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May 30, 2003
Secret Message #9: Endless
Typical.
I just spent the last half hour composing my entry and tying all the loose ends of this neverending month together, weaving in a bit of symbolism and related elements so that an astute reader might find some extra meaning in the words and ideas.
But noooooo...
My web publishing tool had an Alzheimer's attack in the midst of it all, and I lost what I wrote—snap!—just like that. I'm tired and need my sleep, so rather than try to recapture what I wrote, I'll just leave you with this:
It's been an endless month, and as usual, I've hidden an Easter Egg. No easy hints this time, but the first person to find it and tell me will get a print of my artwork.
Posted by April at 11:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 29, 2003
Odds and Ends #3: Answers For Those Who Drop By
Do it to me one mole time...
It looks like I may have to address yet another old post. Half a year later I'm still getting comments on my entry about moles. Google seems to like it and so sends me mole meaning hunters who are armed with questions galore. Be advised. My fortune book with all that mole stuff is not that comprehensive, and I cannot possibly have all the answers.
What answers I do have for some frequently asked (non-mole-related) questions...
Yes, you may copy my layout for your own sites, so long as you use your own images. Yes, I created those alien images that you see in my headers and in some of my posts. Yes, I would be more than happy to create an image like that for you, if you pay me for my time and effort. Yes, you may send me e-mail whenever you wish, so long as you don't mention mortgage loans or penis extenders. Yes, I will respond to your e-mail if you require a response, but please let me know if you do; sometimes I send a response that never reaches its destination, and sometimes I respond with only a warm smile and a touched heart. Yes, I still plan on doing [insert task here], but it will take me some time as I'm currently swamped with work. No, I am not for real; I am all in your imagination.
And for questions not yet asked...
Because. Just because. Because I said so, that's why. Huh? Yeah! To get to the other side.
I'm sorry I don't have more interesting things to say tonight. I had a Kodak Moment and some deadly wordplay to share, but I'll save it for another day.
Posted by April at 11:27 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 27, 2003
His Downfall: Black-Haired Pussy
We gave the cat a flea bath yesterday. Or rather, he did. He has such a knack for it that I let him. Okay fine, I made him do it. Besides, he adores her... even though she constantly gets in his way and trips him up, bringing him crashing down on the cold, hard floor every now and then, just inches away from death. With her black hair and clumsiness, she reminds him too much of me.
So the joke is that he's a sucker for black-haired pussy, and black-haired pussy will be his downfall.
You can take that to mean the cat or myself, if you like, with all the connotations of potential evil from the feminine side. You certainly wouldn't be the first to take that view. I had a professor whose entire course studied the relationship and similarities between woman and animal, describing the "fantasies of feminine evil" that were regularly entertained in the late nineteenth century. I kid you not.
The professor wrote this book, which features a lot of classic art where nude women lounge around with animals. It seems the 19th century male saw females as evil distractions in the path of evolution. Gold-digging vampires we were, demanding man's essence for ourselves when man needed it to grow, succeed, evolve. We were idols of perversity, dragging men down from their ladders to the sky. To surrender to us would be to surrender to Satan, hence all the comparisons to animals; we were primitive, earthy, and dirty.
In modern-day language? We were ball-breaking bitches who really, really loved sex, and sex for pleasure in those days was A VERY BAD THING. The black-haired pussy joke he, the cat and I share would not have been well-received because sensitive men back then were merely castrated pussies. Mama's boys.
It's a good thing we no longer think in that way these days, or I would have had to give the cat a bath myself, and washing my own pussy is never as much fun as having someone else do it for me.
I'm sure all you cat owners out there know what I mean.
Posted by April at 10:45 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 26, 2003
Yanking Doodles #3: Tell Me A Story
My pre-school teacher announced to the entire class that she liked my drawings because they told a story. To be honest, I think that had more to do with how talkative I was and less to do with the etchings themselves. I'd stand at her desk, point at my mysteriously enigmatic scribbles, and feed her some gourmet cockamamy bologne sandwiches, with lemonade, about how this diamond family were on their way home from the ever so exciting diamond fair, et cetera, et cetera.
Completely off-topic, I really did think for many, many years that B.S. stood for Bologne Sandwich. That is, after all, what my cousin Beverly told me when she taught me how to play a card game that everyone else this side of the universe calls Bullshit.
