Manliness

I saw this text on the back of a hooded sweatshirt a while back, as I waited for the bus with my friend Andy. Well, everyone knows the phrase, 'Manliness is next to Godliness'. All I'm saying is that I'm standing next to Manliness so I must be Godliness.
Oh, right. It's cleanliness. Not manliness. So that must mean that this guy is just lame.
I'm all for fun typography on clothing. I think people should be far more daring to explore the vast area of tabula rasa that covers our bodies. Armpit text anyone? Why haven't we printed long phrases that curl around our sleeves yet? But some printed words, like the ubiquitous 'COLLEGE' on fratboy teeshirts, are just a little too Abercrombie, a little too cutsie. Next thing you know they'll be putting 'Princess' on the butts of girls' pj pants. Oh, wait, that happened five years ago. Next thing you know they'll be putting self-empowered bitchy sayings like 'I'm crabby' on girls' pj pants. Oh, wait, they make those too. I've got it: next thing you know they'll be putting 'Cheap Whore' on the butts of girls' pants. And hopefully the pants won't sell well at Macy's and the 'Cheap Whore' pants will have to go on sale. Oh, the irony!

You Know You Work in a Music Office When...

You know you work in a music office when...you're cleaning out the office supply closet and you pick up litter scattered about the floor, and the litter turns out to be clarinet ligatures. You also know you work in a music office when you're cleaning out that same closet and you find a disgarded set of bagpipes.
It sounds like a bad joke, but seriously, I think this could only happen at Carnegie-Mellon. It's the only school in America where you can major in bagpipes. (And there's only one student right now, but doesn't he feel special!)
I also found about a billion hanging file folders and two billion manilla envelopes, but that's pretty normal for an office supply closet, and not very interesting.

So much music, so little bank account

May has been the month of some great new music albums, from some of my favorite people! In wanting to actually buy the cd's for once, this has made my bank account tiny, but my ears so content. I thought I might give a little run-down on some albums lately, and my stylistic interpretation of them. I even made handy photoshopped Album Cover Comics!
Firstly, Bjork's new album Volta was released last week. It features Bjork in a huge plastic creature-suit on the cover and wacky typography (if you can't read it it must be a cool font!). The music on this album is more raw, improvisational, and just a little bit underdeveloped, but hey, there's also an electronic thumb-piano player, a pipa player, the clavichord, and an all-female brass band. So in other words it's typical Icelandic fare and I'm obsessed with it.

Tori Amos' new album, American Doll Posse features multiple personalities (when do they not?), a more rock-heavy flair of electric guitars, and a very grey cover of multiple Toris, including one Tori holding a rooster. Which I can only presume symbolizes 'cock'. I thought I wouldn't like this album, but its more poppy songs are beginning to grow on me, as are the rest of the 23 tracks on the cd. Also growing on me is the 'typewriter' font of the album cover. Not growing on me is mold, small children, or the fact that Tori doesn't seem to want to actually 'play' the piano in a pianistic way anymore. What ever happened to the notes on the piano above, say A5?

A new artist, Mika, has an album out called Life in Cartoon Motion, which has been out for quite some time but is new to me. So here is my interpretation of the Rainbows! Color! Disregard for Color Schemes! cover that is the album. Some of the songs are quite infectious, as are his hit singles 'Lollipop' and 'Grace Kelly', but I prefer songs like 'Relax' which have a distinctly 'everything good about the 80's' sound to them, which is sort of a combination of sexy/gay/Eurochic/Freddie Mercury/piano/electronic. He can also sing about three octaves higher than I can and make it sound completely off-the-cuff. Thus, I love to hate/hate to love him.

Finally, Feist has a new Cd out called The Reminder, which I'm loving in all of its glamorous, yet shabbychic way. Feist's works can convey so many influences without smacking you in the face with them. Contained within 45 minutes is jazz (a great cover of Nina Simone's 'See-Line/Sea-Lion Woman'), blues, French crooner pop, bossa nova, '60's folk, new indie pop, and my personal favorite, songs that make you get up and dance in choreographed motions, as if the whole world was a music video.
In addition, I still have to go listen to Laura Veirs' new album, Saltbreakers, 'cause who doesn't love rock songs about manatees, glaciers, and igneous rocks? I don't know of anyone!
There just better not be any other new music I want to listen to coming out soon, or I'm going to have to go back to waiting in line for the 23 holds of The Shins CD at the Carnegie Public Library before it comes to me through Interlibrary Loan. With luck, I'll get that album in a year.

The Big Bag Theory

Summer vacation started for me 45 minutes ago. Unfortunately, summer work started 4 days ago. I took my last exam this afternoon and let out a sigh of Stravinsky relief, and now I'm looking forward to working at the Music Office and the Ceramics store, and hopefully starting my orchestral piece. I do wish I could hide in this big bag, though, and go with you to some place magical. You could store so much in here! It could be the next big thing in haute couture. Yes, I'd set up a little pillow and a book-reading light in there, if only for a little sleepover, 'cause I'll be off to work again in the morning. Thank goodness I can get paid for looking up celebrity fashion online and generally just smiling a lot, otherwise summer vacation would be kind of a bummer.

