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November 30, 2003
Kodak Moment #8: Flippin' Flips
I've debated whether or not I should even write this Kodak Moment, as it's not really one of my own. It rightfully belongs to a young man with whom I went to high school, a young man whom my friend Jenny once called the Filipino Tom Cruise.
Filipino Tom Cruise has a name, but for his protection I won't say what it is. All we ever need to know is that Filipino Tom Cruise was a veritable cutie, a popular hottie, and hands down the big man on campus back in those days, and he was naturally invited to Jenny's 18th birthday party, which lasted well into the wee hours of the morning and beyond.
I was at Jenny's party from beginning to end and actually sort of co-hosted it part of the time, so I saw this Kodak Moment firsthand; it happened after the DJ and the majority of the guests left, and a smaller group of guests stayed to watch movies and play a bit of Pictionary. We were a rowdy bunch by that time, the guys especially, and we went from playing the game in a civilized manner, following all of the rules and ritually turning the time piece, to playing a lazy and boisterous game of charades.
The guys would take a Pictionary card, find a word they liked, and try to act it out as we girls guessed what they were trying to convey. Filipino Tom Cruise, of course, took his turns just like the rest of the guys, all of whom tried to outdo each other in getting the girls to laugh at their silly overly physical charades.
We all totally lost it, though, when Filipino Tom Cruise tried to act out the word flip. I'm sure he meant for us to laugh and that in his mind the whole charade would have been comical, with him flat on his back, bouncing up into the air, flipping, and landing flat on his front, sort of like a fish on land or something. And that in itself was funny, when you consider the sight of Tom Cruise, Filipino or otherwise, flopping around like a fish just for the halibut hell of it. The facial expressions going with that kind of movement would have been enough to slay most of us there.
But no, things didn't quite go as Filipino Tom Cruise had planned.
The poor guy. Just as he flipped and landed on his front, he let out a little fart, adding to the little charade. It was such a cute and tiny little fart, though, that I completely missed the sound (apparently I have a herring hearing problem), even as I laughed at his antics. Still, everyone else heard it and laughed harder than they'd ever had, and when I realized what I'd missed, I laughed harder, too. I felt bad for him, but I couldn't help laughing. All the guys started imitating his flip, making fart noises with their mouths as they did so, and in later turns they would harken back to it if the word at hand was even remotely like flip.
"Flip!" we'd say.
"No," one of the guys would say after imitating Filipino Tom Cruise's charade almost exactly, "it's flop!"
Poor, poor Filipino Tom Cruise. I don't know if he was ever able to live it down with the guys afterwards. That may well have been the most embarrassing moment in his entire life. Heck, it even beats the worst of mine.
Well, almost.
By the way, speaking of flopping around like a fish and farting, has anyone read Dave Barry's latest?
Posted by April at 08:51 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 28, 2003
This Does Not Bode Well
So I had some Chinese take-out food for dinner, and I felt fat and happy with my belly filled.
When I opened my fortune cookie, I felt even more content, for my fortune told me, "You will always be successful in your professional career," and there I was, feeling really good about my art and myself and thinking, I should really iron the little folds out of this fortune paper and keep it someplace safe.
So I pulled at the ends to straighten the piece of paper, all the while thinking of my recently commissioned pieces and the promise of more work and how I really, really like this fortune, when all of a sudden, after pulling a little too hard, my fortune rips in two and my hands go flying in opposite directions, each still gripping the end it held.
Surprised, I looked down at my ripped fortune and noticed that the tear was towards the right end, so that most of the fortune was still intact, and even though I am really not that superstitious or silly or insanely irrational, my first fleeting thought was that this must totally invalidate the fortune and change my fate.
Sufficiently dismayed by that thought, I re-read my fortune to reassure myself—then again and again, with growing horror, until I groaned aloud in distress, "Ah!"
"What is it? What's wrong?" H.E. asked, and I proceeded to tell him.
"Well, my fortune read, 'You will always be successful in your professional career,' but I've accidentally ripped it!"
"Yeah, so?" he prompted.