But anyway, my teacher thought you could read Gone With the Wind in my drawings, and her little statement really made an impression on me. Since then, I have tried to breathe a little bit of story into my drawings. What that story is changes from day to day.
Today, I want to see what stories other people see in my doodles. Below is a small selection of pictures I drew and colored with felt tip pens over 10 years ago.
Pretty please, pick one (or all three, if you like) and tell me a story.
Posted by April at 05:42 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 24, 2003
It Must Be In My Jeans
I've mentioned before how much I hate shopping, and up until recently I managed to put off shopping for jeans. Ten, yes 10, glorious years of never having to shop for jeans! But earlier in the week, when I did the laundry, I discovered that I had to retire my absolute last pair of my beloved blue jeans.
This is not a mere glitch in my life. This is a code blue, red alert, elephant-sized poop crisis in my world. I am the blue jean girl, always have been, always will, but I am very particular about the type of jeans I wear, and because Levi's no longer makes my standard 512 Slim Fit jeans, I can no longer just waltz in the nearest department store and buy two or ten pairs of size 5 Long.
No, what this means is that I actually have to try on some jeans and decide on a replacement brand, style, and maybe even size. This means spending money that I don't have on something that doesn't really matter to me—clothes.
If it hadn't been for a couple of moves and some house chores, I wouldn't even be thinking about this. But I tore a pair during my first move, another pair during my second move, another pair while cleaning house, and yet another pair while washing them. That amounts to the four pairs of blue jeans I had left from a major shopping trip 10 years ago, all in the span of half a year, all with the same death wound—a large and lovely lateral rip in the lower left posterior. Makes me wonder for a moment if my butt is large and lopsided. Also makes me think, "What a waste!"
H.E. brought up a good point though. Considering that the jeans I buy usually cost about $40 and last me about 10 years, I really am only paying $4 per jean, per year. That made me feel better about the money part of this entire shopping necessity, but it didn't change the fact that I still had to go shopping.
So I went to Gap today, and I tried on some jeans. And more jeans. And still more jeans.
H.E., who came along to be my emotional support and beast of burden, could see that I was getting frustrated and depressed with the whole ordeal. I hated the cut of this, the fabric of that, the color of this and that, and I was getting more and more irked about the fact that I would have to get new underwear, too, if I tried on any more jeans that insisted my waist was down at my non-existing hips. Hip huggers on a non-hip hipless wonder just don't button fly. In fact, it is a tragedy.
H.E. called the girl over and asked, "You got any jeans that don't show people's pubic hair?"
The girl nodded wisely and smiled at me. "Not fond of the Britney Spears type jeans, are you?"
"God, no," I said. "I'm very old fashioned. I like wearing underwear, and I like it not to show."
She recommended the boot cut and the classic fit styles, and from that point on, I was much, much happier.
By the way, I bought two pairs, so my crisis has been successfully averted.
Posted by April at 10:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 21, 2003
Fauxtography 102
I had so much fun taking fauxtos for memes with my Cantoff PS6 digital crapera that I searched the net for more photo memes.
And guess what I found? I found three that are typically grouped together on participants' blogs—Theme Thursday, Photo Friday, and Saturday Snapshots.
I'm a little late in the game, and I'm not that great a fauxtographer (I need some tips and tricks, people!), but I finally decided to post my take on last week's assignments:
Rather boring fauxtos, aren't they? See, I told you I wasn't that great a fauxtographer. Maybe I'll do better this week if the assignments prove to be extra inspiring.
Posted by April at 10:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 18, 2003
Scarred For Life #2: The Blackhead Blasting Blockhead
I used to have terrible skin. Terrible enough to kill my teenage self-esteem. Terrible enough to warrant trips to the dermatologist. I tried all of the basic treatments, everything they offered over the counter and maybe half the things made available to doctors. I watched my diet and washed my face regularly. I used hypoallergenic products, and I was moderate with the make-up and the cover-up creams.
Nothing worked. I got everything from blackheads to whiteheads, from big red painful zits to pus-filled little pimples. I hated myself and thought I was ugly to the core.
My mother assured me that it was a phase and that I'd outgrow it. She'd had a few while growing up, and my father had gotten more than a few. She warned me about picking at them and said that if I did so I could end up with a cratered face like my father. God forbid. I made absolute sure not to pick at my acne.
