December 29th.

I will probably have the song "Be Italian" from the movie Nine, in my head for next few days. It was probably the only redeeming factor of that movie.

I have come to realize that my job pushing sales at FYE requires me to flirt with any and everyone. Seduction and smiles to land a discount card or a magazine subscription that will inevitably pull money right out of the hands of the few that find themselves caught. I'm glad it's almost over. I forgot how degrading the whole process can be. Sure, selling people things that could benefit them would be worthwhile, but tricking them into things they don't, really feels wrong.

My puppy -my ten year old dog- had surgery on her ear again. She was supposed to stay over at the vet's for the night but they called and asked us to pick her up because she was so anxious. I can hear her right now. She's whining and moping and only seems to stop when I'm holding her. I have to be up in five hours, I can't do that all night. :/ poor kid.

I'll post some images soon. My scanner has been acting all funny latley. It crops in oddly and tends to slant the picture. I may have dropped it too many times.

Music would be a nice addition to my blog, but when looking up how to add it, the task seems daunting. Russell, what does Breanne use for hers?

There's always chocolate stuck in their teeth.

John Denver for some reason reminds me of Stephen King.
why is this?

I think my transition from Inglorious Basterds to the Sound of Music was flawless.

All about the Numbers

I am very excited for the day when I will no longer have to join a quarter, nickel, and penny together to make change for a customer buying one 9.99 cd, 10.69 with tax, to make thirty one cents.

Meanwhile, I feel that every adult needs to take their mother/father/grandmother/grandfather/aunt/uncle aside, and let them know that checks are really no longer an acceptable form of currency. It's irritating and primitive, get them a damn check card.

video

this may be proof that I need professional help. oh well.

And this is what it would look like.

minus the icky yellow button-up.

Loren's Paintings and Drawings

Loren sent these to me (well, i guess now it was yesterday). He said that he appreciated that I always pester him about what he's working on when I run into him. And I guess on a whim he decided to share. I think they deserve to be seen. Given, I think the only other person who looks at this blog is Russell, but hey, I got to one more person. Loren told me once that his art is the result of Mondrian's work, if Phillip Guston put his foot through it.

To bury one's bird-like head.

ostrich, common name for a large flightless bird (Struthio camelus) of Africa and parts of SW Asia, allied to the rhea, the emu and the extinct moa. It is the largest of living birds; some males reach a height of 8 ft (244 cm) and weigh from 200 to 300 lb (90–135 kg). The ostrich runs at great speed with wings outspread. The inner of the two toes on each foot is much the larger and bears most of the bird's weight. The ostrich kicks when angered and can inflict serious injury. In both sexes the head, neck, and thighs are bare or scantily feathered. The male is glossy black with beautiful long white plumes on the wings and tail. The female is a dull grayish brown. Usually the polygamous male has from two to six females in his flock. The cock scoops out a hollow for the eggs, which weigh nearly 3 lb (1.35 kg) each. One of the females incubates the eggs during the day, and the cock takes over at night. During the 19th-century vogue for ostrich plumes, farms were established in South Africa and later in North America, Australia, and Europe; after World War I fashions changed and the industry collapsed. Ostriches are classified in the phylum Chordata, subphylum Vertebrata, class Aves, order Struthioniformes, family Struthionidae.

hich lay 15–60 eggs in a communal nest scraped in the ground. The male sits at night; the females take turns by day. One-month-old chicks can run with adults, at 40 mph (65 km/hr). To escape detection, an ostrich may lie on the ground with its neck outstretched, a habit that may have given rise to the notion that ostriches bury their heads in the sand.

hides head, thinking itself concealed. [Animal Symbolism: Brewer Dictionary, 788]

Except, they don't. It's a fallacy.

Poor Azazel.

Billy Crystal

While watching "When Harry met Sally," I realized that Billy Crystal has a really pleasing profile. Everything is represented well. Maybe I just like that he has lips like mine. Whatever.

I made his nose too prominent.

Urban Dictionary was made for little white girls.

Sunday morning, during a PINK pantie brand-guide, I sat on the floor with five of my co-workers, sizing, lining up, and ordering panties made mostly for teenage girls. I was mostly quiet all morning, (this happens when you're up before the sun). A new guy, Nate says "Hey Kat, You like my swagger?" My brow furrowed and I looked at the floor, trying to use my deductive reasoning as to what exactly "swagger" was. I decided that whatever it was, I didn't want it. I replied with, "I'm good, thanks." I think he hates me now. I've decided that that was a poor response.

I looked up swagger later.

Meanwhile, I met a girl who claims that the ghost of Kurt Cobain lives in her shower.

Scorpio

I just found out that my grandfather and my evil cat, Patches, were/are both Scorpios. I feel this explains everything.