"And now my fortune reads, 'You will always be succ in your professional career.'"
At this, H.E.—that unfeeling, uncaring brute of a man—burst into the loudest, heartiest laughter I've ever heard, and he actually had to wipe tears from his eyes, he was laughing so hard.
I pouted.
Though I've got to admit, it is kind of funny.
Posted by April at 11:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 26, 2003
Thank You
Since this time last year, my situation has improved somewhat from the near hand-to-mouth, disaster-every-month existence I used to live, and with that in mind, I'm so very thankful.
Thanks go especially to those who have in some way monetarily funded my unfortunate art and web habits this year—people like Broch, for being the absolute best patron of the arts and for providing the inspiration that spawned Whimsytoons; Mark, for the challenging commission that inspired me to write this tutorial and for sending me the Seegmiller book; Tony, for post mailing me a card in exactly my taste, along with a great pencil drawing of an island; Jacqueline, for post mailing me a card and an article on art and for the numerous links steering me toward art-related contests and ads; and of course Glenn, Sarah, Vicki, Yoni Books, and Liquid Silver Books. I also thank Warren, for making multiple donations to Greymatter in my name and for sending me warm socks, a gubbool shirt, a nifty birthday card, and an engine.
I thank Minnie for sending me various books, most especially this one, and for her warm loving friendship, AIM conversations, prayers, encouragement, and understanding.
Literally, thanks to everyone I've mentioned, my site remains online, my digital art tools have been somewhat upgraded, and my prospecting resources have grown. Yay for shoestring budgets and the generosity of others! You give me hope.
Whew, now my day job salary can go to important things like food and rent. ;)
Posted by April at 09:33 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 24, 2003
Holiday Timing
It feels so wrong to be getting out the Christmas card list when Thanksgiving hasn't even rolled around yet, but already the temporary pumpkin patches have turned into temporary Christmas tree lots, all decorated in red and green and of all things advertising custom flocking. (It's too flocking soon!)
Anyway, I already hear the carols and the sleigh bells, which seem odd enough in a snowless region, and I find myself cutting out snowflakes from spare printer paper. It doesn't help that I work in graphic design; I designed for the winter holidays back in early fall, and just recently I completed a book cover illustration with a New Year's theme.
I can see it now; while everyone celebrates Christmas, I'll be preparing for Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, and Easter. I guess that explains why I think today is Friday.
Posted by April at 11:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 22, 2003
Without Conviction
I used to have some really interesting discussions with a couple of guys at work. Both were regular churchgoers and Christians, though they often disagreed with each other on certain religious points. How often they disagreed fascinated me, since they both believed in Jesus and the Bible and had their sabbath on Saturday; I just couldn't figure out how they could have such heated debates on the specifics of their faith.
In fact, they seemed to agree only when I joined the discussion.
I'm not exactly an agnostic, but I'm close to it. I believe that there are things we can not and probably will never know or understand, and if there is a higher power out there (and I sometimes think there is!), it is something that we cannot fully grasp, name, or describe in our language. In our human attempt to do so, we instead come up with our various interpretations of what we perceive to be the truth—i.e., Judaism, Christianity, Islam, etc.
But that is not my point, and I am not looking to be converted or to be led into a religious debate. My point is when I joined their discussions, they no longer disagreed with each other, and instead they sought to educate me on their faith as I posed questions to them that challenged their beliefs. When I played the devil's advocate and compared their faith to the Islamic faith or to the Jewish faith, they argued with feeling that Jesus was the only true faith/religion/prophet/savior.
They were so full of conviction, I was frankly amazed. I understand that this is how faith works, but I still had to ask, "How can you be so sure?"
And the response I got was something like, "If Jesus lied, then everything else is a lie." Which confused me only further.
It makes me think of Boy George. Yes, Boy George, and I don't mean to say that he is in any way a prophet or a savior. For me, Boy George is a symbol of conviction because he triggers a memory of me and my cousin Anthony in a heated debate as we sat in the back seat of my Aunt's car on the way to school.
