that day. Irrelevant. I grabbed a few more bottles of ink, threw on my mental blinders, my resolve unfaltering, ignoring the beckoning canvases, the seductive shellacs, the ridiculously unnecessary sketchbooks, and resumed my place in line, willing it to move quickly to remove me from temptation.

And…despite my doubts, I survived. For less than $50.00.

And I am now equipped to pick and poke at the 4’75” X 5′ bane of my existence for another fifteen minutes or so.

Voulez-voulez-vous bane of my existence, thy name now be Blick.

So.

The pizza-seeking panhandler and Boon and I parted ways, he (presumably) off to fetch some of Hot Mama’s goods and Boon and I to…to…well to be honest I don’t remember. Some bar somewhere. After strolling down Broadway for a bit Boon decided she needed some cigarettes. So we popped into Rite-Aid for this purpose and on the way to the cancer-stick section we were distracted by the Easter Aisle. (Heh. Easter Aisle.)

As we perused the blue glitter silly putty, the cracked-out looking chocolate bunnies…lamenting over merchandise which could have massively contributed to the epic Peep Massacre 2010…Boon momentarily excused herself to purchase her intended item. She returned abruptly.

“Niff…”

“Yeah?” I said, as I examined a pair of glittery pink bunny ears.

“I want you to stay right…here.”

I looked up.
“…what?”

“Just let it go. Just stay here…a minute.”

This is where suspicion set in.

“Boon.”

Boon was trying very, very hard not to laugh. Boon was trying very, very hard to get me to stay where I was.

“He’s out there, isn’t he.”

No reply.

“Niff – “

“Boon…I got this.”

I made my way out of the Easter Aisle and lo and behold. The Pizza Panhander was at the head of the line, sans pizza, causing a drugstore logjam as he scrounged around his knapsack for the last bit of change he needed to buy a pack of menthols.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I believe I’m going to mess with him. Again.”

Boon started laughing, shaking her head at me, wondering, I’m sure, how long this lunacy was going to continue.

I made my way to the head of the line and positioned myself behind him, far enough so he wouldn’t detect my presence, but close enough so when he about-faced a confrontation would definitely occur.

Which is exactly what happened.

He turned, startled that someone was standing there, looked up slowly, then recognition and simultaneous terror slowly crept across his face. All I said, in a low voice, was:

“BOO”.

And he scurried as fast as possible out of the store, to the confusion and curiosity of the other Rite-Aid patrons.

I thought Boon was going to piss herself. I thought I was going to piss myself.

And that’s it, that’s the end of the story. Well, except for our walking down Pine and some other guy asking me for a dollar and my poor impulse control kicking in:
“NO! Because you’re all LIARS!” and storming off.

There’s probably some secret panhandler APB alert with my picture on it circulating around the Hill with the express instructions to stay the hell away from me because I’m bat-shit insane.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.

Voulez-voulez-vous the end.

It goes something like this:

Because of a small genetic mishap with my kidneys, animal proteins aren’t really a part of my dietary regimen any longer. Long story, not really very interesting, and the pertinent details have now been established.
As this medical snafu was revealed to me about three months ago, I am still coming to grips with having to let go of certain things. Rare steak, hamburgers, chocolate ice cream, pizza…

Pizza.

I am convinced Capitol Hill, Seattle has more pizza joints per capita than any other city area I can imagine, except maybe Chicago or New York. I am willing to admit that this is because I am denied the culinary delight they produce and the heavenly aroma wafting from their open doors creates small fissures of ache in my heart every time I walk down the sidewalk.
Case in point: Mama’s Pizza. 700 East Pine Street.

I pass this establishment almost daily on my walk home from work, around 4:45 – 5:00 pm. Prime pizza-noshing hour. The torment is this: the way the facility is set up, not only do you get to catch a whiff of their menu when you come around the corner, but you get to see them making it, selling it, and then the counters are attached to the windows where people can stand, eating their large, greasy, flopped-in-half slices of pepperoni and sausage supreme supported on weak paper plates. Sometimes you even have to weave around patrons on the sidewalk as they pack their faces…it’s like a war zone. So as you can imagine I have made a mental note of Mama’s Pizza, 700 East Pine Street. And I have, to the chagrin of some of my friends, made them aware of my making a mental note of Mama’s Pizza, 700 East Pine Street.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

Random Friday evening, Boon and I are on Broadway in the vicinity of Pine when we are approached by a shortish, roundish, African American man who immediately engages in the official Capitol Hill Panhandler’s Spiel.

Boon and I immediately engage in the Official Capitol Hill Denizen Panhandler’s Spiel Shrug-Off Stroll.

“Hey, you got any change, just a couple quarters, so I can get a bite to-“

“No, sorry.” Walk, walk walk.

“Come on, anything will help, ya know, just anything, maybe I could get a bag of…”

Walk, walk, walk.

“Maybe even you got a dollar, I could get a piece of pizza, ya know, go around the corner, ya know, Hot Mama’s Pizza…get a-“

Niff.Stop.

This is where Boon steps up. Because she knows.

“Niff…Niff, let it go.”

No way.

“Boon…I got this.”
I turn to the panhandler.

“What?”

A glimmer of joy spreads across his face.

“I- I said I could maybe get a piece of pizza…at Hot Mama’s. You know where that is? It’s just down on-“

“Oh, I know where it is.”

I reach into my bag and grab a dollar. He looks hopeful. And slightly bewildered.
I hold the dollar up and prepare my tirade. A tirade fueled by anger at genetic destiny and two vodka sodas on an empty stomach.

“Now.” I said. “I am going to give you this dollar. But you have to listen to me before I give it to you.”

Boon sighs behind me and I’m quite certain she’s rolling her eyes.

“Yes’m, ok, I’ll listen…”

“I can’t have pizza. I found out three months ago that my kidneys are shot and because of that I can’t have things like pizza anymore. And every day…

(Here I proceeded to go into the rant I entered into above. And as I did so I also happened to notice he was intermittently casting nervous glances at Boon…probably because as I was telling it I was doing so in a rather paternal-lecturing manner complete with hand gestures and squinty eyes…)

“…so, since you said you wanted money for pizza, you are going to take this dollar, and you are going to go get pizza since you can have it and I can’t. And you are going to enjoy it and you are going to be grateful. Are we agreed?”

“Yes ma’am! I promise!”

“Ok then.” I place the dollar into his gloved hand. Slowly. While staring at him out of the corners of my eyes.

“I’ll know if you don’t!” I figure honestly through paranoia is a good tactic.

“I promise! I’ll go get pizza!” He’s backing away…slowly…like you do when you’re not sure if a dog is going to bite your leg off or not.

As Boon and I walk off I turn around and point from my eyes to him in an “I’m watching you!!” gesture, to complete the monumental hilarity of the scene and the terrifying impact I wished to have upon this poor man.

Boon: “Niff. You scared the shit out of that guy.”

“I thought I was being funny…”

“I think he’s crying on his way to Hot Mama’s Pizza.”

“Yeah, but he’s getting pizza dammit.”

Part II comes later. Because as it turns out, he didn’t get pizza. And I busted his ass.

Two vodka sodas on an empty stomach folks.

Voulez-voulez-vous to be continued.