Jim Mahfood, aka Food One, aka one of our favorite artists ever, has released some dope shit over the course of his career. Ask for Janice, his ‘zine about the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique, might be one of the coolest things we own. The man does amazingly with everything he touches, such as turning his online strip Los Angeles Ink Stains from JPGs to a massive book that lets you see everything in tight detail.
So, it’s unsurprising that we collectively lost our minds here at the Nuthouse when we discovered he was releasing a pop-pup book. It’s been pretty cool watching Pop Up Funk take shape via Food’s Instagram, because it’s pretty obvious that this is a handmade labor of love. Rosston Meyer has done an amazing job of converting the artwork into these 3D pop up images, and I really wish I had the money to purchase one.
However, I don’t, but I’d like to think that more people will do fantastic work like this if it’s supported, so pop over to the Pop Up Funk store to get either the limited-edition “regular” version, of which only 100 will be made, or snag the “AP edition,” which includes the Pervert Train collector’s button, an original piece of art, an 18″ x 24″ signed & numbered print of the back cover image, and it’s bound in silver instead of turquoise. There are only 10.
I swear, though, had there been more time before the show, I totally would've taken everyone alley-walking through East Lawrence. And probably asked Neko and Kelly to join the LFK chapter of the Unicorn Club. There's always next time.
Nick was in NYC all week, so I mom'd the Things by myself just like old times. Thing 2 discovered Sonic Youth and disappeared upstairs with all of their albums we have. He also made waffles for our friend Sarina, with my supervision and egg-cracking (you're welcome for the lack of crunch, Sarina). We made a bunch, so she and Georgia could have waffles whenever. Looks like this Saturday, I'll be helping at Jubilee cafe, too. I need to see if they'll let me bring Thing 2, since he likes helping out.
School's winding down. My friend Sammy's finally coming to visit in November, so that's pretty awesome. I just looked at my movies, music, and book lists (while adding names to them) and realized I shall not want for shit to do come December.
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In school news, my Global Studies class is tits, my Abnormal Psych class is even more tits, and my Science Fiction class is full of all the blowhards I try to avoid at C2E2. Damn the luck. At least the professor's cool and reels them back to the point every ten minutes or so.
In work news, the new director seems cool. I brainstormed with him today on how to solve a problem that came up, and I think he'll be a great resource. In other work news, I had a devastating moment today that gutted me. It's hard to work in animal healthcare, sometimes. I get attached and leave myself open to heartbreak. I love these creatures more than I love some people. But that's how I'm made. I slow down to avoid squirrels in the road and my heart skips a beat every time a cat darts in front of my car. People, on the other hand, meh. Stealth came up to me as soon as I walked in the door. He knew I was upset, and changed his routine in order to cuddle me and purr me back to normal. I love all of you animal hearts. Even the ones that beat a wilder and colder blood.
- Current Music:Neko Case - Night Still Comes
I ran like the devil was chasing me. If the devil's name is School Jitters with a side of What If Thing 1 Doesn't Make It And Remains An Ungrateful B-hole Forever?
Sunday morning, I received a twenty-three year old apology from a girl who'd tormented me through school. She said her actions haunted her for years, until she found me on facebook and reached out. I guess I have never considered myself to be the object of so many sleepless nights.
I'm not totally innocent. After one particularly bad episode at school, I took my frustrations out on a girl whose locker was a few down from my own. She never participated in the bullying but was friends with people who did. I couldn't understand how she managed to fly under their radar. I walked over, still full of humiliation and anger from being bullied by her friends. I waited until she worked the combination to her locker and then I reached out and slammed the door shut. She looked at me and said nothing. Her friends had just done this very same thing to me. I did it one more time, and she looked ready to cry. "I'll tell them," she said. "So? Go ahead. They make shit up about me already. I don't even care any more." I walked away. Then I turned back. "What did I ever do to make them pick on me? I don't even know any of them." She ignored me and grabbed her books and coat, slamming her locker shut as she walked away. I didn't feel any better for having rolled the shit to rest at someone else's feet.
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I could go through and cut the list down to just relatives and lifelong friends, but then I'd see the local people and have to have that talk about "Why did you take me off of your Friends List?" which is a conversation I've had, after a mutual friend's bitter break-up (Nick chose the guy, I chose the girl--but they were the ones who said "if you're friends with him/her, you can't be friends with me").
And not all of the people I'm closest to are the most interesting, newsfeed-wise. Some people, I can barely stand. Their status updates and links, however, are far more entertaining than the earnest updates of my blood relatives. Facebook as schadenfreude enabler.
I have ex-boyfriends who became just friends, ex-roommates who got me through some pretty tumultuous times in my life, kindred spirit co-workers I like who moved on to other jobs or stayed behind when I left, and people from grade school who turned out to be way more awesome than I could have ever guessed. A few people actually looked me up on Facebook because I'd meant a lot to them and I'd never realized it: kids I babysat, old classmates, old co-workers. Facebook means you never have to say goodbye.
And then there are the frenemies, the ones you keep closer as a battle strategy. I feel compelled to keep tabs on a half-dozen or so, not because I like them, but because I have to keep an eye on what they do in case it affects me or my family. Facebook as police scanner and gossip conduit.
I could close down my account, but a few of my friends are not the type for phone calls or letters. I'm not either, so Facebook is how we stay in touch. Also, Facebook has become the default way to invite people to parties and family functions. So I guess it's necessary. But, sometimes--I dream of a pre-Facebook world.
I have about 350 "friends" on Facebook, contacts that range from people who've changed my diapers to people whose diapers I've changed. When that number goes down, I don't fret. I sigh with relief.
I guess I'm as much of an introvert online as I am in the real world. I'm thankful I've kept this journal going. I've always written best when I didn't care who read it. I'll keep my Facebook profile going, but I'll start posting links and thoughts here, where I feel a little more freedom. Where it seems a little quieter.
When Leota died, I never thought to try again. I would have worked that small planchette to splinters for the sake of revealing her destination, if I could only believe. Twenty years after that night, I learned the house served several decades as a nursing home. Perhaps those room vibrations of lonely deaths were accurate, just not as intentional as we'd portrayed.
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Sitting around a campfire, drinking beer and poking sparks out of the embers. Watching the Red Green show on the couch, windows open to catch the summer breeze, while the rest of the world does a Saturday night properly. The peachy-pink of a spring sunrise. Lens flare. Walking through overgrown pioneer cemeteries. Watching a mountain thunderstorm roll out, only to be replaced by a rainbow that spans the valley and ends somewhere in the treetops on either side. Purple Arizona sunsets. Finding the spot where the Gulf of Mexico blue becomes Atlantic Ocean green. Black dolphins arcing through the water on their way to paradise. Lighthouses standing sentry on Minnesota cliffs. Blood-red harvest moons, rising over the prairie.
Foxes that leap across the railroad tracks and leave a blaze of red as they lope through the snow. Wheeling eagles, circling over the treetops. Herons gliding towards the river. Walking the alleys of Old West Lawrence when the honeysuckle’s in bloom. Hexagonal bathroom tile. Faded advertisements on the sides of buildings. Mennonite bake sales. Robin eggs in surprise nests. The crooked tail of a Siamese cat. The wavy glass of old house windows. Deep front porches. The rubbery smell of bowling shoes and rented skates. Riding the Paratrooper at the county fair. The stomach-flipping, suspension-testing hills only found on two-lane highways. Exploring abandoned buildings. Ghost towns. Old high school yearbooks. Flowers growing up through sidewalk cracks.
Cityscape photos from the early 20th-century. Drinking coffee out of an ancient, chipped, Devil’s Lake State Park mug. Sea otters. River otters. A beady-eyed old buddy, chosen from a long-ago Kmart shelf. An old truth in a new song. The tiny knock of a baby bird’s heart, warm fluff in the palm of a tender hand. A deafening sing-along of 3,000 new friends. Fireflies throwing sparks in the summer thunder’s heat.
[from an essay I wrote for my non-fiction writing class]
- Current Mood: contemplative