Clicky

Goddamn Scorpios.

"Love and Marriage, goes together like a horse and carriage..."

My grandmother decided that we should go out for a late lunch before I go to work, since we're going miss our usually friday night pizza-eating movie-watching experience. This week was my grandfather's funeral and.. we had just watched "When Harry met Sally," which i had never seen. So, when we're sitting there in chilly sleepy silence, waiting for our calzones to be delivered, I asked her how she met my grandfather. She was a nurse in the hospital where he had surgery for a severely dislocated shoulder. He asked for her phone number. She told him that she didn't give her number out to patients. He returned a week later to visit when his brother was having a hernia operation. He asked again and said, "I'm not a patient anymore, now I'm a visitor." I think she caves easily.

As the conversation progressed, i found out that my grandparents got married when she was 21. As did her older sister Kathleen. 21. We talked about my parents. My mom wanted to get married at 22, but circumstances kept them from tying the knot until she was 23. Both of my aunts are spinsters that got their hands on kids without finding the husband figure, so they will be excluded from this.

I said, "Geez, Grandma... 21? I'm 19. I know this is partially a generational thing, and social expectations have changed so that seems really early to me... but damn, I have two years?"

She explained that it's different because I'm going to be school for several years and then grad school. She already had her nursing requirements done by the time she was my age. But her explanation wasn't to tell me that getting married wasn't important or expected, it just means that I get extra time. Not to say that I am opposed to joining into that time honored tradition that everyone seems to be obsessed with, I just don't consider it very often. I have a hard time finding people of the opposite sex, particularly of my age, that are worth speaking to at all. And older people that have some wisdom and interest to offer tend to be married, unusual in expressing feelings, entirely repressed, scared, or completely opposed to becoming attached to someone younger than them due to their own idea of social barriers.

But it's expected that I will find someone near my own age, settle down somewhere and pop out my necessary 2.5 kids. And I have a whole line of women setting the bar for me, going back generations and generations.

Question:

Do shampoo and conditioner have an expiration date?

Movie Reminder, two days ago.

Cutest thing ever: Loren Myhre, pink cheeked and glassy eyed from alcohol.

O.O

line. crossed.

Updates

Sorry for the lack of imagery this weekend, I've been away from my scanner. But here is the news:

-I woke up and imagined that I saw aliens lined up against the wall in my room. scared the crap out of me.

-I am entirely sufficient at hanging bras on cheap plastic hangers.

-Fried eggs are almost the best thing ever. Almost.

-Black Sheep

-My old job is going to pay me $9.00 an hour when I come back for Christmas.

-Store Meeting, corporate expectations. Responses are rambles, far off target.

-I have an art history test in 14 hours.. and I'm not even really sure what's on it.

-My dad is winning his football pool.

- Blindside was a very good movie, though it steers clear of the really dark uncomfortable issues and instead focuses on football and being from Tennessee.

-My acquaintances are dropping like flies. Be careful.

-I will be photographing the BFA show for the school. I need to remember how to use a digital SLR.

-I want to draw A LOT more.

-I still want to see a parade, Russell.

Quality Individuals:

I re-met a guy last night that is a friend of Emerald's boyfriend. He's been living in New York for the past 26 years, which is his collective age. Evidently he used to be the head of a Wiccan Coven up there, but he passed the role on when he came down here a month ago. He's now sleeping in Cal Colgan's office room is his house. This person "James" or as he told people who did not already know him, "Spyke." He aspires to gain employment as a fast food estabilishment here in St. A. as soon as the college kids depart for Christmas. He has worked at Wendy's, McDonalds, and Burger King and informed me of the pros and cons of working at each. Lets just say, don't eat the chili at Wendy's... With five years of fast food experience, he's a shoo-in for any position. Moving on to the real reason he caught my attention. Instead of doing as drunk guys in the company of drunk girls would do, which is ass-grabbing and soliciting without any real vocal exchange. James claimed that he was a "Gentleman." And that he would never do anything without first asking the drunk girl in question. The first example was my horrifically drunk friend Sara, whom I have never seen wasted to that extent. I look up and I just see his hand go down and an squeeze her butt. My immediate reaction was to scream "Sara!" across the porch and then make her come over and sit next to me. This sadly also brought James over, who continued to tell us both that we have very soft looking lips that he would love to test how soft they were if we wouldn't mind. And then continued further to tell me that from the night he met me in the studio he wanted to take me home. Though, not necessarily to do scary things, just because he would love to spend time with me.

He looks like skeezy Jesus, no imagery required.

The corruption of the term "Gentleman" through the ages is an excruciating failure. We're not even in the same ballpark.




There was no parade to watch this morning. :(

Concubines of Virtue.

Don't know why I keep posting old stuff. It's like airing dirty laundry.

How Doth

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

Banana Bread, is the Best Thing in the World.

Wednesday Night at the V.S.

I passed out on my couch almost immediately upon arriving at my house yesterday afternoon. I slept solidly for an hour before calling work to see if they were going to need me for my on-call shift. Despite my crossing of my arms, legs, and fingers, in hopes of freedom, they decided that they wanted me and i was forced to abandon my noble attempt at sleep.

I went in a few minutes early so I could go pick up my Mel Torme cd from the old stomping grounds across the hall. Jo got married to some military fellow. Mike's hair grew out again. I forced, yes, FORCED, him to give me a hug. Sadly, he's one of those that tends to give spaghetti arms hugs anyway. I think I really would like to go back there for christmas. They balance out my work habits. V.S. is all about manual labor, running, "skipping," and stressing over the details. FYE is about sales pitching, standing around, and talking about movies that people can't remember the title of. Doing both keeps me from collapsing.

There's a whole new crew at Victoria's Secret. They all seem well enough, but it seems like they always hire skeezey (sp?) people for sales support. They're the people you're ashamed to be seen in public with. Meanwhile, all the sales girls are pleasant, attractive, and considerable less skeezey. I flirted with switching to sales at V.S., but I'm not sure how good I am at selling things to women, or how i feel about pressuring people into getting more credit cards in the middle of an economic dip. On to the reason why I decided to write this... Last night, we were told that we would not be allowed to leave until the store was 100%, no matter how long we had been there, or what our schedule was intended to be. A few people had been there since 2pm.

I "projection layered" one of the back launch pads so it would looks christmas-y, arranged "Long Jane's" on their gifting table, made mock boxes for the understock, arranged Flannel Jim-Jams on their gifting tables, made mock boxes for their understock, and then, Kristen decided that there was something about me, that said "Wow, I'm really good at tying ribbons, and would like nothing more than to tie a zillion ribbons right at this very moment." She had tied five or so and sent me over to finish the table. I suppose being artsy means that you can do any and everything to do with presentation? Anyway, I walked over and immediately wished I had taken a crash course in ribbon tying with grandma. She's super good at it. After trial and error, the best way to tie ribbons is the "Bunny Ear Method" that you learn in pre-school before you learn the "Grown Up" way. If you tie ribbons the grown up way, they tend to tilt sideway, which will not do. Once I was done with the front table, while heading back, Schareka stopped me and asked me to tie bows for the beauty room. Four bows later, i was moved on to trash duty because Kristen knows that I don't "Dilly dally." Halfway into this job, Schareka walks over and has me tie one additional ribbon. >.<

This was followed by a trash run, recovering panties in core, recovering all of intimissimi, lounge, and then recovering the pink room, folding and hanging hoodies. We got out promptly at 1am. I drove home and watched a Woodstock documentary with my dad.

Proclaimation:

That recliner on Ashley's porch should have my name carved into it's fluffy chair-like flesh.

The New Mr. Renfield

Gnomes

Johnny D'Elia

We drove to Tampa to visit my grandfather today. It's been ten years since I've been down there. For some reason, my squeaker died. I didn't really say anything unless I was asked a question. "I've never seen you so Mousy." -dad. I guess that's how I handled the awkwardness. Meanwhile, Andrew doesn't handle nervous tension well, and blabbered for the whole four hours we were in the house.



He's going to either die of a blood clot or his blood chemistry is going to get so out of whack that his heart will stop.

Just drew this. Don't know why she's scary skinny.

Truth

I'm really bad at being sorry.

Vulcans

It seem like everyday...or at least for the past two. I listen to people, with the giggles and the squeals, people taking things much too personally, and I'm bored. I can feel my ears tingling, like the upper cartilage is just itching to spike up to an elongated point. Primitive emotions irritate me. Meanwhile, as I am a horrendously passionate person, I really can't be a Vulcan. And there goes my dreams of being analytical and bitchy for forever.

However, I do get to involve Vulcans in my immediate design future. I was going to do something involving Prince, and the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain. But, when i got down to doing my "five propositional sketches," all i could draw was Spock. Luckily, Sean liked my ideas. So, I will soon be making a poster for a Logic Development Conference, probably featuring some pointy ears and perhaps a Vulcan hand signal or two.

Quote 1

"I draw a monster, everyday." -Patrick Moser

Today's was a llama creature.
There was a creepy sheep monster from before, too.

New table doodle.

Did you know today was Wayne Thiebaud Day?

Seem like everywhere I went today, people were bringing up Mr. Thiebaud. He was already on the brain because I want the lid of my coffee cup to be raised from the painting ground like a frosted pie in a Thiebaud painting. At some point, Russel brought him up, and then in Figure Painting, Sarah mentioned the bright lines of color that he tends to put right on the contour edges of figures that make them appear to shift.



I couldn't really recall of Thiebaud painting with a figure in it, apart from that one of a man sitting from behind. So I ran the library and yanked a book. You can see it on her inner thighs in that piece. I like his figures but I think his faces tend to come out mask-like. There's not a lot of life in the faces. They're pieces of pie, the face is frosting.



Meanwhile...I love this one. Minimalist bathtub with a little cranium just poppin out to the left.

Just found this in my sketchbook.

Dragged to Ink-Sliggers

We had to write a poem using random words that a few kids, foaming at the mouth, shouted out. And this is what the frightened little art major did:

The Marine, wasted-
Onomatopoeia, onomatopoeia
He lain there,
Butterscotch dropping from the ceiling.
Drip Drip Drip, onomatopoeia
Piling and piling up, like stalagmites
Drip drip drop, piling.
At dawn he stirred, feet buried thickly in butterscotch.
The morning light cast the room in a purple glow
Blinking, stretching, onomatopoeia,
Realizing, sticking to the floor.
Crawling and groping in the dim light
His hand found a handle.
Weight in his shoulders, he pulled the squeegee blade through.
Scrape, scrape, glide, onomatopoeia
Grunting, heaving, with the will of a Rhinoceros,
Supercharging, forcing through as culture had told him
No use. shh-wipe. onomatopoeia
Futile, the life of a platypus,
Onomatopoeia




This is what i drew to go with it.


Words and I, have a secret, trying relationship.

Journal Entry, February 25th, 2007

"There's a balloon in my tree. After a short adventure in space, it lost it's drive and allowed gravity to tug it slowly back down to Earth. And here it is now, limply swaying with the breeze, flowing through the oak's barren branches. At one time this balloon must've been a thoughtful touch to some child's birthday party, metallic letters shimmering from the glow of candles and the grins of party-goers. I don't know how this balloon began it's skyward adventure. It may have been the accidental absence of a loving grasp, or the will of a spontaneous wind. In any case, the balloon's journey may not be as important as the start and finish of it's life.
I discovered it's presence one night. The moon was full and as I waged war upon it, i saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. I saw a glimmer of light from the tree above me. At this point it still contained helium. As the wind rustled the branches, the silver oval would turn, allowing the moonlight to reflect off of it. It was a while before I realized what I was seeing. My focus on the mystery object got the moon off the hook for the night. Now, the balloon looks rather wimpy with it's form, twisting and strewn around the smaller branches, just beginning to burst with growth. It's still chilly. Those branches will be naked for a few more weeks, and until then, that balloon will have to suffer. It didn't pick a great spot for landing. Though, it may like it up there, watching the neighborhood's ins and outs.
I recall another balloon, much less fortunate. It was an electric blue, star-shaped balloon resting on the bumpy ceiling of the gym. Yes, it still had some life to it, but it was and would forever be trapped up there beyond anyone's reach. When I saw it then, I wondered if it was happy up there, staring down on the rowdy kids who didn't really give a damn. I stared and sighed with the balloon during my class, cold, with my legs bare. I went home, wondering if it would rather be plucked from the ceiling and thrown in the trash, of if an exit to the sky would be more pleasurable. Would a tired balloon want to call it quits after being forgotten for so long? Would it rather remain in limbo, floating between all eventful things? Or, would it want to try it's luck in the air, floating free, despite it's past abandonment and the late hour of said adventure?
I regret telling my friends of my concerns. They didn't get it. "It's a stupid balloon, Kat." But it wasn't. It was our past, present, and future, the chosen end to their lives. And they wouldn't listen to it. Later, one would regret ignoring my passionate advance for understanding, but it was too late for him. He lost me in more ways that he realized.
That blue balloon was gone one day. I don't know if it was plucked down, or if it gingerly fell as the helium depreciated. But I hope it was pleased with it's end, and glad that it didn't have to be so near happiness, that it could never experience up on the ceiling.
However, the balloon in my tree has led a full life. It has adventured and flown all that it can. Maybe I'll manage to climb up the upper branches and rescue it, one day. Who knows? Maybe this is different. This time, beings that this balloon is outside, and can still feel the sun's warmth and the rain, removal may not be much of a favor. We shall see what time brings. Until the decision is made, I will send greetings to the ballon and remember the past one, as I stand out in the dark, yelling at the moon."

"Without Hope, Without Fear."

Art History notes. This little old guy vaporized on top of the Baldacchino. All in all, it was a profitable study session.

Design Doodles