The Flood

I watched a ridiculous video in 'Stravinsky' class today, my last 'school day' of the first year of grad school. A bunch of Dutch artists in 1984 tried to recreate a 24-minute long TV show that Igor Stravinsky dreamed up. The piece itself was originally written in the '60's, and Stravinsky has brilliantly scored the TV show with an orchestra playing 12-tone serial rows which sound neither painful nor snobbily intellectual. The score incorporates talking, singing, and ballet dancing to the stories of Noah and the Flood and the book of Genesis (i.e. 'Hey! I made the Earth! Come here, Adam, give your papa a big bear-hug. Eve...don't you touch that apple!') . The TV show, which originally aired in black and white, may be lost, but the original sound recording still exists.
Well. The original concept is brilliant. The original recording of the music is also beautiful. However, the recreated version from 1984 was almost as bad as the all-theremin 'vortex of sound and light' that I had to witness earlier this year. But thankfully the Dutch are funnier than the theremin. The video included a monstrous barrage of outdated special effects, no dancing at all, and 'God' was portrayed by three people (and one of them is Asian) in a pulsating glowing yellow triangle which is green-screened to float on top of all the other action on screen. The action includes gratuitous nudity, as all contemporary Dutch things do (therefore, I love the Dutch). Adam, who is Latino (apparently God isn't picky about race), Eve, and the Devil run around quasi-dancing with their unmentionables hanging out. Then scene cuts to a glowing orb representing the Earth, which cuts to a surrealist painting in which the head of some guy is superimposed, like a carnival-cutout photo opportunity, onto a mirror, or into tiny boxes.
And then the flood comes.
Noah's sons (none of whom look like they could be related, and one of whom is black!) warn their mom to get on the boat, while a fade-in ocean wave slowly encroaches onto the TV screen. The 'Flood' itself is a tumultuous chaos of orchestral sound, but in the TV special, the Dutchmen decided to just show two minutes of calm rippling waves--are you ready?--in various colors, like hot pink, blue, and neon green. Run for your lives! The gentle rippling is coming.
The back of the VHS box says that this production tries to realize Stravinsky's full vision, what with the advent of color television and David Bowie-sequined unitards.
I don't think that this is what Stravinsky was envisioning.

I've saved the best for last, of course- the Expulsion of Adam an Eve from the Garden of Eden. God casts the naked Latino Adam and boobalicious Eve out into the green-screened box of a beach-like scene, and in their shame, Adam and Eve put on clothes. But the clothes are designer clothes. Adam is wearing some kind of fabulous haute couture vesty item with puffy sleeves. And Eve is fixing the strap of her sexy strappy dress. And her high heels...
Man, I'd eat that apple too, if I knew that Satan looked like David Bowie and I'd get to put my toes in some Manolos.
Rest in peace, Stravinsky. May God bless you and may you never see this video from the afterlife.

Glacier

If I lived in Prehistoric Man Land, and a glacier invaded my town, I'd probably still blame global warming. Or Al Gore. Or both.

Test Strip Triptych

Being a collage artist (can one say that, or does that sound silly?) I'm often delighted when people give me their crap to work with. Sadly I'm not Chris Ofili, though, so working with actual crap has already been taken. Instead, the materials for this collage come from discarded photo test strips. I tried to take some element of the photo (architecture, color, shape, etc) and use it in a different way from what I normally do and try to create something multilayered and busy. 'Busy' I think I achieved. 'Cohesive' maybe not, but I do like that it's different from anything I've made before. And unless someone wants to trade me a new sexy leather jacket for it, I'll keep the work myself. (Seriously, I'm on the prowl for a streamlined leather jacket, aka 'man magnet'. Preferably inexplicably free and perfectly fitted. Or maybe I should just prowl for someone in a leather jacket.)
I also like the title of the work, as it does have a nice ring to it: Test Strip Triptych. I'd try to say it three times fast except that I had wine with my dinner tonight (who knew that three glasses of white wine goes perfectly with tuna noodle salad?!) and it's all I can do to concentrate on good spelling.

Art in ovoids

Easter-egg decorating turned out to be a rockin' artsy party, with loads of creativity bursting from the seams (or shells, perhaps). Since it's been a while that I've displayed some collages or artwork, I thought I might share with you some egg creations! These babies are only for sale for a limited time, so call now! Get your hardboiled beauties while they still smell fresh. (Thankfully some are blown out so they will last forever.) Here in the form of a fashion show are some treats:
This saucy little character from Scooby-Doo is poised and ready for her American debut! Doesn't she look lovely in her purple camisol, ready to jump out of that eggshell like Venus from the salty seas?
This darling of an egg takes inspiration from the japanese obi, or belt. A dazzling spring kimono for every fashionable chicken embryo. Note the use of dyed tissue paper wrapped around a dyed egg. So hot right now, don't you think?
Well, now, this is really haute couture if I ever saw one. This handblown egg is wrapped in cloth strips and covered in textured paper. This look is sure to be in all the stores next year. Magnifique!
I say, isn't this just pretty darn gay? Well, it is missing a little blue and purple, with which some more patience could have finished it up with a flamboyant bang!, but overall I think a smashingly good show. Teehee! Get it? Smashing? Be careful with those eggs, my dear.
See you all next Spring for the Paris Preview. Ta!

Gentrified Oliver

I should watch 'Oliver' again. That was a great movie-musical in my childhood mind, and I remember the moral of the story being something like 'Sucks to be an orphan, but if you can sing, you'll save the day!' (Isn't that also the moral to 'Annie'?) The most memorable scene to me happens when Oliver asks for more porridge, and the Mess Hall server says in his Cockney accent, 'Moah?! Yew waont sum moah?!'
In contrast to all of Oliver's trials and tribulations, I'm excited about this Easter afternoon because, aside from Jesus being risen from the dead and all, I get to stuff my face! I'm thankful this holiday for my family sending me Peeps in the mail as an Easter basket, and some delicious chocolate eggs. I also have half a chocolate cake and some Chicken stuffed pastries to look forward to at dinnertime!
I wonder what Britney and Paris do for family fun, or if they even recognize that there are other holidays in the calendar year that don't involve nightclubs. They probably won't have nearly as much fun coloring eggs as I will. Then again, they could encrust their eggs with diamonds. And then unhinge their jaws like snakes, and swallow the jeweled eggs whole. I can't do that, which is why I'm not a celebrity.

Springtime Spirit

It's the time of the year where everyone is feeling the Spring. I cleaned my apartment the other day, and wondered why my place looked different than they did in the winter. And then I remembered that there wasn't any plastic on the windows anymore, and the sun is shining in from another angle, and there aren't small salt mines forming in my front doorway from winter boots. The daffodils have bloomed in what seems like two days since they popped their bulbular heads out of the ground, and the magnolia trees are flowering, ready to get it on with those other randy mag's. Springtime squirrels get chatty and try to remember where they hid their nuts. If I lived in Florida, I'm sure that even the alligators would feel the April urges- maybe they'd even want to bake a pie with me.
All this Springtime excitement makes me want to eat lots of chocolate. Perhaps slightly less chocolate than when I was 8, when I ate an entire foot-tall chocolate Easter Bunny and then threw it all up behind a sofa (cue embarrassed child), but a lot of chocolate nonetheless. I think I might go eat some chocolate right now. And you know what would go perfect with some bittersweet morsels? Some cashews. If only I could remember where I buried those nuts.

Double Decker Airplanes

A huge double-decker airplane with wings as wide as a football field has just passed its ocean-crossing test and it is now ready to enter the big kid's club. And by big kid's club, I mean fly 500 people across the Pacific and have the honor of being the biggest plane in the world. Can they get any bigger? The shadow of that plane could cover an entire town! Think of all the first-class leg room I could have with my gazillionaire friends, as we lounge on the upper deck with our appletinis. On second thought...maybe it's not so great to ride in huge fancy planes. I'd hate to be the poor guy who got stuck next to the elderly lady that died while on flight, and the stewardesses had to prop her up with a bunch of pillows during turbulence. One can't really tell the dead to stop hogging your armrest.
It's too bad we have so waste so much effort on planes because we can't use the world's natural transporter, blue whales. I can see the promo spots now: "Whales! The All-Natural Vehicle- Made of blubber!" as we hop on the barnacled backs of these lovelies. It would also be pretty great to meet your loved ones on the dock (or in the air, if they could fly, like in Fantasia 2000) as the whale surfaced- aunt Paula or uncle Tony could pop out of the baleen mouth, ready for a walk around Manhattan. In reality, whales cannot hold us elegantly in their mouths, nor could we endure the boredom of terribly slow swimming rates. And meanwhile, instead of floating through the sky effortlessly on my way to Paris, I'd probably get stuck a runway in Biloxi with a dead lady propped up on my shoulder, and the only thing on my tiny slum-class TV is continuous episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond (Except for Midnight). It's time to reach for the flight attendant button. Maybe they can make me an appletini.

Earl Smitty, III, Personal Savior to the Stars

I was thinking about making a business card that read something like 'Midnight Shoveler- Occupation: ?', but I thought that might be a waste of paper. Luckily I also drafted this baby as a template in case I ever want to come back to it. Luckier still I've never been handed a business card like this, in which case I might tear it into tiny pieces and use it as confetti at my next apartment-discothèque.