I was maybe 11, and Anthony was 9. Karma Chameleon played on the radio, and it was the first time I'd ever heard it. Anthony, on the other hand, had heard it the night before while it was performed on TV.
"That's a girl singing that," he said, and I frowned as I listened to the lyrics and tenor voice.
"No, it's not," I argued. "That's a man."
"No way. I saw her on TV last night. That's definitely a girl."
"He's singing, 'I'm a man without conviction.' It's got to be a man."
"It's a woman!"
"It's a man!"
Back and forth we argued over this until we were in a yelling match and my aunt had to threaten to stop the car. Angry and righteous, we both thought we were right and the other person was wrong; we were absolutely sure of it, and never did it even occur to us to agree to disagree or to find out more about this person before proceeding so we could settle our debate.
If our situations had been reversed, we probably would have argued differently, with him stating that the singer was a man and with me stating it was a woman. But I hadn't seen Boy George's long hair, make-up, or flowing dress, and Anthony didn't have just the lyrics and voice upon which to base his opinions. We could only rely on our own perceptions and information, warped and incomplete as they were.
Was it ever a shock later on to find out the truth! It made me realize that we cannot know enough to have so much conviction. We cannot always be so sure.
And so I remain a woman without conviction. I am near useless in a debate, most especially when I don't have all the facts. I always end up asking, "Well, what if?" instead of properly sticking with an argument. It makes me wonder how anyone can be so sure of anything or everything—so certain in their beliefs that they would actually go to war for them.
Is it just me, or does it not make sense?
Posted by April at 11:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 20, 2003
Bad [Poetry Journal Writing] From My Writing Past #12: Where Have You Gone? (1/31/1995)
Note: Read aloud
I was not on the soggy lawn, talking with Farmer Bob or Harmless Todd, gnawing on cob, or watching the dogs, donkeys, hogs, and other livestock squawking or hee-hawing in the lofts or stalls and gobbling or hobbling or pawing since dawn. I was not at the mall with Roger the Jock, or father, or Don the doddering father's father, walking along at a crawl with the mob that bothers to shop and stop and shop and stop, as the snobs mock all and flaunt what they just bought—and I hope they rot. I was not at the Mossy Nissan garage, dropping my jaws at the cars that I saw or coughing at smoggy mirages of Dodges or wanting to jog through the wash. I was not at the dock taking stock of the rocks or the yachts on the calm, calm water, where the palms have got the posture of doddering Don at foggy dawns or balmy ones, and smelling the cod, the prawn, and the carp. I was not at the mausoleums, which are barred by guards and smart doctors with prognostications and carts, its marbled halls filled with groveling sobs and drawling psalms, cross with want and raw with shock, fraught with qualms and embalmed bodies. I was not at the lodge built with logs from the pond, guzzling egg-nog or soda-pop with Rob or John, all of us awed by the watery falls, hearing the calls of the burrahhping frogs—they grok like the man from Mars. I was not at the Taj Mahal, enthralled by its marvelous vaulty halls and yawning walls, and nauseated by the all the shops selling China dolls, lozenges, shawls, goggles, and pogs. I was not at the bar, or at the bop-bopping vaudeville, or at work being partly taught DOS by the boss. I was not at charming Narnia, or at hot and haunting Montezuma, or lost at Oz while I sought my aunt. I was not bombing 'Nam, or stopping and mopping the cockroaches, or tossing the greens while I pause to stir the sauce in the pot. I was not with Pocahantes the squaw, or Fonz, or Gonzo, or locked up like a hawk or a fraud with gaunt Hans. I was caught up, distraught as I thought and I fought to use what was taught; I was here—
Writing this poem.
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November 18, 2003
My Latest Work
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November 16, 2003
Badge Swap
I just got word. Guess which one is mine.
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November 14, 2003
So Don't Do That
Seven seems to be a magic number. If you break a mirror, you will have seven years of bad luck. If you marry, you start to feel a restless itch after seven years. If you plan to sue anybody for certain crimes, you have seven years before you reach a statute of limitations.