...too much.
It was good advice, but she should have broadened her audience. On one of my trips to the dermatologist, I made a complaint about a blackhead that had been bothering me for weeks. It was smack dab in the middle of my left cheek, and in my hypercritical eyes it was huge. HUGE. A glaring beacon of ugly blackheadedness that ever was seen. My gentle picking at it and careful squeezing of it had not affected it at all. It still gaped like the greasy black hole that it was, and I was getting desperate.
"Please," I implored the dermatologist. "Is there anything you can do?"
He looked me over for a moment or two, and I thought perhaps he was mentally going over his inventory, his medical artillery against teen acne. I thought for sure he had a snake oil cure-all that would make the blackhead disappear on the spot.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
He called to his assistant to get some kind of tool. I think it was some kind of tiny spoon with a long handle. He may have even had two of them, I don't know.
Then he leaned toward me, his face looming over my face, and before I knew it he was pressing on my cheek with those metal things, squeezing and squeezing, and God damn it, hurting the hell out of me.
My thoughts were rather predictable:
Aaaauuuurrrrgggghhhh! What the...?! My mom warns me not to pick at my face, and what does this guy think he's doing to me?
He was picking at my face, that's what. He was picking at my face and hurting me. Suddenly, it felt as though he'd slipped, and the pain actually got worse.
"There!" he said proudly. "I got it."
Jerk.
My entire left cheek was throbbing, and I was bleeding a little. The greasy blackness was gone, but I had no idea what was left. The little cratered scar didn't show up until later, slightly bigger than the blackhead ever was, and in the shape of an upside down Canadian maple leaf.
To this day, I still have it. It's the only acne scar I have.
And if I ever see that dunderheaded dermatologist again, I'll do what I wish I'd done back then and punch him right between the eyes.
Posted by April at 09:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 17, 2003
How I Will Spend Eternity
The topic came up when we drove past a beautifully landscaped cemetery. "How would you like to spend eternity there?" H.E. asked.
I shrugged and made a face. "So long as during the part of eternity I'm spending there, I'm dead."
H.E. laughed. "Are you trying to do a Woody Allen?"
"Woody Allen? What did he say?"
"I don't know. Something like, 'I'm not afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it happens.'"
"Hell, yeah. I wouldn't want to be there either."
"Do you want to be buried or cremated?"
"What does it matter? I'll be dead. I don't think it'll matter to me either way. Whichever's cheapest, I guess."
"That would be cremation."
"Fine. I'll be cremated."
"You don't want a headstone and a plot? What if I wanted to bring the two Japanese girls by and leave you flowers?" H.E. always jokes about the two Japanese girls. When I'm not around, he has them come by, and they give him foot rubs. He calls them Left and Right.
"Fine," I said. "Whatever you or the girls want. But I suppose I could be cremated and still have a headstone somewhere. They're just ashes anyway. You can do what you want with them."
"What if I wanted to take all of your ashes and have them made into a pumice stone to use in the shower?"
"Wouldn't that fall apart?"
H.E. laughed and shook his head. "You always do that."
"What?"
"I'll say something totally off the wall, and you'll make it even more off the wall by adding some kind of qualifier to it."
"I don't do that."
"Yes, you do. I'll say something like, 'I need to drive through an elephant's rectum in a Volvo,' and you'll say something like, 'But is that going to fit?'"
I pulled back a little to look at him strangely, with an eyebrow arched. "Nuh-uh," I said.
"Uh-huh," he said.
I stared at him a while longer, before I finally leaned back in my seat with a sigh, defeated. Truth be told, he had me at "elephant's rectum."
I could totally spend eternity having conversations like this.
Posted by April at 11:27 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 14, 2003
Jumping the Shark
I've got a favor to ask of you.
It's that time of year—sweeps week, season finales on prime time TV, dramatic plots and cliffhangers. Shows that you like might never come back, and shows that you hate might pop up again. And after the season is over, all that's left are reruns.
H.E. and I have been discussing some of his favorite shows—which of them are coming back and which of them aren't, which of them have jumped the shark and which of them are close to doing so.
The conversation led me to think about a casual observation that Christian Finnegan made on his blog some time ago. He wondered jokingly if his blog had "jumped the shark."
Now I am idly wondering the same thing about mine.
