NO ONE IS SAFE: Sir Star-Baby of the Fifth House

What I originally intended to post was deleted because I suck at technology. But instead you get a special treat.
While I was waiting for my file to transfer, I started doodling an unsuspecting fellow library dweller to pass time. I don't know what he studies, but my guess is either business or engineering. Perhaps he's a lingering law student. If this is the case, it will surely save him some trouble in his career as a pimp of astronomical proportions. I give you the super stellar Sir Star-Baby the of the Fifth House.

Keeping his pimp hand strong.

Yes, those are shooting star-burns but don't stare too long or Sir Star-Baby of the Fifth House will back hand you straight to the Milky Way.

So yeah, no one is safe from the ridiculous that is my imagination. I really wanted to give the sketch to the kid in case he ever needed guidance about his future, but he left as I was scanning it. Next time, Star-Baby, next time.


Always accept free portraits from strangers, but never take candy from unmarked vans. Besos.

ConVoz C'est La Vie: With Your Insipid Neighbor (via ventilation)

I live in an old house divided into apartments. Aided by high ceilings, thin walls, and an old-school ventilation system, sound carries very well. Too well. Here's an example of the pleasantries of auditory encroachment. 

Some people just aren't worth your breath.

Forgive the cruddy illustration. I am sick and a graduate student; time is precious, work is hard.




Thanks for being awesome. Besos.

Chocolate Spice Football Biscuits

You kids know that I make things that I may or may not share. Usually this pertains to, ahem, Ahrt.  When comes to baking, however, it's another story. I love baking almost as much as I like baking for other people. I'm more of a cake-maker but every now and then I make brownies, cookies, and the like, especially if I have to travel with my goods.

Since tomorrow is my Dad's birthday and I will be going a ways to visit him, I decided to make him cookies, or biscuits, depending on where you're from; they're also a bit fluffy. Football shaped biscuit-cookies.

Chocolate Spice Football Biscuits

By: Alanna G.

• 0.5 cup of flour
• 0.5 teaspoon of salt
• 0.5 teaspoon of baking soda
• 1.0 teaspoon of pumpkin spice (cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg)
• 1.0 teaspoon of nutmeg (optional)
• 1.5 teaspoon cocoa powder
• 0.5 cup of butter (melted)
• 0.5 cup of granulated sugar
• 0.25 cup brown sugar
• 1.0 large egg
• 1.0 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.
2. Mix flour, salt, baking soda, spices, and cocoa in a medium bowl and set aside.
3. Blend butter and sugars in a large bowl until combined. Beat in egg and vanilla extract.
4. Gradually mix in dry mixture until combined.
5. To create the football shape, use a scraper to scoop out the dough. Drop dough onto an ungreased cookie sheet about 1.5 inches apart.
6.  Bake 12-14 minutes. Let stand for 2 minutes before removing, 5 before decorating (optional). 

      Makes about 9 biscuits

Oh, yes. This is Steelers Country.

 I would usually coat the bottom with my super top-secret orange glazed but the lack thereof allows it to be enjoyed with tea, milk, cider, or, most suiting for football season, beer. Besides, like Bricktop, they're already sweet enough.

Hug it, chug it, besos.

Hey Grrrl: When Johnny Bleeping Met Dusty

Hey Girl,

I just thought it'd be funny if these guys met. 

Chivalric as f *¢k

Johnny, the singer from P*G*Punk, is no Ryan Gosling but he gives it a good shot. He isn't on stage but he minds his language 'cause Dusty's a bleepin' lady. 

I must admit that the taglines I came up with to promote this post are much funnier than what's in the picture. A series, mayhaps?

Chivalry ain't dead, but it may be "Dinner". Besos.

CharacterSketchd: Lusty Dusty

Meet one of the people floating around in my head: Dusty Dophane, furniture designer and night lounge denizen. Yes, that is her given name-- she was named by her hopeless romantic of a mother for Dusty Springfield, the singer to whose song she was conceived. But you don't have to say you love her to get under her skirt; in fact that may just get you thrown out at 3 am without shirt, shoes, or satisfaction. She waste no time on its trifles, immediately getting straight to business and coming out with exactly what she wants-- nothing less but maybe a bit more.

Dusty claims that lust, unlike love leaves no trace. She just  ***ks'em, loves'em, leaves'em cause she don't ***kin' need'em.But the names of her multitude of lovers have been traced on more than just her sheets:

"Lust is easier. They fall upon you in the night and in the morning you can just dust them off without a trace. No chip in the enamel, no scratch on the wood. It doesn't stick and cover your whole being like the polish of love. Love takes time. Like lust, it coats you-- but slowly and in layers, each fixing its self upon you until  you begin to shine with it. And there's no way to get it off without doing damage to yourself if you no longer want it. And when you do want and keep it, it wears away anyway. Love's glow is high-maintenance, and those who really, really want it spend all to keep it shiny. Others let it fall away chip by chip, scratch by scratch and ultimately surrender to time. Time wears love down, sanding it away and making it a dirty, dusty experience. This is why I prefer lust;  love-- at least one of the parties involved, usually fall into it anyway so why waste my time?"

If you look into her skirt, you can see Dusty's Lust List

Besos. Unless you're Dusty. She'd rather screw than kiss you.

When I Think of Orange, I Think of Fire-Pterodactyls

Happy first day of autumn, lovelies! To celebrate the changing of the leaves of this absolutely gorgeous season I decided to a) begin the rainbow chalk mural in my room; and b) start with the color this season is known for: orange!

Being that it's on display in my personal space, it's not super elegant. For each color I plan to draw a large image next to an associative list and a doodle with a silly sentence about the corresponding hue.
Here are some pics of the corner. My window faces north so the lighting is kind of shabby and will be enhanced soon.

For a more elegant tribute to autumn, click here and check out the favorite poem of yours truly.

"When I think of orange I think of Fire-Pterodactyls"

Associative list

Besos. Go enjoy pumpkin-flavored everything with a pint of cider.

Upon A Blue Moon

I was leafing through one of my numerous notebooks this morning and found a note that I wrote after waking up too early and seeing both the sun and the blue moon in the sky last month. The moon its self had had a huge impact on me, being the first time I had really stared out into the sky having moved back into urban life. But seeing it paired with the sun was mind-blowing. This poem is not really based on that note but it reminded me of how inspired I was at that moment.
 Oh yeah, I continue the trend of incompleteness, this time because I have a few chunks that fit and a lot of couplets that still need working out. I tried to share enough this time so you get the gist of  "Upon a Blue Moon."

Upon a Blue Moon

Shivering stars dip and shy away
As a blue moon slowly rises to bathe
In the infinite onyx pool of night.
I leave sweet dreams to admire the sight
Which mirrors mind's content so well:
Dreams of eyes embraced in a spell
Spun by interwoven, humbled hands.
Each speaks without breath, each understands.
The stares of others fall. Overhead stars fade
And each's reflection in the other is made.
***
Some stuff about yaddayaddayadda
Goes to bed yayaya
***

I wake early from late sleep to see
The fallen blue moon and a rising sun stare at me.
No-- it is upon the other orb that they look.
I glance upon the rare celestial being I forsook;
He glows, no longer a gem in my cool onyx night,
Oh, he shines in the common glory of that golden light.

***
Not happy but so on and so forth
***


Delight in the dreamy warmth of day.
You may have your sunshiny strands
And weave auroral threads through your hands;
For when in linens lies the world to drowse,
And rests it's warm-weary head upon cool pillows,
We'll wake and walk once again
on a starless night, hand-in-hand.
But if there were a moon to shine, let it be full
And colour this dream a truer light blue.





Hope you were able to bask in the blue moon-- the next one doesn't happen until Summer 2015. Besos.

In Progress: Miles of Atonement

I wrote the basis for a poem!
Originally it was short and bittersweet like Langston Hughes' "Suicide's Note" but it kept growing. Hopefully it will bloom into something awesome. So I present this poem, without crummy illustration and under the working title: "Miles of Atonement".


Sing, brightly forsooth
And light bedraggled paths,
Dusky-headed he who I have known;
Adore with those I will

Cross lightly in search of the long
Familiar way. Sing, forlorn
Miles, and trodden miles to come.
Sing and please

Again, take me
Along the way
Of the familiar and beloved
Miles known and unforgotten.

Sing for memory;
Humor,
And lead it home.








Besos, and may you meander the long familiar miles of love.

ConVoz C'est La Vie: With Your Mom

This sharing thing is pulling out so many of the quirks I've recessed in my mind. Like the random dialogues I write in my mind when I'm bored to be recorded later that make it to neither paper nor word-processor. Naturally, said dialogues often imitate life and the one I present to you is no different.

I don't know about other single ladies, but each time that I move to a new place every conversation I have with my mother digresses onto a certain boyfriend/baby-related path. And so I give you a poorly drawn ConVoz C'est La Vie: Every Conversation with Your Mom Ever. 

She only presses the issue because she cares. Love ya, Ma.

Remember that your voice is yours and yours alone; take care and use it. Besos.

Mt. Motherhorn, est. 2012

To say the least, kids, today has been rough and requiring more leisure than what is typical for Tuesdays. Among the in-activities of choice today was a much needed scouring of Cracked.com. If you know anything about the site, you know that it majors in silly, shortlist articles. Of the articles perused, one titled "The 5 Most Terrifying Side Effects of Exercise"  stands out in my mind for one reason; the third picture under "#5 Running Makes You Poop Yourself":

That, my friends, is world record-holding marathon runner Paula Radcliffe at seven months preggers. This got me thinking about all of the other extreme activities I've seen women in the third trimester undertake, from some community ladies keeping time and rhythm in African dance, or M.I.A. rocking the mic at the Grammy's on her due date back in 2009. But no sport or extreme recreation activities came to mind.

This in turn, made me think about maternity sportswear, specifically extreme sports gear. After thoughts of special street-luging body armour and extra-supportive, comfy stock car driving boots I struck a gem: Mt. Motherhorn Maternity SkiWear Co.

Because skiing is totally what you should be doing whilst carrying a fetus. Or holding an infant while carrying a fetus. Or pushing an infant while carrying an infant and a fetus simultaneously. Point is, Mt. Motherhood is a goldmine.







Besos, and may your dreamscape be filled with fetus-shaped clouds.
Also, feel free to comment.

"A Lady in the Evening"

As you kids know, I write things. Today, staying true to my oath to make new things everyday, I finished four stanzas of a sestina. I know that's not a complete work but writing formal poetry is fucking difficult.

That being said, I am not only posting one stanza because of the incompleteness, but because I don't want to have to personally hunt down and curb-stomp some jerk for plagiarism. You'll have to wait to read the rest when it's published. Or you can just ask. Or I'll just post it here when it's finished.

Continuing in the vein of drawing stuff to go with "boring" words, I present the second stanza of "A Lady in the Evening":

Polished white teeth glint and bear the happy

Wine-stained tongue; it softens the bottle-lip click.

A last draining kiss revives the distant words

Of a Lover who, fearing life incomplete, just sits

On a shore and watches his desires flail, feigning

Fight beneath the stars; fain to fade unseen.

* F) happy A) click E) words B) sits D) feigning C) unseen*

Besos, Mes Critiques.

P*G*Punk: Got Bleeping Blanked

So. 

There are a crap-ton of unfinished posts from THASIT and other neglected awesome. My bad. 

But I have something spectacular to help deflect from the neglect: I'm doing this thing where I make something-- ANYTHING and then post it as evidence here. The goal is to put something I made up everyday to stimulate the creative juices, mmmm, juices. So the quality isn't the best, but more than likely these are not completely finished products. 

My first post on this endeavor is a perfect example of this. I wrote a pretty fantastic punk song but do not have the means to record and post it at this time. I still wanted to share the lyrics with you kids but lyrics by themselves can be boring. And so I present this half-assed cartoon of-- I mean, storyboard for the up-and-coming video of P*G*Punk: "Got Bleeping Blanked" 

Besos, Bleepers.