Well... it's been close to seven years since I've moved away from my parent's house, and only now do I feel like a completely new person. When I turned 30 this year, a coworker said that I was entering what will be the best decade of my life, that I will gain a confidence and maturity I didn't have in my 20s, while also still maintaining my youth. H.E. said as much years ago, but I was too close to my angst to believe him at the time, and he was too close to the mark for me to even consider his advice.
Seven years ago, I was young, scared, idealistic, and full of wistful dreams and crippling insecurity. If I was unhappy about a situation, I grumbled a bit, pissed and moaned, ranted and raved, and bitched and complained. I'd unload in letters and phone calls to my friends, reveling in my oh-woe-is-me if I didn't like my job, if my long-distance boyfriend-not-boyfriend didn't write, if my mother continued to pressure me to do something with my life. I'd complain, and my friends would coo and pout with me, saying things like, "Oh, I know what you mean; I'm the same way!"
Then along came a problem-solver, a person used to finding solutions instead of being part of the problem, a person used to working around the objections of executives, a person with the same determined, rational, and patient mind of any tech support personnel worth his salt. That person was H.E., and he warned me in dark tones, "Don't ever wish aloud for something in front of me unless you really want it because I'll get it for you."
I should have taken that promise seriously, but I'd already waved it away like so much smoke, his Mr. Fixit title already forgotten, and I launched into my first woebegone tales and fanciful dreams. You all know what sort of tales and dreams they were, the kind that you share at bitchfests with close friends—how you hate your job; how you can't stand living at home; how you hate the way your significant other is treating you; how you dream about being a writer, an artist, a singer, or an actor in the same way you dream about marrying into riches and royalty one day, or winning the lottery.
Because, you know, misery loves company, and it's just such a purging, such a relief to share with friends what you'd like to change in your life. Never mind about actually changing it.
And H.E.—well, H.E. would have handed me the moon had I asked for it, or even had I bitched about a moonless night. If it was in his power and I wanted it, he'd make it so.
But see... with me, it was okay to want. It never occurred to me to actually go after what I wanted; I was too scared and content to even consider it. Oh, I wished I had a higher paying job, and H.E. suggested I go job hunting. He gave me lists of numbers to cold call, scripts to read over the phone, templates of résumés and cover letters, and an unrelenting schedule using all those things. I wanted to write? The list of numbers were for ad agencies who might need copywriters. Living at home made me tense? He gave me the numbers to the rental offices of apartment complexes and told me to move out.
It was like going to the doctor and saying, "It hurts when I do this," and the doctor replies with, "So don't do that!"
And it upset me. It irritated, annoyed, and maddened me. It drove me insane. "Can't you just listen?" I asked. I expected him to chime in with me, "Oh, yes, your boss is a jerk. Oh, wow, do I know what you mean. Oh, you poor thing, you have it so tough." I never expected him to try and find a way to make me happy, and I certainly never expected him to ask me why I didn't do that for myself.
"You complain about [blank], but you won't do anything about it? Do you like complaining?"
"No, of course not!" Truth be told, I did, but you didn't hear me admitting it, or even believing it. I complained. He advised. I made excuses. He pointed out that I was making excuses. Then I got upset, changed the subject, became defensive, took the offensive, verbally attacked, argued, or shut up and left, ignoring him completely. A week later we started all over again.
Years went by, and I got used to his mending ways. Not happy with my situation? Change it. That is, if I can—and I usually can, I've found. It got to the point where I started giving unsolicited advice to other people—people who've complained about something in their lives, friends and strangers alike, people I'm certain I irritate, annoy, and madden to the point of insanity.
They complain. I advise. They make excuses. I point out the fact that they're making excuses. But I'm not out to give them the moon if they want it, so if they use other tactics to avoid changing the very thing about which they complain—which, if you think about it, is the true heart of the problem, their unwillingness to take control of their lives—then I stop advising them. I just don't have the patience for it.
It hurts when you do that? Well, don't do that.
It took me seven years to learn this. I wonder how long it will take others to learn it.
Posted by April at 10:26 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 12, 2003
Yanking Doodles #6: That Old Fokker
I found this today while clearing some space in my hard drive, but I can't remember when I drew it. I only know that it was sometime last year, after Dave and I had a brainstorm session of pun-making based on a single word. We came up with a long list of great lines that never got used, half of which I can't even remember, and this image illustrates only one of them.
Can you guess what was on that list?
Here's a hint: the boy is pointing at a Fokker aircraft.
Posted by April at 09:33 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 10, 2003
Frustrated
There are days I feel good enough about my art that I start sending out samples, trying to get work. On those days, my skin is so thick, rejections don't phaze me; I just send my samples elsewhere and hope to catch someone off guard.
This is not one of those days.
I've been looking at other artists' work, since I've been mostly unproductive. It's akin to a writer reading other authors when the typewriter sits silent. But the more I look at other people's work, the more dissatisfied I am with my own, and I've discovered that in my lazy shortcut ways, I've fallen behind in actual painting skills. I can't, for the life of me, paint.
Every time I draw a figure, it comes out cartoonish—features all exaggerated, colors crayon bright. I have a hard time with subtle shifts in hues and tones, and I can't seem to get body proportions just right without some kind of reference.
And umber. I have no idea what umber is. Or burnt sienna. Undertones are lost on me, and I see skin as one color, whether in shadow or in light. Instead of seeing hints of red or blue, I see dodge or burn. It makes me feel like an imposter.
So I practiced some painting this weekend. I set out to "paint" something without using the dodge and burn tools, a Poser figure, or a reference photo.
Then I realized why I stopped trying to "paint" my art. My lack of processing speed and RAM makes it too slow and time-consuming. My tempermental and jittery old Wacom Graphire pen—which I need to replace as soon as I can afford to—makes it too difficult and frustrating to control. My ignorance of the most basic painting techniques makes my attempt little more than a shot in the dark.
And my lack of patience, heck. It makes me give up before I've even finished—just so I can go play around with making quick and easy Celtic knots or whimsy toons.
I guess I don't deal with frustration very well.
Posted by April at 10:44 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 08, 2003
For Brendan: A Starless Moony Sky
Yes, I take requests...
A larger version is available for desktop wallpaper, but if you want an even bigger version—say, 1600 x 1200, for instance—you will have to e-mail me, as it's over 800 kbs. My e-mail address is in the About page.
Posted by April at 03:16 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 06, 2003
Little Miss Muffet Simply Can't Tough It
It's just a little phobia, so little it has no need to be called a phobia really. It's just the sort of thing that makes the nose crinkle up and the top lip curl, the sort of thing that makes the shoulders rise in tension and the whole body shudder, the sort of thing, really, that makes one inhale all the oxygen within ten miles in an ungodly—but tiny!—gasp. It's nothing, really. Just a little dislike.
And it's not like I've always had it. Up until I saw the movie or read the book, I was perfectly capable of watching a Daddy Long Legs hang upside down in the back of the toilet, perfectly content to let a tiny spider spin its web in the corner of my bedroom.
And then I moved here, the land of the invisible spider webs.
I live in the back of a condo complex, and there is only one narrow path out. That path is surrounded by walls and stairs and shrubbery with incredible growth spurts. The spiders are as big as cherry tomatoes, and they love to spin their huge sturdy dewy webs in the path so that they stretch across unseen, sticky ends attached to those surrounding walls and stairs and shrubbery with incredible growth spurts.
I have unwittingly walked into those webs at least three times since I've lived here. Each time I did, I squealed like a banshee while jumping back a mile, waved my arms hysterically around my web-plastered head, and dropped everything as I compulsively brushed at my clothes to knock off the imaginary monster spiders.
I've given H.E. much joy and endless laughter with this special kind of entertainment, so I've resorted to using him as a lookout and a human shield when I can, allowing him to walk ahead of me as my first defense against spider webs. When he is not available, I swing my bag in front of me as though it were a machete, my surroundings a jungle.
So far, it has worked really well.