Here's why. My site consistently gets bookmarked between 150-200 times a month, but I have no idea what makes all those people bookmark me. [Hmm... or is it just one person obsessively bookmarking me five times a day?!] So I got the notion that I should list some favorite entries or recommendations to first-time readers [or to that single nutty person bookmarking me 40 times a week], and I started reading my older entries, even the ones from B.C., before comments. After reading a few of them, I had an uneasy realization:
Some of my writing back then was way, way, waaaay better than it is today. [For one thing, back then, I would never have written the words "way, way, waaaay better" at all.]
Does that mean I have jumped the shark? Am I going downhill from here? Am I only progressively getting worse? I sure hope not. I've got many more plots ideas for future episodes entries up my sleeves, and I haven't even come close to using half of them. There's going to be a couple of shootings and a kidnapping, a là West Wing, a few murders and instances of extortion, a là The Practice, and some accidents, evil twins, and bouts of amnesia, a là every single damn daytime soap opera.
Yes, I plan to stick around a little bit longer, dishing out new episodes whenever the hormones permit and for as long as Aaron Sorkin is writing my log. But I need to know when I have jumped the shark. Someone has to point it out to me because I'm sure I'll be too blind to see it. Will you do that for me?
Pretty please? That's the favor I'm asking of you.
Some blogs come, and some blogs go. Some mysteriously never get taken up again, and all that's left are the archives, like old reruns on Nick at Night. Some remake themselves, like spinoffs, forever creating new characters, material, and expensive ad buys. Some just keep going and going and going and going, like the Energizer bunny, unchanged yet outlasting everything (even cockroaches) and still coming out fine. And some just keep going and going and going and going, even though they're no longer any good, having killed off the entire cast (who have all been raped, extorted, kidnapped and deprived of all memory) and having told every sad joke and bit of drivel at least twice or three times over.
Well, I don't want to be one of those in that last category, so nudge me in the ribs if I start doing the beach thing in a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots.
Or...
Better yet. Among all the blogs or online journals that you've encountered online, tell me which ones have already jumped the shark. Then maybe I can go read them and learn what NOT to do. But if you send me a link to my own site, be sure to specify in which entry the shark was hiding, okay?
Thanks!
Posted by April at 10:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 11, 2003
The Circle of Life
I don't think it has anything to do with the biological clock. I think it's more along the lines of baby envy or peer pressure.
A couple of months ago, one of my co-workers became a father. Over the next few weeks he changed his desktop wallpaper almost daily, updating it with new pictures of his adorable newborn daughter. He was exhausted from the sleepless nights, but he was proud. So proud!
His pride renewed the pride of the other two fathers in my department, and they rediscovered their love of photographing their kids and showing the pictures off to everyone in the building. I oohed and ahhed with the rest of them, but it thankfully didn't bother me much that I didn't have one of my own, as it would most women, or so I thought...
...until one day, one of my cousins invited me to his baby daughter's christianing in San Jose. I was floored. He was younger than me, this boy who, along with his older brothers, had always made me laugh. He was already a father? When did this happen?
He sent me a link to his home page full of pictures and pictures of his baby, one of the cutest things I ever saw, born around the same time that my co-worker's daughter was born. She was the newest addition to my growing list of nephews and nieces, and suddenly I didn't want any future kids of mine to be left far behind. My cousins and I... all our kids were supposed to grow up together, in the same way that I grew up with them. I had this incredible urge to shout, "Wait for me!"
It didn't help that the topic of large families had recently come up in conversations with other co-workers. Apparently, one of my co-workers has a family even larger than mine, and mine is pretty big. Tons of cousins and aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces and in-laws galore. That's quite a network to have, to help support you in your time of need, and in life there is always a need.
Nearly all of my babysitters and playmates were related to me, and I was piano teacher, babysitter, and nanny to many of my younger relations as well. We have all lived in each other's houses at one point or another, when some of us were in the midst of moving from one house to another, and we have all given each other a hand when some of us were down on our luck, by lending money, time or transportation.
We've even had family newsletters, which I would edit, design, print and send out after everyone submitted their stories and pictures for publication.
Somehow I've lost track of that. Somehow I've lost touch with the goings on in my family. And now this. I'm an aunt again, and my kids are being left behind.
