Niff.Dot

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.

This will be brief. And definitively uninteresting. I’m stuck in my bed with killer back pain and thought I’d try blogging from my phone. But as typing is somewhat challenging on this device this idea is rapidly losing its appeal. So much so that I’m bailing now. A bientot.

Voulez-voulez-vous sausage fingers.

So long as it involves lemon.

With the weather being so agreeable for once I’ve been able to resume my “Walking to Work” regimen. I was getting a bit lazy and had begun driving to work every day. Drive to work, sit on my ass all day, drive home, sit on my ass all evening. Makes for a larger ass.

This needed to be fixed.

Getting back into it, however, has developed into some rather serious shin splints. They’ll dissipate with time. It’s a four-mile trek round-trip that, with headphones and appreciation for Capitol Hill, makes for a pleasant albeit lengthy stroll. Although somehow, in defiance of natural law, Denny seems to be uphill no matter what direction you’re traveling. East, west, it’s all uphill. It’s a freak of city planning.

The addiction to my cell phone continues unabated. But the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I can conquer this on my own, I don’t think self-help books or support groups will be necessary.

I need to learn code. I’m starting to study CSS basics. I need to increase my knowledge base. Perhaps now that I have this mask-making gig, I can afford some classes. This mask making gig has made me rather motivated in several facets of my life. I think it’s because for the first time, I feel validated and appreciated. For my art, of all things. Which is pretty goddamn significant.

Strange things are afoot in my work neighborhood. Strange things are always afoot in my work neighborhood. This time it happened to be a human being hauled out of the low-income housing apartment complex in a body bag yesterday morning. The city medical examiner and four police cars were attending to the situation. Animal control stopped by shortly thereafter to remove a couple of (what looked like) cats. I felt sad for the cats. I have this odd affliction where I tend to be more affected by animals experiencing misfortune than I do people. Most of the time it’s because people create their own misfortune, so it’s difficult for me to feel sorry for them. Animals are affected by circumstances beyond their control. My heartstrings are tugged when I see an emaciated kitty wandering around the neighborhood or an obviously neglected pooch on the loose. Which is how Doppler came to be the current love of my life. When asked if I have a boyfriend, I reply, “no, I feel one dog in my life is enough right now…”.

Hehee. Ouch.

Ah! It’s 11:11. I rule the universe for the next 60 seconds. Go fetch me a shrubbery.

Voulez-voulez-vous Ni!

I have successfully become one of those smart-phone junkies that I once mocked and somewhat despised.

I can’t help it…it’s so beautiful!

I, shamefully, was indeed chatting on my phone on my walk to work. I check my Facebook status updates…watch YouTube videos…I even took it with me to the bathroom once. I’m not sure what the long-term effects of this will be; it may lead to a complete and total removal from all non-digital human interaction. I’ll be like Barkley in that one episode of Star Trek TNG where he integrated himself into the computer’s mainframe and seized control of the Enterprise. I suspect I’ll be controlling the Earth’s satellites soon.

Doppler hates the new gadget. I’m playing Word Mole instead of playing with him. I expect him to try and devour it at some point. He’s neither patient nor subtle..

The honeymoon period will soon wear off…at least I’m hoping. That’s if it doesn’t shoot a coaxial cable out of it’s bowels and into my brain and use my body as an instrument of evil. I just had a flash of South Park where Cartman’s body was overtaken by his Trapper Keeper and he morphed into a giant, all-consuming mound of lumpy flesh which slouched about devouring anything in his path. Bad pie…bad pie…

I’ve been annoying all of my friends I’m sure…I think I’ve been excessively texting in my desire to play with my new toy. “Hey, my shoes are muddy!”, “I have an inflatable rubber cowboy…”. “What’s your favorite non-dairy product?”.

I’m awaiting restraining orders.

I’m surprised I’m not writing this from the damn thing. Though I must confess the typing isn’t as efficient and I feel like I have sausage fingers. Typos are abundant.

Gotta run…I just got an alert on my phone.

Voulez-voulez-vous TechnoJunkie

So, last Friday I took my masks to the costume shop (A Masquerade) as scheduled. After waiting for about 20 minutes for the manager to appear, I opened the plastic tub containing my wares. Unexpectedly, they were received with much squealing and and giddiness. She was so thrilled and amazed by the amount of work and detail I put into them. I was positively blown away; I had seen masks on their wall that I considered to be far more impressive than mine, however she regarded them as being “completely unique” and “stunning”, and exclaimed that she would be honored to have them in her shop. I was then giddy and squealing. After discussing how we would price them (she was FAR less conservative than I) she plugged them into an Excel spreadsheet to calculate what my cut would be.

She handed me a check for $1450.00.

$1450.00???. I had to steady myself on the counter.

So, it looks like I will be selling my masks in her shop and on the website as well. This is amazingly exciting.

I now have a cubic butt-ton of work to do.

Voulez-voulez-vous the sweet smell of success.

The cleaning staff here at work threw my not-yet-empty box of Special K away. Sad.
At least they left the blackberries.
They were probably disgruntled because yesterday, Casey, the valet manager, received these huge signs for posting outside of restaurants, bars, etc. These signs came in very large boxes. These very large boxes contained a very large amount of Styrofoam. Upon removal of aforementioned signs, the Styrofoam began to disintegrate, leaving tiny white beads of messy puffiness all over the office floor. All over the floor. I neglected to photograph the situation to my dismay. I didn’t think I’d be writing about it…
So, every square inch of office floor was littered with tiny little shreds of Styrofoam. Like snow. So, like I said, upon discovery of the task awaiting them, the cleaning staff probably threw out my cereal in a form of protest.

I completed another mask last night, which I’m pleased about, because it means that I can create a mask from start to finish in 3-5 hours. I’m pleased by this increase in efficiency. I was distracted, however, by the old home video I discovered while looking for art supplies. It was from 1985, and my grandmother had given it to me some time ago. I hadn’t yet watched it because, really, who owns a VCR anymore? Fortunately my housemate does, and since she is on vacation I thought she wouldn’t mind my borrowing it for my nostalgia binge. I had forgotten how buck-toothed I was (in 1990 I hit a dog on my bike, flew over the handlebars, and broke off said teeth. Blessing in disguise – I then had nicely shaped porcelain replacements.). My mother had the huge, perm white girl afro thing going on…my brother was 5 years old and sounded like a girl. Good stuff, that.

I think the next several days of “home by myself” time will be good for productivity. I’ve never been able to make a mask from start to finish in one night without any distractions, unless you count Doppler whacking me with his rope because I’m not paying him any attention. I have some more mask blanks arriving in the mail soon, but I would eventually like to get to the point where I’m making my own paper mache so that the mask is completely my creation. That will take some time and face donors for me to use as molds. What’s cool about that is I can custom-make masks modeled after the person it’s for. But, one step at a time. I have to see if these things will sell before I get too excited. I meet with the shop owner tomorrow so I’ll have a better sense of how successful this could be.

Back to stuffing envelopes for me.

Voulez-voulez-vous W-2’s.