Celebrating Palin's resignation

photo by linchbell

And now...
Keyboard Cat will play her off...


Ps. Send your old shoes to the new George W. Bush library.

Sarah Palin Keyboard Cat

Who gives a fuck?

Asia reminded us about it and JudyBlueSky replied, "I want the icon. I NEED the icon. I AM the icon."

Indeed.

Perhaps I am just being academic but, in case you missed the conversation, I think Mr. Smiley Face's sign said, "WHO GIVES A FUCK?" rather than "WHO GIVES A SHIT?"

But you know how it is. Where once people may have viewed it with a less than passing glance, now that it is lost, this tiny gif is legend, like The One Ring Which Rules Them All. To find it would require battle with titanic forces, in this case, Inertia. Don't laugh. Inertia is responsible, or not responsible, for more of history than exists.

So, you may wonder, why did I lose the Mr. Smiley Face "WHO GIVES A SHIT/FUCK?" icon in the first place? Simple, and here's the moral of the story, I failed to back my icon file up before switching to a new hard drive. However, and this is the good part, the little punk is buried in my blog somewhere but locating it would require an episodic, page by page search. I gave it a quick try but lost heart even though I am looking for a diversion from that inventory of poems I inflicted on myself now that Baby Thea's box is in the mail.

So...to sweeten the pot, I am offering a reward to anyone who manages to unearth the damn thing. It is, after all, very tiny and, on it's own, not worth the effort, so if you find it, I will send you a prize, exactly what TBA. Here's a clue. It's probably with posts that are about two years old. Okay. Now, I've gotta get back to work. At the moment, I am tortured by that horrible feeling I get when squandering irreplaceable time. I set out today, after all, to get a poetry submission in the mail before five.

Baby T's tees

.So, I finished six tees for Baby Thea. I'd love to post the drawings but Her Self must see them first. I am mailing the box today. One, in particular, came out a bit weird but I'm sending it anyway. That's how it is with, ahem, works in progress. Well, I suppose they're all a bit weird, or at least not ordinary baby fashion.

Inventory update

To tell you the truth, my poetry inventory is not going so well. It has... well... for the moment... stalled out... and been replaced by the production of Baby T ts. Awhile ago, back before Baby Thea was born, her mama requested a silkscreened version of this blackbird on a onesie. Onesies are clothes sized 0 to 3 months, baby clothes in other words. While I am extremely flattered she liked the drawing enough to request it, I haven't gotten around to getting it silkscreened yet. I don't know how it will be received but I decided to draw directly on the garment instead. Silkscreening is costly but I can see doing it for a bag or a bib, something that will be in use for a while, but Baby Thea will outgrow a onesie in a minute.

Secondly, and here's where artistic considerations come in. Everyone has reproductions but how many people wear clothes that are themselves one-of-a-kind works of art? Seems to me Baby Thea deserves no less. (Kimberlee, your baby too, if you're interested) So, I decided to give it a whirl. I picked up six onsies at the second hand store. What's to lose? I did one drawing yesterday. It may be too strange but there's no going back once the pen touches the cloth. This is the bird that emerged from the ink. Too odd for a baby? Maybe. I've got five more onsies to go. Meanwhile, my fault alone, the writing inventory languishes, the folders stacked and set to the side. I will get back to it. Really.

"Remember: 75% goes in the shredder. At the advice of an actual editor, not the one living in my head, I'm going through the old manuscript with a firm and unsentimental hand. I have 100 pages to go. Whack whack. Does a body good. Don't flinch." JudyBlueSky's comment. She's right, of course, but she's working on a prose draft. If I whack whacked 75% of this file, there'd be about five pages. In my defense I must say, for every page that has made it this far, 75 were whack whacked before the ink dried. Poetry is a brutal craft.

Inventory time

The time has come for me to inventory my written work, especially the poetry and, to that end, I recently printed out what I have, for years, been filing away. This is why I am currently sitting here in my favorite chair, cup of coffee nearby, writing this blog post. I need to give myself a pep talk.

Poetic license only goes so far, if you are serious about writing well. Likewise, this "body of work" idea can remain amorphous only so long before it becomes, well, pointless. Personally, I have a high tolerance for ambiguity. Granted it's a bit messy, but it also allows me to overestimate exactly how much and what I have done. The downside, of course, is that ambiguity sours in an especially nasty manner. And for me it has. So, it's time to open the box, see what's actually what and, more importantly perhaps, what is not. Face the demons. Crap.

Man with a hat

The truth about writers

Hilarious editorial from last Sunday's LA Times. At least for me it is oh so true.

The truth about writers by J. Robert Lennon