My kids? Hold the phone. I don't have kids yet. If I did, I would have had a very pampered breakfast in bed this morning for mother's day, with lopsided cards written in crayon, hand-picked dandelions in a vase, burnt toast, freshly mutilated orange juice, and omelettes made with eggshells and cheese.
*Sigh*
Okay, that's it. I know what it is now. It isn't the biological clock or baby envy at all. It isn't even the feeling of being left behind in my family network. I don't really want to be a mother yet.
All I really want is breakfast in bed.
Posted by April at 09:18 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 09, 2003
Photoshop Tips and Tricks #1: Patterned Cloth
If you liked that entry, you'll like this one even better... because in this one I give up (almost) all of my secrets on how to make repeating pixel patterns into realistic-looking images of patterned cloth. I like to play around in Photoshop and stumble onto techniques like this myself, but to give credit where it is due, I was mostly inspired by this Wacom tutorial.
First, let's select a pattern and add it to our Photoshop arsenal. I chose Roland's background_05.gif pattern (found here), which looks like the following image, when rendered:
...but you can select (or make) any other pattern to your taste, so long as it can seamlessly tile. K10K and Squidfingers are great resources.
Open the basic pixel pattern file in Photoshop, select the entire canvas (Ctrl-A for PC, Command-A for Mac) and from the toolbar click on Edit > Define Pattern, like so:
Click Okay to add the pattern to Photoshop's menu of patterns.
Next, let's create a quick displacement map; you'll see why in a few steps or so. The following two images are of the displacement map I made and how I made it (essentially by using the Gradient tool set to Difference and running it back and forth, over and over again, across the canvas). You can, however, use any black and white image you like—a digital photo of cloth folds, for instance. Then save it as a .psd file.
Now to the fun part of the process... Create a new file that is the same size as your displacement map and fill the entire canvas with the pattern you defined earlier. If that directive makes absolutely no sense to you, here's a screenshot illustrating how to select your pattern for use with the Paint Bucket tool:
Next, click on Filter and select Distort > Displace...
Be sure to set Undefined Areas to Wrap Around, like so:
And select the displacement map you made earlier, like so:
The result is nowhere near the look of cloth yet. It simply looks like the original pattern is on drugs. But stay with me a little here. Open up the same displacement map that you just used, select the entire canvas (Ctrl-A/Command-A), copy it (Ctrl-C/Command-C), paste it (Ctrl-V/Command-V) as a new layer above the distorted pattern, and set the layer to Multiply... like so:
The result is better looking but a little dark. To bring vibrancy back to the colors, make a copy of the distorted pattern layer above the displacement map layer and set it to Soft Light. The Layers palette should then look something like this:
You should by now have a beautiful piece of cloth that is the envy of all your friends, and if you're a compulsive Photoshop-aholic like me, feel free to do a bit of touching up along the highlights. The piece of cloth will look so realistic, people will wonder if it's a photo.
Here is my final image:
Okay,... now show me yours.
Posted by April at 08:23 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 08, 2003
Another Challenging Assignment: Syllables Triplicate!
Everyone's invited. Aprilgem challenges anyone creative:
Demonstrate wordsmithing readiness; develop paragraphs displaying impressive one-handed adroitness. Important requirement: utilize limited lexicon, expressions comprising numerous syllables. Exactly. Numerous.
However, Aprilgem's digital preference? Speculate! Estimate! Calculate!
Example expressions: wonderful, beautiful, gigantic, enormous, yesterday, tomorrow, perfection.
Solution: Trinity.
Difficult assignment? Aprilgem totally understands.
Requiring assistance? Aprilgem recommends thesaurus.
Completely uninspired? Aprilgem's blamelessly innocent, offering favorites discounted Whimsytoons commissions. Visitor's entirely liable.
Aprilgem advises: recreate creative ideas, discover synonyms, imagine alternate expressions.
Conquering commenters, continue!
Posted by April at 11:22 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 06, 2003
He Gazed at Me From Across the Room
H.E. and I were waiting for our sushi dinners when I noticed a dark blonde guy sitting at another table across the aisle, staring at me with thoughtful dark eyes. I tried not to be conspicuous, so I quickly slid my gaze away, but after that first meeting of the eyes, I simply couldn't stop thinking about it. Was he still staring at me?
I stole another look and found that the answer was yes.
