Saturday, March 16, 2019

Cheese: A self-explanatory comic.


Spinach: Sometimes...


                ...it’s okay to be lost.  If you always know exactly where you are, the world becomes small.  



Sauce: A political speech. Or, Why I’d be a great president.

Saucey sauce sauce!  Ha ha!
You knew you could always trust me for great content, didn’t you?  And as always, I never disappoint!
Sauce sauce sauce.  Yep, folks, I’ll be here all night!  Gimme a hand!
(Memo to self - I am so hilarious.  The people are going to love that incredibly witty opening.)
Okay.  That was fun.  But let’s stop fooling around and get down to the nitty-gritty reality of this thing we call life.  Life isn’t fair.  Life isn’t just.  People aren’t fair.  People aren’t just.  Sometimes they’re just stupid, but they’re never just just.  But sometimes a little hint of justice peaks out from behind the dark clouds of incompetent, anarchistic (Is that a word????  Memo to self - remove all memos to self before publishing!), man-made obnoxiousness we call the penal system.  I don’t know exactly what’s up with the penal system, by the way.  My mind gets hung up on the “pee” sound and I start snickering and my brain receptors shut down.  It’s people like me who makes the world such a great place, let me tell ya’.  We stand around in a blissful stupor, chewing our agrigarian cuds, chuckling over funny sounding words while innocent toddlers are led to the electric chair on false charges that aren’t true!  (Memo to self - “agrigarian” adds a very nice touch.  Whatdoesitmean.)
I have amazing hair today!  It’s made out of carrots or something and that’s why it’s yelloooowwww!
Did I just say that out loud?
What was I talking about?
Oh yes.  Justice!  Justice needs to happen more often!  People in authority need to be under the same justice as the commoners!  People in charge should be subject to justice just as much as people who work at Wal-Mart!  People like me deserve justice just like people like you, excepting a few exceptional exceptions.  I demand complete and total justice for everyone, all the time.  ALL the time.  Constantly!
(Memo to self - why is the crowd waving axes and shovels?)

Noodles: A true history.

This is the story of a potato.  No, I’m kidding, it’s not (though I do have a potato story...remind me to tell it sometime when it sounds less boring).  This is actually the story of an artist.  Specifically, the story of me, as an artist.  A metamorphosis story, if you will.  It began a long time ago, on an unknown day, when I was first given a marker.  I drew an astonishing picture.  Because my parents failed to realize its monetary worth at the time, it has been lost to the crumbling echoes of history.  However, here is a wan representation: 


If you’re weeping from ecstasy now, take a minute, get a Kleenex, have a sip of lemonade, calm your fluttering spirit, and then read on.  
Recognizing true talent when I saw it, I groomed my natural gifts until they shone.  Or, rather, glowed.  I had a keen eye for color, a delicate taste for nature’s palette:


Finding paltry inspiration in the natural world alone, I turned my starting eyes and tingling fingers to a nobler subject - the human frame, itself.  I made a specific study of the human mouth:


Years passed, and when it seemed my talent could find no higher peak to climb, no subject worthy enough to subject itself to, I climbed still higher, and made a shocking discovery.  I can’t draw worth beans.  Hands, in particular.  But also people, places, and things.  I’m okay at Pictionary but physically incapable of drawing a straight line.  And you know how artists talk about shadows and light and hoity toity la dee dah oh mymymy?  It’s a foreign language.  I decided that since I couldn’t draw like anybody with a grain of self-respect, and couldn’t do a decent watercolor to save my life, I was a complete failure.


I had reached a plateau:


Only to take a bit of a fall:


From which I’ve been recovering ever since.  I trudge grudgingly in the path my younger feet flew up, carrying my own baggage and making crude sketches in the rocks as I go.  On the heights above me struggle the toiling artists who have gone before, palettes and charcoals and stencils in hand, muses singing above them...and below me I see the world spread out, flat and expressionless, orderly and self-contained, reminding me that an artist is only as great as she allows herself to be.


Thursday, March 7, 2019

Sauce: Shhhhhh.

I apologize for any incomprehensibleness, typos, errors, repetitiveness, repetitiveness, or psychedelic ramblings in my previous post.  Mistakes were nearly unavoidable, considering the environment in which I’m working.  The only good news this afternoon is that librarians everywhere are breaking free from the stereotypes that have so long imprisoned them!  The rest is bad.  Very bad.  It can be summed up in five key words:  Loud Librarians Conversating together, mostly just Complaining, and Eating.
(They were also playing bagpipe music really, really quietly.)
(If it had been louder, their language of primal screams would have seemed more appropriate.)



PS Overheard snippet from aforementioned conversation:  “Oop!  It’s five o clock!  WHEN did THAT happen?”
I dunno.  Maybe like...at five o clock???  Maaaybe???
(Except it sounded like this:  “OOPPPPPPPP!!!!!!  IT’S FIIIVE O CLOCKKKK, HOMIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WHEN DID THAT HAPPENNNNENENENENNNNNNNNNNNNN?????????????   RAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!  ME LIBRARIANNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!)