Lucky duck

I somehow got lucky enough to have inherited Marshall Rogers' quill, pen and ink collection, along with drafting papers and a bunch of other wonderful and amazing things that I haven't even begun to paw my way through. I befriended his stepson through the 24 hour cafe here in Fremont, and when we struck up the conversation about comics, he invited me over to his apartment, which apparently was once also belonging to Rogers. The stepson was excited to get some extra room, and is a good friend.
So, as I am, I'm starting from square one, but I'm well armed.
I'll scan in some sketches later in the week.

Notalice

Sooo happy I finally got this scanned. I am very proud of this painting.

In support of another Bay Area artist ... oooh lordy.

I'm bereft of words. I have been following the work of Alex Pardee for the past 5 years or so, since high school basically. He's better known for his grotesque portraits, blood-thirsty Smurfs and other nightmarish creatures that really just want to love. Or eat your face. Probably the latter.
But, the video is amazing, and so is the look on Shia LeBeouf's face.

Rock Lobster

I'm somewhat excited. Somehow through my ramblings, wikimetro wants to feature on my blog, saying that as far as Oakland, I have been viewed 14 times in a week. To which I must say ...
Where art thou, you lurkers?! Or is my shameless self-promotion working. Yes? I hope so.

Well, if this is really "the big time", let me first explain something: I never really wanted to leave Oakland, I honestly love it. I'm not quite sure that it was because I didn't grow up in Oakland, or that it was "anywhere but here", but I grew to fall in love with it. From Alameda to Emeryville, I felt seamless and fluid in the back alleys and dive bars.
I named this little project "Leaving Oakland or Lackthereof" because I was originally conspiring to use the last of my school loan money (whoops) to take a train out to Plymouth, Michigan to interview my supposedly dying grandmother. This woman was the first of my mother's side of the family to take a great risk, and almost unrepentedly regret it to the point where she has the remains of my grandfather in a can at the funeral home where he's been for the past ... 18 years.
Life is what happens when you're busy making plans, and yes, I ran out of that money. I also ran out of money to live on my own, sadly, and I had to leave my beloved Oakland.
I've been back in Newark (the sphincter in the Asshole that is Fremont, end of the BART line, and the bane of my existence more or less) for the past two months, give or take. Rediscovered a few truths:

1. It is damn near impossible to get around here (Fremont, Newark, Union City, Hayward) without a car
2. Almost nothing is open past midnight, save for Bay Street Coffee Company, bless your little octane hearts
3. Ignorance is more or less bliss, or at least refused me service at a See's Candies on Valentine's Day. I shit you not.
4. The heavier the woman, the tighter the clothes. Though I discovered that in Oakland and found that it drifted it's sweet Spandex self down to the good ol' Tri City Area

Also ... let it be stated for the record, that I am inconceivably, horribly and painstakingly AWKWARD when I'm attracted to someone.
I grew up with the old anecdote "looks aren't all that matters, personality counts too!" (I should find a picture of me with Groucho Marx eyebrows and braces ... they do exist!) when really ... no, personality didn't ever really enter into it, at least not early on, and when I ended up "like liking" someone. Low self-esteem gives one a strange sense of self-degrading humor, so apparently being a quasi-cute sarcastic comic nerd art school drop out is a hot commodity?
But I'm still opertaing on full social retardation upon someone actually showing interest, to the point of raising eyebrows.
My intentions are good, if not cheesy.

The goal for tonight: sleep without night terrors.
Cheers, fuckwits, you are loved by one awkward twat.

A Twitter for the Twat ... what?

I apparently have joined the "final frontier" of realtime updating and got a Twitter
I guess if I'm really serious about this networking and getting anything of mine off the ground, I'd better start kissing some twittering ass.

Scanning of the start of a possible screenprinting project may be in the works, hopefully with the careful guidance of a Paul Barron, whom you should check out anyway because he's awesome.

Continuing in the mollusk direction ... why, you may ask. Finally figured out my obsession: I will never ever be able to reach the depths of the sea at which these creatures can survive because of my ears (eardrums ruptured at age 4, any more pressure than just flying in an airplane gives me vertigo and immense pain), and I can't stand to be away from the ocean or water. We're biologically similar and it also gives a strange sense of the "uncanny" because they tend to resemble parts of ourselves (genitalia, limbs, etc.), somewhat in the same arena as zombies creep us out (living but dead) or prosthetic limbs. And yes, I am more or less quoting Mr. Eric Olson, whom was mentioned in an earlier post. At least some of what I learned in school is sticking and being applied, despite that it was, yes, art school.

Going back to sleep, despite the two cups of coffee.

If you really love me, let me eat your brains ...
♥
Caitlin

Thanks Christine Juniper

This seems to be an older clip, but this man says what I've been screaming for the past few months more eloquently than I ever could.

Promotion of One I'm Happy to Call

A total creep that also shares my last name, and a friend:

Eric Olson - Procession of Mollusks

And for pretty much every reason that Eric Olson has listed as far as his choice of animal to use in his novel.

Dilemma

When is artistic license allowed to take over an idea, or a story?
I was told a story about a man who discovered his mother wasn't who he thought she was. She had done atrocious monstrous things, and she passed on not too long ago. The son is a friend of a friend.
I haven't met this man, and apparently she was rather famous, and was supposed to have died after the war.
Do I take it upon myself to tell this story, or should I just let it rest in peace. And if I do that, who's memory am I disgracing by not telling this story? Hers? The son's? Or the people she killed?

Death of a Swordswallower

This is pretty much every art critique I've ever had.
And also how I feel people will interpret the next poem.

In our avoidance, sharing that
same tide that eddied and
flowed through the hallways
Before the light rushed
Breathe in

Bad habits and genetics pouring from
sleepy skin, large unwashed ears
The cure cost me all but
two locks of hair twisting upward
and your bottle of cheap brandy Breathe
Out

Alone you pluck the same song
Head cradled on a block of cedar breath
Stricken, leave me some navigation,
And wait for the Sans Hecate's lovechild
Turn

Great hairy knuckles, Batman! How did I not KNOW of this wonderous thing?!

<3

I am in love.