That second glance told me a wealth of things, details I hadn't noticed before—like that he was heartbreakingly cute and had gorgeous eyes with a dreamy look about them, as though I were a sugar plum dancing in his head and he wasn't quite aware that the sugar plum was looking back at him for real. He paid no attention to the girl he was with, and she barely even noticed he was there. She was busy talking with someone else, and there he sat, just gazing at me. I filed all of that away in my head and tried to maintain a conversation with H.E., but I'd never been so distracted in my entire life.
God, he was cute.
I knew he was still staring at me, and when I glanced at him a third time, I lingered a little longer. I couldn't believe his eyes, those great big limpid pools of darkness. You could totally get lost in them. I decided that, yes, he looked as though he was wondering what it would be like to talk with me. His thoughts were so apparent. I wonder what she's like...
Before I knew it, dinner was ready, and so began the ritual pouring of the soy sauce over the wasabi, the snapping of the chopsticks and the squeezing of the lemons. I tried extra special hard to eat with dainty bites, but because I knew he was staring at me, I couldn't open my mouth without being painfully aware that he was watching how I ate, and I kept thinking, why the hell is my rainbow roll so huge today? Oh, God, please don't let me dribble soy sauce down my chin!
Finally, I couldn't take it any more. When I slid my gaze towards him, I kept it there. I tipped my head a little and allowed a smile to come over me as I looked directly in his eyes.
He blinked once or twice and sat up straighter, as though taken aback, as though realizing that the girl at whom he'd been gazing was gazing back at him... and smiling!
One end of his mouth tipped up a bit, but he looked too shy to do much more. So I lifted my hand and gave him a tiny encouraging wave, just a small movement of my fingers really.
But H.E. didn't miss it. He'd seen the guy, and he knew I was smiling at him. As I turned my attention back to dinner, he muttered, "I can always count on some guy making eyes at you any time I take you to a restaurant."
I had just put a roll in my mouth, so all I could do was mumble a wide-eyed protest and hold up four fingers.
"Oh, excuse me," H.E. said in a mocking tone, "it was four guys?"
I swallowed the roll hard and gaped at him. I didn't know whether to laugh or to hit him. "No!" I held up my four fingers again. "The guy's only four years old!"
And a very cute four-year-old he was, too. He couldn't stop staring at me.
H.E. simply huffed and mumbled something about me choosing a younger man over him. But of course. A younger man. How typical.
As if.
Posted by April at 11:17 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
May 05, 2003
My Online Yardage Town
If Jeffrey Zeldman and Heather Champ mention it, it must be all the rage. I'm talking about patterns, of course. Apparently, everyone's using them to decorate their web pages these days, for subtle repeating backgrounds and matching color schemes. It's oh, so very hip again.
Meanwhile, I (the ever so un-hip) look at these patterns, find myself collecting them for future Topsy Turvy toons, and think to myself, "Wow... my own private online Yardage Town!"
If you don't know what a Yardage Town is, you have never been unfortunate enough to have your grandmothers make you clothes out of patterned cloth. Yardage Town was a huge superstore of fabric, and I remember running up and down the aisles of bolts and bolts (and bolts) of cloth—patterned, textured, multi-colored, and plain. My grandmothers made dresses and shirts, bags and coats, costumes and panties—yes, panties—galore. You cannot understand the concept of discomfort until you've had an entire outfit made for you, and the cloth used was actually meant to be upholstery, with the scratchy part on the side that rubbed your skin all day.
*Sigh*
So I've been collecting these patterns with nary a thought to using them as backgrounds for my pages. Instead, I've been picturing them as silks and patterned cloth for my little art projects—uncomfortable outfits for my little aliens and caricatures. Twisted, isn't it? I'll bet no one reading this can even imagine what I have in mind. So here's a taste of what I mean...
Below are sample patterns from Travis Beckham and Roland Peschetz (Roland's patterns are here):
And below are my Yardage Town versions of the patterns (click the images for larger view):
Hee! I'm really looking forward to making itchy outfits for the aliens. In fact, I've been considering whether or not I should post some kind of tutorial on making cloth out of pixel patterns like these. Then maybe everyone can make itchy outfits for themselves, their pets, and their imaginary boyfriends.
That is, if anyone is interested... or is as twisted as I am.
Posted by April at 08:57 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack