anii (sic) and swans and such.

In the interest of pulling this blog out of complete lassitude, if only for a moment, i give you these snippits, pilfered from Harpers Weekly, which is So awesome:
An elderly German woman filed a lawsuit against a hospital in Bavaria after she checked in for a leg operation and was instead given a new anus. ...It was reported that Petra, the German black swan who fell in love with a swan-shaped paddleboat two years ago, has moved on to a new relationship with a live white swan. The two are now building a nest together.

Although I'm trying not to be one of those bloggers

that post silly weird pictures they find on the internet, i'm failing miserably.
This:

found when googling "playgrounds" this morning.

I was also happy to discover, quite by chance, that someone has a blog entitled My Chutney Garden.
Chutney.
A word preposterously underused in everyday life.

teaTime. a paginical (sic) preview.

This from the Nerve Guide to Sex Etiquette

Which is on its second read now, and as gutsplittingly funny as ever.

When inviting a paramour to one's abode, the gracious host ensures their guest's stay is as comfortable as possible. No need to redecorate, after all, your space is a reflection of who you are—excepting, of course, if you are a filthy pig, in which case betraying yourself and procuring a Swiffer is in order...
...The toilet bowl lid should always be left down. If that is too taxing, then at least leave the seat down, dear cretin. If there is something you do not want to be discovered—a sex toy, adult diapers, a shrunken head—do not keep it in your medicine cabinet. Finally, as a true lady or gentleman, you should always have a guest toothbrush ready, still in its packaging, just in case a guest requests one. You do not keep a drawer full of them for guests to "pick their favourite colour", as if you were the sex dentist.

stuff.

Usually, me and stuff don't like each other much.
Unless it's books, I find Stuff superfluous, weighty, not unduly joy-giving, and being responsible for it kind of annoying.
THAT IS, of course, unless we are talking about the Stuff of Shannon Gerard.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Stuff Of Shannon Gerard. A small little piece of Heart-y loveliness to carry around with you in the darker months of the year.

the problem of stereotypes.

I was given a Dr. Who yearbook by a fellow appreciator today, and I was THRILLED.
Like, Stupid Thrilled.
Discussing this addiction, which has gotten worse of late, we agreed that if i were male, it would be assumed, given the fervor of my dedication, that I am a chronic masturbator who lives in my mother's basement, plays atari, and never showers.

I would like to say for the record that I showered this morning and haven't played atari in years.

And I have breasts.

A bit too modern.

Went into the office today, plugged the kettle in for tea, went back to my computer, grabbed the mouse, and started looking for the place to click to get the water boiling.

Goodness.

Who.

If i watch many more Doctor Who reruns, not only will i need medical attention myself, but I will run out of Tom Baker episodes, on top of all the new seasons, which have already been exhausted (unless there is a season 4, which i don't know of, from beneath this existential rock of mine.)
This could all be a grave problem.

Colette.

After 4 hours of PULLINGMYHAIROUT over book drawings, I decided it is One Of Those Days and I would turn my attentions instead to finishing off a drawing for Brick that was happily straightforward, if not a little boring.
So I give you Colette.

to blog or not to blog.

Am BACK.
I tend to vacillate between "Blogging? BALLS to that" and "Blogging? Why not, lunch is over and the kettle has yet to boil for tea".
So.

Went to Paris, went to Angouleme.
The latter went SWIMMINGLY.
Made back all my costs from the festival proper, and sold more books than at MoCCA NY and TCAF COMBINED. Most importantly though, people seemed SO interested. So much discussion, so many questions, so much engaging, my head must have grown three to five times bigger than it already is.
With my abominable french grammar, it's a wonder I didn't come back married, murdered, or contracted into questionable activity involving the mafia. But I seem to have made it okay, and hopefully have not misrepresented my project in attempting to blunder my way through french explanations.

Now, of course, it's draw, draw, DRAW, as TeaTime will be launching in June, along with an accompanying interview/article about the project (unless something horrid and unforeseen happens) in Rue Morgue magazine. WOOOO.

And somehow to get through the February blues.
And...well, that's all really...

Angouleme!

Accreditation!
Wow!

what my heart looks like.

The below is an older drawing completed for a book project wherein a bunch of artists submit drawings entitled "what my heart looks like".

at last.

1 down! (click on image to see full size cover page)
ahem.
now only 31 to go. And France in FIVE days!

Well, just one more then.

Blogging silence hereby rescinded for a small report on my surreal life in the world of news broadcasting.
Yesterday morning I show up for work, 3(gulp)45 in the am, take myself and my security card to those infamous slide-open London Underground style doors, and swipe the card.
Nothing.
Swipe again.
Nothing.
Try the other one.
Nothing.
Walk back to the security desk. Of course there is NOONE around. Look down hall to huge gaping building, there is one janitor mopping an elevator.
Noone.
I go back to the security doors and swipety swipe, STILL nothing.
I walk back and forth for a moment, imagining of course the pending doom when 4.15am production meeting comes and I am not upstairs. I wander back to the security desk.
SUDDENLY, the handicapped door swings open.
I swiped nothing, no one arrived, the door just opened.
There was a significant moment as I raced towards it, imagining it would close before I got there and inside.

All these years and here I thought Kafka was writing fiction.

on blogging, or rather, not.

I'm going to France in 10 (TEN!) days and the preparations are manifold. So alas, I will be respiting (officially now) from this blog, at least 'til i get back...dear loyal reader(s), i know you are many and this is disappointing news. But just think, FRANCE! COMIC BOOKS! How could me alone in my living room with my blog ever compare.
WOOOO!!!

NEW YEAR!!

BD Angoulême in TWENTY DAYS!!! EEEEEEEEEE!!!!

christmess

At last, 2008 approaches. But a few photographic records of the festivities, before we stray too far into the new year.


And some highlights of my gift-making activities below...
Number 1.
The Kipple Cabinet (for a discerning collector, complete with removable cigar box cupboardry (top, epistolic compartments (bottom), and shoddy photoshopped background (behind))

the pigment to paint principle.

This is an old idea of mine, but i had a moment tonight where it appeared unusually lucid to me, and when one of my particularly clever social compatriots mentioned he would be appropriating it anon, i figured I'd better put it up here, Just For The Record. (Bear with me, i have so few moments of being honored with "appropriative-worthy" remarks)
One of the things I Hate, and never know what to do with, is this prominent evidence in the world that there seems to be a ratio of one in ten of treasure to dross.
That is, out of every ten drawings I do, one is worthwhile. Of every 20 people I find myself in classes with (when I've been in school), 18 of them are (what we called tonight) "dullards", TWO are Treasures.
Of every day I work, frequently 7 of 9 hours are spent doing what I would think of as bullshit, and two hours are Fruitful (That last statistic isn't always true, I've been doing much better in that department, i think)
ANYHOW.

The walls in my apartment (some of them) are crimson red and ochre orange. In both cases, I went to the paint shop, the man behind the counter took two gallons of meagre white "base" paint, squirted less than two ounces of pigment into them, shook them up for ten minutes, and lo and behold, i have two gallons of colour to cover my walls with.

This is how it works.
This is the formula.
Two squirts pigment, two gallons paint.
No more of each, no less.
Well shaken. Properly applied. Voila.
And though I worry (frequently) that my life is nothing but gallons and gallons (and Gallons) of base, there are moments of pigment that (i sincerely hope) are creating something lovely of it. Not to mention the fact that without the base, i'd have a lovely spot of colour, about 1" by 1", with which to cover the walls of my whole apartment.
Base is fine.
Good base.
Necessary base.

Dr. Who and the Horror at Fang Rock

"Leela, don't shoot until you see the green of its tentacles!"

Oh Tom Baker, how i love you.

And this morning

I received my confimation letter for the Angoulême Comics Festival, to take place in January. I practically peed my pants.
Got plane tickets last week (Zoom airlines, airplane likely made of lego, will therefore be wearing life preserver for the duration of the flight), and have been recommended a little hotel in Paris by the name of Sans Culottes.

So. Nay to underwear, Yay to life preserver, I'M GOING TO PARIS!!! WOOOOOO!!!