Once, after I left the jungle path feeling relief at my uneventful passing, I blithely walked across the parking lot towards a lamp post where I parked my car, and I was humming a little tune about spiders, feeling really good about myself. "Ha, ha, you can't get me," I sang, feeling smug.
Then I walked between the lamp post and my car to get in, and I found myself with a face full of spider web.
If you listen carefully, there are still echoes of my scream from that day.
Posted by April at 11:36 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 04, 2003
My Super Hero Power
When asked what my super hero power would be, if I could have one, I would normally answer with flight—the kind of flying that Superman and Peter Pan do, unaided, unfettered, and easy as pie. It's a superpower with which I am fairly comfortable, as I often flew in my nightly dreams when I was a kid. In fact, for a long time, I was almost completely certain that I'd be pretty good at it, what with all the practice that I got in my dreams; it was usually easier for me to fly than to walk or run.
Now that I'm a little older, though, I've been reconsidering my choice of superpower. Flying is useful, in its own little way, but I think I would have to keep such a talent to myself, lest I risk being outcast like The Boy Who Could Fly, and to keep it hidden I would have to fly on the sly, in the dead of the night while everyone slept... or very furtively behind buildings and tall trees so that no one can see. But that's just no fun at all.
So what I'd like my superhuman power to be is this—to be able to see in the fourth dimension at will. If the third dimension is space, then the fourth dimension is time, and the ability to see in the fourth dimension means being able to see frontwards and backwards in time.
I mean, I would love to be able to look at a person and see who they truly are, from their infancy to their old age. I could then see the sort of progression their life takes, whether or not they have made something good out of what they were given and whether or not they lose all their hair and teeth at a certain age.
I would love to be able to look at a company and see if they will do well in a year or two, or maybe even ten. I could then see whether or not it's worth buying their stock and keeping it, or whether or not I should avoid them at all cost.
I would love to be able to look at a house that I am thinking of buying and see if it stays there through time, sturdy and unbothered by wildfires or mudslides.
What a useful little power, seeing something in the fourth dimension. Definitely better than flight, I'd say, and much more practical.
Posted by April at 10:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
November 02, 2003
The Guy Knows Too Much
Oh, hell. That's nothing.
I've had several male gynos in the course of my life, and while my first choice—when I'm presented with one—is always a female doctor, I've found that on the whole (on the hole?!), male gynos really aren't any better or any worse. They do, however, tend to have a more gentle touch; I once had a female doctor totally dig in without mercy while doing the finger prod, after which I immediately changed doctors to avoid ever having her do the hokey-pokey inside of me again.
Still, it is a little bit unsettling and embarrassing—the idea of a man looking at a woman's private parts in a clinical environment. How can any woman know for certain that he is in no way looking at her sexually?
My first male gynecologist, for instance... well, he was a piece of work, that one. He was Asian, and he seemed nice enough during the initial interview when I described my medical history, but then during the exam, something really strange happened.
He developed a tic.
The exam went normally enough. A female nurse was there to assist and chaperone, and there was no digging for gold in my womb. But sometime after he looked between my legs, one side of the gyno's face began to twitch, and it twitched quite regularly, the lid of one eye closing and one end of his mouth lifting in a smile.
It took me a while to realize that he was winking at me--again... and again!--the smile gradually turning into a grin.
I was dumbfounded with shock, but I had the presence of mind to pretend not to notice. Yet, even after I had dressed and sat in his office as he asked, it continued. He prolonged the after-exam chat in that shrinking room, carefully keeping the conversation on the pap smear and the next appointment, or on my prescription and my monthly menstrual cramps, and all the while he continued to wink at me between 30-second intervals, as though he and I shared some kind of naughty secret between us.
It was the most disturbing gynecological appointment I had ever experienced before then and have ever experienced since. To this day, I suspect that he expected me to return the winks, or at the very least acknowledge them, perhaps say something like, "Excuse me, but do you have something in your eye?" What, and open a can of worms? Not on your life.
Needless to say, I switched doctors after that.
Posted by April at 08:35 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack