Doll Disturbia

Some of you know of my aversion to nearly all dolls really, not just the extraordinarily creepy ones. On some level they all are creepy, either as weirdly corpse-like effigies or as some kind of sinister programing device for little girls. (I know, I know, probably just me...)
I had to share this "evidence" from the hilarious cake wrecks blog. Check it out.

Suit Up

Ok troops-- We have eight weeks until the next show, so it's time to suit up and get welding. What's that you say?-- "What a cute necklace and earring's?" "Why thank you!"
(More on them later.)

This is my other office, besides the comfy chair and thesaurus, dictionary and note encrusted ottoman in my living room-- and of course the lawn chair. This is temporary or so I've been told for the last year and a half. Really, by the end of September I may actually have my own shop with walls and a ceiling and everything. What's that again?-- "Nice heron?" "Oh, thanks." You can pick one of these guys up at the show for around $200 (or a pair, hate to split them up you know). A "steal" wouldn't you agree? -- haha.

As for the jewelry -- jewelry central -- aka my dining table is all fired up and in full production mode. This time around I'm doing earrings too, but don't worry, I'll still have plenty of necklaces. (both just $20!) By the way, I'm totally getting that coat. Is it rock-star or what?

Ooooo, examine the cute-age.

Don't you just want them all??

Ok. I'm even making myself sick now, but it's hard to psych up at the beginning. The writing has been totally calling my name for the last year. When I do visual art, it mostly happens as I'm doing it. There may be some planning, especially with commissions, but for the most part I just do it.

The writing is far more obsessive. Of course when I'm actually writing-- putting words on the screen-- it's happening, but it's going on continually, almost every waking moment too. The characters and story are always rattling around in my head, talking to me when I'm running, biking, watching t.v... Often Dan will ask me something, about a show or whatever, and I'll have to say, "I have no idea." I've just been sitting there staring blankly ahead while other things have been unfolding in my mind. It's hard to switch that off and get into welding mode, but that's what has to happen right now.

It usually gets easier the more I work. Ideas (visual) come as I'm working with the tools and equipment, and I begin to be soothed by the meditative work, grinding, hammering slag, cutting, welding. I'm not sure I can totally go cold turkey on the writery stuff though. There may have to be some moonlighting.

Disturbia Round-Up

Just a reminder there is still an open call for disturbia submissions. You can send them to my email, which you can get to through the "a closer look" profile page. These were contributed by Linda and were all taken at the Junk Bonanza. Sometimes when you get on a disturbia roll, everything begins to look suspiciously unsettling and you wonder if it's just you. But then you see something like this sign and know, -- no. It's definitely out there, waiting to be discovered.
Grandpa must have been an interesting guy. Poor grandma.
(Remember you can click on any pic for a bigger weirder view.)

This booth was so distubia jam-packed Linda scarcely knew where to aim the camera first. This squirrel, posed with petrified minature corn kernels, was sitting below the mounted head of a baby bear, who had no eyes. Sorry, but that's what was there. Gulp.


This was a different booth. The peeling nekkid doll is weird enough, but that thing next to it-- was actually a limbless, headless white painted (?) doll torso. "Oh, how adorable." Yes, and these were both available for purchase. Get 'em while they're super old and creepy.

This was also in the taxidermy booth of grandpa's horrors. The deer actually looks rather dapper, considering....

I almost omitted this one. It's not really that bizarre, until you notice not only does the cowboy look a little like country star Randy Travis, and not only is his hair apparently so poufy his hat is sitting stiffly a good eight inches above his actual head, but he has no eyes!!!
(Ok, this one could be just me starting to get creeped out by almost anything at this point.)

This was wierd though. A toy indian set just isn't complete without the white shrouded dead one with his arms crossed over his chest... The one in the headache yellow outfit seems disturbingly nonplussed.

Thanks Linda. Everyone else-- keep those eyes distrubingly peeled.

Fringe Fest

Big score yesterday at the Junk Bonanza-- Huge!
I got this jacket for only $25!

This is something I've always wanted and now that I finally have one it's bringing up a little almost forgotten history from back in the paleolithic era. I had just turned eighteen and moved out into the big wide world much to my parent's horror. I really kind of pulled the rug out from under them and just packed up my stuff and left. I wasn't afraid of anything except feeling caged up. Suddenly the world seemed full of open doors. The paint on the road was only paint, not a boundary. Rules I'd always taken for granted seemed superfluous. I was fearless. This was America. I wouldn't starve. That was the summer I hung around a lot with a guy who would have scared the crap out of me only a few years before.

He had long scraggy blond hair, a prominent adam's apple, and a brooding, edgy, bad boy nature that sucked me right in. He was on the fringe of our little group, kind of an outcast, a little too intense for my other friends. We listened to music, spouted philosophy, flouted convention and told all our big secrets. We spent many nights driving around talking until almost dawn. He had a fringe jacket he let me wear all the time. His eyes would drill into me almost every time I looked at him.

We were just friends. I had a boyfriend that I wasn't that into, and the Dan switch hadn't quite been flipped yet. Thinking back I realize this poor guy was probably pretty into me, but back then I didn't get that-- that guys who want to be super big friends with you are usually back burnering you, biding their time. It didn't pan out for him. Last time I saw him he'd just gotten into a fight with one of the other guys. After letting the little crowd that gathered know what he thought of them all -- not much-- he took off for parts unknown, saying he was going to go look for Neil Young, just wanted to shake his hand.

In honor of Greg go ahead and listen to "Out of the Blue" in the player. It's the fav lyrics line pic this week for "It's better to burn out than to fade away."


I have a horrid cleaning day ahead of me though, and am not really there mood-wise, so if you're feeling twitchy and frenetic like me, you can check out Nirvana's "Breed." It's just unfiltered excess energy blasting away.

The Way-Back Machine

Yes folks, this isn't 1963. It's now. This is Duffy singing "Mercy". What is it with Britain lately producing all these bluesy retro-pop songstresses? Whatever is in their water over there, I'll take seconds. It's in the player too. Enjoy.

Out Of The Box

So last night I had girl's night out with my friend and a new friend who is really cosmic. I made a bonfire outside my nearly completed shop and we talked until midnight. Then when I came inside after they left could I just go to sleep like a normal tired person -- no. No I could not. I had to stay up another two hours reading and rehashing all the cosmicness. Now I'm sitting here still trying to wake up but mostly staring blankly off into space wishing I had the where-with-all to go get some caffeine. Enough is enough. Be right back.

Ok. A little better now.

So among the things my new cosmic friend shared with me was that I should be trying lots of new things right now to shake things up. I already had a few things in mind but now feel even more encouraged to go for it. I think if you don't force yourself out of your box you can begin turning into an "old person" at almost any age. I'm not ready for that yet. Actually I hope to be still finding new things to try out well into my eighties or nineties.

I really have been into the idea of drum lessons lately. I think I'll go for it. The worst that can happen is that I'll try it, be hopelessly bad at it or not think it's as fun as I thought it would be, and possibly be laughed at by some employees of the local music store. Or--- it could be super fun (like it looks) and I could discover I have some weird, savant-ish, undiscovered drumming mojo and become so good my beloved Foo's would call and ask me if I'd consider hanging out with them, you know, just playing ping pong and maybe sitting in on a few songs.

Another Idea I have is mountain biking. This involves some risk. Both trusty Pam and I have taken spectacular spills running the course lately. Mine I'm calling a rolling sider, or corndog, because I tripped and sailed shoulder first into the dirt and proceeded to tumble and roll downhill becoming coated in a layer of tasty cornbread -- er-- no, actually dirt. Pam more or less launched herself shoulder first into a log. While it stopped her from tumbling downhill, it was pretty painful.

When we run we always encounter mountain bikers who mostly seem really cool and almost superhumanly brave. There are these two guys we always see who we call our pretend boyfriends behind their backs. To their face we call them "the cool guys." I peg them as either graphics or music guys, or possibly one of those engineer hybrids who are sort of geeky-cool. Every time we run by them they each make a point of saying hi, which in guy world is making a concerted effort of some kind. One will say, "oh you guys -- hey," and the other will smile and say, "hi." Then one of us will go, "Hey, it's the cool guys!" Yes, it's pretty intense. We're practically engaged. One of them has glued horns to his helmet that both me and Pam are jealous of.

To be honest, the possibility of a blinged-out mountain biking helmet is probably about 40% of the allure for me. Right now I ride with a regular helmet with magnetic poetry glued on saying stuff like, "ride like a girl." (You know, in other words -- awesomely.) I also have an orange bandanna tied to my camelback that sometimes flares out behind me like Underdog's cape. My bike has a giant, old-school bike bell on it and a handlebar hula girl who squeaks when you squeeze her. I used to have a little Wonder Woman figure glued on top of my back light who would shake her fist at all the people left in the wake of my blistering speed, but she broke off.

For the mountain bike helmet I'm considering a black "eight ball" helmet from Nutcase. Yes, it even says that on the front. I like that guy's horns but don't want to be a copier, so am thinking of orange, pink and red accented flames, maybe in rhinestones. Kind of Evil Kenevel right? Then of course there's learning how to actually ride the trail, but hey, once the outfit is squared away I'm sure the rest will fall into place.

Lastly I think I'm going to bite the bullet and find a writing group. Probably somehow affiliated with The Loft. This is a scary one for me -- exposing my writing to the criticism of strangers, especially other possibly frustrated writers, but could be helpful. You know, "growth." (ugh.)

So what would be some things that you guys would consider trying, to shake things up, take you out of your box? It's your life -- don't chicken out!

"Neice-o-tism" Alert

It's my niece Megan's 7th birthday. We've always had a special relationship, our own thing.
(No that's not a dunce hat.)
(But that is my Mom looking on in a helplessly amused fashion.)

When Megan was born I was full of apprehension. The holes in my life have never been baby shaped, so I was worried what this new world would mean for my sister. It seemed like a huge, terrifying, irreversible step, one I'd never in a million years take. But when I met her, my little baby niece, we had this immediate eye contact thing, and I'd say to her, "I already know you don't I?" I felt very attuned to her, the frustration she felt being trapped in a rubbery unreliable body that often betrayed her in humiliating ways. I felt she couldn't wait to take command of her self, of her life.

See, I'm not a baby person, or a toddler person. The whole pants wetting, crying thing -- not into it. Feces? Gross. Boogers? Not a fan. I am much more of a snotty teenager whisperer than a baby whisperer. (Give me your sardonic, your bitter, your smart alec huddled masses yearning to be free. What the heck, throw in the retched refuse too.) Kids don't really seem like sentient beings to me until they can at least talk. (Mom's of the world -- don't bother refuting this. It's just my take -- relax.) Anyway, I was anxious to interact with her when she learned to walk and talk to find out who this person really was.

I went to visit and we were both happy to see each other, maybe a little nervous too. Her mom gave us a few minutes alone and I said, "Ok, I'm going to take your picture. You can do anything you want and I'll take it." She ran straight over to this statue of a woman on this shelf and picked it up and raised it over her head like the tour de france trophy-- completely victorious. I later found out she'd been ordered to NEVER touch it. Right away I knew -- this kid would be my protege.


She's always had a fierce independent streak, constantly fighting to claim her very own space in the world where she can stand as her own person, apart, indomitable. Sometimes Katie gives me a sidelong glance and says, "Thanks," claiming she somehow got this from me, like I transmitted my Svengali-like rebel vibes right into her womb. Part of me likes this ridiculous notion and would like to believe it.

For now her Mom takes great pains to hover protectively nearby, while allowing this part of her to take root. Kudos to my sister for seeing this isn't a problem, something to crush or smother.

Megan has always wanted to be taken seriously. This has sometimes involved hats.

Like her mother, she's always been a tree hugger. In Texas that constitutes being an extremist radical (Good lord, she even recycles-- what next?!), earning them bonus karma points. (and sue points)

When she came to visit us in our new location in the secret woods this face happened. It has that effect on lot's of people.

She's always had a special relationship with her uncle Dan, sometimes overcome by the same feral "love attacks" that used to possess my sister when she was little.

Whenever he's home she can be found somewhere close by, orbiting.

Yes-- She can even lead him around by his little finger. He'd follow her almost anywhere and she's totally in love with him. I like to think it's because he radiates goodness (all my friends are in unanimous agreement that he beams some kind of good guy vibe out of his eyes), and is self-possessed enough to act fearlessly goofy (something little kids appreciate). He truly doesn't give a crap about what people think.

Yeah, they're big pals.

She's always been into art too. Something I've naturally encouraged.

She's never seemed plagued with that weird neurotic humility about it though. I remember when I was little it was a little embarrassing, almost shameful. Of course I wanted people to approve of me, to think I was good at art, but not to notice too much, like there was something bad about being in the spotlight-- something pushy and conceited and decidedly un-midwestern.

Thankfully, she's able to revel in it. She is a good artist, and she loves it, and I think loves that about herself. How wonderful. Look how happy and proud. Freaking awesome!

So there you have it. Happy Birthday Megan. We love you a ton. I put "Seven Nation Army" by The white Stripes at the top of the playlist again since it was her favorite song this summer when they visited. She'd point and sneer and snarl and strut, singing along to this defiant almost martial tune. This little force of nature is going to be something else as she gets older, and I couldn't be more thrilled.