Newborn Baby, Here's Your MySpace Profile

I have recently discovered that there is a vast community of new mothers who have put their baby's sonogram and pregnancy test picture on the internet as the main photo of their MySpace profile. I'm sure there are more gross examples out there than a picture of your pregnancy test (I've already heard one but risk becoming ill writing it) but this makes me ponder the future of childbirth and newborn-ness in general. Imagine, if you will, a mother naming her baby Dot Com for the promotional benefits, or the entire expenses of a baby's birth being provided by 'baby' companies with a promise that the kid's life will be a walking advertisement for certain products. Oh, wait. Those things have already happened. My mistake.
But imagine a near-reality in the future, when parents create MySpace profiles for their newborn children, and the kid's profile picture is an intra-uterine photo (a la National Geographic) of the developing foetus inside of your womb. None of that low-tech sonogram profile photo for the surrogate mother of my child, no ma'am. Technology will evolve so that women can place tiny cameras inside them for quick pics. I want the real high-resolution shots, so all my child's foetus-friendsters can get jealous of how cute my kid is, complete with a candid photo of a thumbs-up from inside the amniotic sac. Think of Leonardo da Vinci's babies (pictured right) watching tiny Uterine TVs that let a baby know how best to slide right out without causing mom any pain! (Or perhaps just watching SpongeBob.) And I will list my child's interests as 'Nutrition from the umbilical cord', 'listening to Stravinsky on womb-headphones', and 'general kicking and causing a ruckus'.
These days are fast approaching, and I'm bummed that 1. it's too bad I don't really like babies, and 2. I'll probably just adopt a two-year-old from Tibet anyway, sparing me all the nonsense of getting that camera up into unfamiliar territory.


P.S. Posts have been scant lately due to my lack of internets in my apartment, but fear not. I can always blog at work.

Captain Vaguetastic

There's something magical about comics. They can transport you to a whole different world. Or at least so says Michael Chabon. And all the inkers at Marvel/DC. But there's also something magical about comic parody, and Captain Vaguetastic is here to transport you to that world of his...maybe. But isn't that wonderful, sort of?
I'm also a big fan of his sidekick, Squmonkeracoofrog. One can't get more vague than hybrid sidekicks with questionable appendages. Is it an arm, a leg, or a tail? (Click on the picture for a more readable version.)

HVD 2007!!!

For those of you fortunate enough to have a Valentine this month, well, aren't you special. You think you're so great, with your "love" and your "affection". Humbug. Enjoy the wintertime romance and I hope you get lots of expensive candy that you can share with me. I thought about posting a purely black square as tonight's post, as it is the antithesis of the red heart, but I decided on at least some anemones on a black background. I'm also reminded of a Valentine's Day Poem that I wrote in third grade, and it got published in the special school-wide Valentine's Day issue of our Gowanda Elementary School Journal. It went something like this:

Valentine's Day.
It's hearts and flowers.
And parties and cakes.
That's so nice.
Blah, blah, blah.
Blee, blee, blee.
What's so special about Valentine's Day?

I'm pretty sure that's word for word accurate, and some of my classmates still remember that poem to this very day. It's good to know that some unfondnesses never change.

Moths

You know that that moths have a very different world view from us humans, right? Moths couldn't be more different from people. They think that my clean clothes, all neatly organized by some very-specific-but-not-recognizably-so system of tee-shirts and fabrics is actually a tasty treat waiting to be sat upon. They spend all day waiting for the chance to...Oh, look, a bright light across the street! It's so beautiful! It's so warm and brilliant and yellow and makes me feel all happy inside! I'll be right back.

Flipflops vs. Steel-Toed Wolverines

Welcome winter, Pittsburgh missed you. Today I was forced into wearing my winter boots outside, as it finally feels seasonally appropriate. Donning those big, heavy, brown, impenetrable Wolverines made me recall a lighter, more vulnerable time back in September. I took my trusty laptop to the computer Help Desk at my school, and was patiently waiting for my computer to be updated. I stood there, standing awkwardly but patiently for someone to tell me that I was virus-free (I get checked regularly, of course, for all malicious content...), and might I add that I was wearing a good outfit that day, too. A Harley Tee-Shirt, probably, and my gray 3/4-length pants (capris, of course, but I'm a man so the Gap called them '3/4-length'), and my flipflops. And wouldn't you know that as I stood there in my flipflops, a female computer science professor, working in her rolly-wheeled chair, decided to careen across the room while sitting in her chair and proceed to run completely over one of my bare flip-flopped feet.
How she managed to clear the bump of my tall arches and continue on her chair journey to the other side of the Help Center is beyond me. But what really blew my mind was that she didn't even realize that my foot was all red and scraped up because and mangled by the wheels of a chair, and that I had blatantly said 'OW..' in a loud enough voice that someone might hear me and pity me. The event didn't even register on her MS-DOS-sy face. Then it dawned on me that she wouldn't have realized she ran over my foot, because she's a computer science professor, and probably in her own little C++ world all the time. CS Lady, or should I say DOSsyface, I hope you know you ruined a perfectly good fashionable day by bloodying my toes, as Band-Aids do not a glamorous outfit make.
It's a good thing I've been virus-free ever since.

Back 2 School! I need to buy pens.

Going back to classes and having homework always makes me feel like I should be in 6th grade, where my fascination for pens with funky designs was at its peak. I had them in a little pink box, and my favorite one had aquatic animals on them. My second favorite was a pen whose plastic shell changed colors with your body temperature. Naturally I'd clench the pen for dear life to make it all bright green, and it would slowly fade back to black.
Ah, the good old days. Of course, I've repressed all the torturous sixth-grade moments with the bullies, the asthma, the puberty, and girls wearing neckties and boy's dress shirts with vests (oh, nope, I still remember that.)
Nowadays 'school' seems more like rush rush rush, gotta get to my assistantship, gotta drop this nonsensical form into a nonsensical box, and gotta find five minutes to eat a S'mores granola bar. But I am loving being in a learning environment again, and I just heard today that my octet will be performed by a contemporary chamber ensemble on their first concert. Very good news, indeed.
I've also posted this collage, which has nothing to do with Bic Pens, or dodgeball bullies, or Octets. It's actually the cover to a box that I covered inside and out with hand-dyed papers, but its images are abstractions of music performances. If you look closely you might be able to spot me as the pink blur. Just kidding. That's probably Jake Shears, from the Scissor Sisters. He and I wear the same shirts from time to time. Maybe we once had the same pens.

Dumpster Butterfly Boy

There are a couple things that come to mind now that I'm posting this tiny collage that I made in August of 2004. First and foremost: why do I do this stuff that nobody finds particularly interesting but me (I know what would be so cool- let's glue this picture of a butterfly next to a paint chip and a magazine cutout! Rad. And simultaneously, this is not going to get me into MoMA, this I know.) but also 2. If Joseph Cornell could make his super awesome dioramas and assemblages full of wonderful dreamy nonsense, than so can I. And 3. I'm picturing myself as a hip fashion photographer for a hip menswear-streetwear-funky screenprint company. And I know, let's get this hot guy to pose outside. Now where should we go...I know! How about these old smelly dumpsters! Paarfect! But wait. Ok, now go straddle them, but don't fall in...but look all abdominal-y and casual, like you just landed there.
Click.
Shoot's over, let's get out of here so Nathan can glue this baby down to a map of the Nile.

Rooster/Rootster

What's the difference between a rooster and a rootster? One little 'T'. But as much as one tries, 'rootster' is not in the Scrabble dictionary, and will not get you a great triple-word score. (I have never met a rootster I didn't like. And look at those beautiful strong legs! Contrary to roosters, which are just annoying, like alarm clocks permanently set to 5.30am.)

Taboo and Family Holidays

As a final post for 2006, here's a look into a Midnight Shoveler Christmas.
I love going home to my family for the holidays. We usually play Scrabble, make inside jokes, and complain about being loved too much, therefore getting overspoiled in number of presents (I've never seen the point in this last one.) This year we even sang songs as I played piano. No joke. First, Hark the Herald Angels, and then we moved on to Pocahontas and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but it was family singalong nonetheless! We also read The Little Match Girl on Christmas Eve (a spoiler: it doesn't end well- Hans Christian Anderson ends the delightful Christmas tale of a poor Russian street urchin with the words frozen and corpse.).
But the best part of this nontechnological time at home was playing the 2-person version of Taboo. It's the game where you see a word on your card like 'Elephant' and you have to make your teammate (my sister, the only other player in our version) guess the word 'elephant', without using gestures or motions. The tricky part is that you're NOT allowed to use certain words, also on your card, which would usually be used in describing an elephant (say, 'Africa', or 'tusks'). But our sibling bond is often stronger than words. Our dialogue went like this:
"Napoleon Dynamite's favorite thing, not a liger, is..."
"Numchucks?"
"No."
"Ninjas?"
"No."
"Unicorns?"
"Yes!!!"

"Hawaii."
"Hives?"
"Yesssss!"

And my personal favorite:
"____-beaters."
"Wife?"
"No. Egg. Eggbeaters."

Happy New Year, all, and thanks for reading. See you in '07!

My Room is Alive

Every time a strong wind blows on my poorly built, poorly maintained, and poorly storm protected windows, the plastic sheeting on it puffs out and the blind opener stick takes on a life of its own, moving out into the room about a foot. I also have a toilet that likes to talk to itself all day, and a door that growls every time it's opened (like my stomach, it is never satisfied). So I have come to decide that my apartment is alive, and it's trying to tell me that I'm getting what I'm paying for.

Ginkgo Vomit

It's hard to be mad at a tree. Trees are what makes a town feel cozy, make us paper so we can draw comics, and the world should have many more of them. A tree looks fashionable and chic in all seasons, and doesn't even have to dress in layers in the winter. Winter snow on a maple tree? So hot right now.
But when it comes time for the ginkgo tree to drop the fruits of their sex, I want to run for my life. The berries fall off the trees and squish on the sidewalks, and then emit the most disgusting rotting smell. What's sadder is that not all ginkgos have to drop fruits, but some do, and it seems quite voluntary and random on the tree's part (maybe the other trees have to help memory loss and menopause...or is that St. John's Wort?). And it so happens that all the ginkgos of Pittsburgh live all around my house, so I have to cross the street back and forth about five times on my way to class and work just to avoid getting their rancid ovaries all over me. At least I think they're tree ovaries. I could be wrong, but the plant gonad reference was just waiting to be set up there. They've been periodically dropping fruits since the summer- there is no one 'fruit' season for the ginkgo. They're EVERYWHERE. Sometimes I don't even feel like walking someplace new in fear that my shoes are going to get covered in gingko fruit. And then I'm that guy at the grocery store that everyone thinks has dog poop on his shoes. When will the deciduous insanity end? Tree, tree, stop sexing on me.

Art Scraps

One woman's test photography is another man's treasure, so the saying goes. In fact, I turned this lovely test strip of some pebbles underwater into a geometric study with just a few pieces of Scotch tape (very classy) and some magazine cutouts. It's even mounted three dimensionally on foam. Ooo. It was so popular with the celebs that I had to hurry up and make a couple more for Dennis Quaid and Sarah Jessica Parker, who had been shooting a movie down the street. They saw me working on this little number for my friend Sally and barged right in the door or her apartment, practically forcing me to hand over my collages (and fifty dollars) into their hands! But now that I think about it, maybe they were really just burgalars with paper cutouts of Dennis Quaid and SJP taped to their faces with the eyeholes cut out. I am missing a substantial amount of my precious jewel collection.

Dennis, if I see you wearing my tiara on the set, you're in big trouble.

Misinterpretation of Signs

Some days are curiouser than others. Wednesday was a day like any other: go to classes, save the world, sell ceramics, watch gays on TV, go to bed. But today, Thursday, was off. It feels like a day where you look through someone else's reality glasses and your picture of the world looks a little like looking through a liquor bottle. To the right: A view of a Smirnoff bottle: does it say something about how one man's alcohol is another man's art?
I was also stung by a bee today. On a bus. In mid-November. And this is the SECOND bee sting I have gotten in a month. Aren't bees supposed to be sleepy at this time of the year? Maybe they're also having a weird day.
And then, the cake topper: There's a laundry/dry-cleaning store a ways up the street that has some process called 'Martinizing'. As in, some guy named Martin does something cool with your clothes and they look good as new when he's done with them. (Perhaps. I don't actually know how you Martinize your clothes.) But what did I read? Martini Zing.
As in, a drink with a zippy olive in it. Or, perhaps it's a new, trendy bar/lounge! I have to go there sometime soon and find out.

Once You Poop, You Can't....Stoop?

I can't believe I haven't posted this comic yet...because there's nothing quite as funny as poop. And when you combine that with an elderly interacting with a stoner kid (note the dreadlocks, camo pants and, as my father would say, 'ghettoblaster'), you've got grammatical genius. Normally I believe the phrase is 'POP it like it's hot'. As in 'Turn your polo collar up, children, because it is just so in fashion right now'. In the 20's they might have said, 'The popped collar is the bee's knees!' and in the 1950's it might be 'Be-Bop-a-Hepcat Pop-a-Collar Zing!, Daddy-o'. But today it's a bit simpler.
I have too many stories and puns in my brain that all deal with the topic of a great four-letter word. And no, the word is not 'Cats', or 'Asps', or 'Acne', or even 'Butt' (all great words, though), poop probably takes the cake. See, just now, I can envision another comic being formed, a cake being stolen off a wedding table by some brown...Cats! Butt! Acne! Nevermind.

Bush-Diving

It sounds naughty, but it isn't, really. Tonight I saw two people about my age dive into some tall bushes, hoping that I didn't see them trespassing in the yard of an abandoned historical mansion (clearly marked with 'Get The Hell Off this Private Property You Asshole Frat Boys' signs, or something to that effect). There was a small exclamation of an expletive, and then some careening into the hedges. Followed by something like a whispered 'Ow! Sharp!'
The lesson of the week will be short and sweet: once you're spotted where you shouldn't be, don't head for the nearest shrubbery.

Dead celeb spotted on Halloween!

Someone at a Halloween party I was at this past week was lucky enough to snap this shot of Andy Warhol, who appeared briefly next to my friend Jess. He left as quickly as he arrived, with a flash of white wig and silkscreens for everyone, and then he was gone. Who knows where he came from (well, he was from Pittsburgh, that we know) and where he was headed on that unearthly night, but the party was a bit more glamourous for the rest of the evening thanks to him. And thanks to Poison Ivy, the Pied Piper, and a Rook (my, how our chess set has grown) for creating the fabulous atmosphere for such a ghostly visitation to occur.
If only I could conjure Peter Saarsgard for the next party. I'm going to go practice my seance-ing.

Homestarloween

Halloween, one of the best holidays of the year (except for maybe Take Your Daughter to Work Day) is quickly approaching! Some of you dear readers may already be in the midst of your costume parties. I do love a good Masquerade- I always wanted to be invited to Martha Stewart's house for Halloween, 'cause it always looked so glamorously home-made spooky. Other people at this time of year might even take a moment to remember the dead, or tell some ghost stories, or cook a harvest feast. Maybe there will also be hot cider and dunking your head in a tub of icy-cold apples. How wonderfully quaint. But for the kiddies among us who grew up in a generation of video games, Halloween means carving an internet character onto a pumpkin (in this picture we see HomeStarRunner at the Pumpkinfest in Boston), and getting a two-pound block of chocolate in your trick-or-treat bag. Gone are the olden days of checking for razorblades in your caramel apple (flirtation with danger! death by sugary weapon!), and receiving one tiny piece of candy at each house. "What, only one KitKat?"
Wear reflective clothing, children, and be home by 8.

Dance Parties of Olde

I was a witness to this woman at a vintage-outfit-wearing dance party a couple months ago, and boy, did she have the Lord of the Dance in her. This is a very accurate caricature, by the way, not a gross overinterpretation. Notice her strangely contorted right leg, as if it were not attached to her hips the normal way, and the hair which seems to project horizontally from her scalp. (Can anybody but quasi-Asian people pull this off? I don't think so.) She was a diva, perfectionist in her attitude, ensemble, and energetic struttin'. I also added a major visual aspect of the party, the construction/automechanic lightbulb, which was used to light our boppin' feet on the dancefloor. Sure, the music wasn't as cool as I would have picked, but if I picked the music, I don't think anybody could find the beats ("What is this music? Tin cans and Cat Meows? Rad.") And the lighting left a bit to be desired, but aren't most good things in life craptastic?
I'm aware that Pittsburgh is not the city for crazy asymmetrical haircuts (that's Reykjavik) or disco lighting and one-piece glittery black bodysuits (that's Xanadu), but I'm hoping that I can bring a little glamour to this Mid-Atlantic town. Point being: if you see me in my black bodysuit underneath one lonely exposed lightbulb, don't stare, join in on some sweet beats.

Full Time Crackheads

I thought I might let you viewers in on a little historic landmark in Pittsburgh, the Smithfield Street bridge. Very historic, I'm sure lots of celebs have passed by this very spot. Why, it's practically the red carpet of Pittsburgh. I just saw Peter, Maggie, and New Baby Saarsgard there the other day being photographed in front of these three commemorative plaques. (I hope I got a good shot of them- I tried to get a view of the Incline in the background, too. Send me a copy, m'kay?)
I'm so glad that someone had the ingenuity to add an additional plaque for the real people who surround this bridge when the celebs aren't around. Frankly, there wasn't any more room on the pillar to add more text, so they had to make do with the very bottom. Crackheads of the world, unite! You work hard for your honey.
I'm off to write something involving a vibraphone, two bassoons, and percussion (what that something is, I have no idea right now). But perhaps I'll call it 'Crackhead Bridge'.

Steve Irwin Tribute

Even though I never got any cable stations, I still managed to see Mr. Steve 'Crocodile Hunter' Irwin on many a talk show. He usually brought with him some rabid animal (who is deathly afraid of talk-show audiences, of course) in the name of promoting awareness about, say, lemurs. The lemur then sits on Rosie O'Donnell's head, pees on her, goes crazy and eats some paper, or maybe a microphone, and is raced off the stage by a helping cameraguy. I feel bad for everyone involved. Here is me (or a Harry Potter version of me, I guess) interviewing one of the many crocogators that Steve has touched (in so many ways). Thankfully this croc was too emotionally overwhelmed to snack on my arm, but I have a mace in hand. If only Steve would have carried one of those babies when he took his last scuba dive. Goes to show you, if you're going to have a jostle with stingrays, always carry your medieval defense weaponry! Practical advice for everyone, really. I'll miss you, man.

I can empathize with the chicken killer

After hearing about a recent news headline involving a woman shooting her husband (not fatally, fortunately) after he killed her pet chicken, I had to make a comic. My first sketch I abandoned, as I thought the shotguns looked more like hairdyers, and the man's potbelly just makes him look a couple months pregnant. But it looked so funny I uploaded it anyway. The second image, now this is more personal. I can picture a note left on the counter that says 'Dear John, you killed my beloved birdie. Prepare to die. Love, Sally'. However, my tone has changed today after hearing these two yippie dogs bark continuously for an hour while their owner is not home. The dogs don't even live next door, they're around the corner and on the opposite side of my shanty- I mean well-lit studio- but the sounds reverberates nonetheless. Suffice to say, if the chicken in the backyard was squealing like these two little doggy sausages, I'd want to bust out the semi-automatic, too. There'd be nothing but a pile of feathers left. Or, in my case, two collars with the words 'Spanky' and 'Rex'. Just don't let my wife find out it was me.
(Thanks to Kate for the link.)

Nerdy/Back

It has come to my attention that the world is far more populated by nerds than I had ever imagined. And this isn't necessarily a bad thing. Take this piece which I created based on "photos" of subatomic particle collisions with a particle accelerator. (I can imagine the physicists among you readers salivating as I type this, fondly recalling your days learning about quarks.) Well, this doesn't help things when you want to go on a date. Either 1. there seems to be only five available nice people on campus, 2. they are too wrapped up in computerspeak to care about things like "relationships", or 3. they are Republicans. I suppose I'm not getting a degree in dating, though, am I. I'm here to be a good student and write my good little orchestral piece. Well. It's my birthday and I'm allowed to complain, and Paris says she always gets what she wants when she complains. (Maybe I should complain about the lack of thousand-dollar bills in my wallet?)
However, there is something strangely attractive about having an area of interest that is so particular that only really nerdy people in your field will know what you're saying when you casually let things like '...Can you believe it? She makes her own reeds. How bourgeois.' or '...self-propelled infants can totally recognize causality...' slip out. If only Justin Timberlake could revise his very sexy song to 'Get Your Nerdy/Back', I'd be all over the dancefloor with the computer scientists. Except that they'd be dancing via webcast, and using their robots to dance for them. And I'd rather dance with my hipsters anyway.

Fall

I can feel the autumn breezes in the air...or maybe it's just a lot of rain, like we're getting in Pittsburgh. Either way, it's time to dress up in warmer clothes, wear decorative scarves (before the necessary scarves make their appearances) and most importantly, painstakingly create leafy autumnal costumes for little children to wear. Thanks to Martha Stewart for the image, I made this little collage as a reminder to myself:, Midnight, it's time to unfurl the oak leaf wrap you've been storing away in my cedar chest. I think I'll break it out for conducting class, they'll love it.

Barbies and the Twenty-first Century Girl

Hi!
I'm Melissa. And this is my Barbie Doll. Well, actually her real name is officially 'Barbie Roberts', true fact! But I just call her Barbie. I love her and I play with her all the time. And Barbie teaches me lots of things. She says that a good girl should have a really nice 401K and not be reliant on this male-dominated society we live in so I can take whatever name I choose so I will call myself Hilary Duff Clinton because those are my two favorite Hilarys ever or maybe I'll just go on being Melissa but become a powerful account executive at an investment firm and buy lots of shoes. I love shoes. I love my Barbie. We go everywhere together. Do you want to brush her hair? Well you can't she's mine.

Cleaners on Vacation

This is a good rendering of where the cleaning products must have been while my apartment was being 'professionally cleaned'. Or at least that's where I assume they went, because it's taken a week to scrub the twenty years of dust off of my blinds, and the mysterious white fingerprints off the bathroom door (crime scene investigation, perhaps?). I finally live in a studio that I want to sit down in, thank goodness. Now that the place finally sparkles I can invite Paris and Nicky over for some cup o' noodles.
I can just see the bleach and the disinfectant wipes now, relaxing somewhere in Tahiti. Maybe they're even enjoying margueritas. Meanwhile, my clothes and silverware in their drawers are being ferociously attacked by bacteria. See them out in the ocean, panicking as the peramecium lunges for a sleeve?
With all this sand, sun, and surf, maybe this scene should be retitled 'Bleachwatch'. Coming to the WB this fall.

Turkeys Are So Dumb

My sister and I read a true fact during a board game (or should I say Bored Game, 'cause we were down to the dregs of activities) that turkeys are so dumb that they often look up in a rainstorm and drown. Poor guys. I can picture a turkey saying:
"I can't help it...They're so beautiful! Look at these little water thingies on my nose...aaccckggrrgh...chkkck" or perhaps
"I can't bear the thought of Thanksgiving. I'm going to end it all now while I still have my dignity. kkrrcchogjk". And then they just raise their dumb little heads and water rushes into their nostrils. We should teach these turkeys that drowning is so passe, so easy. The only way to go nowadays is with flair. Something along the lines of a crack-indused Post-Soviet mosh pit party in the Ukraine, with Kate Moss and Coolio, and you're the one who accidentally trips on a supermodel and she beats you to death with her high heels. Thank goodness you also remembered to wear your best jewelry when the paparazzi comes to photograph. Except that you don't see the lightbulbs flash, because you're in Heaven with the turkeys.

Tales from the rural world

I'm spending a little quality time in Western NY with the family, and though my modem is as slow as a slug (think five minutes to load google.com), I thought I might tell you some tidbits of Midnight's 'summer vacation'. The trip from Pittsburgh back home was 26 hours, when it should have been four. It included our truck breaking down on the highway near Zelienople, PA, and a truck driver named Biff giving me and my dad a ride to the auto mechanic. From there we were warned not to stay in the hotel run by 'sand monkeys', which I tried to tune out by telling myself that it's not a good idea to discuss Middle Eastern culture with a man wearing a greasy tanktop emblazoned with pistols and the words 'Proud to be American'.
I managed to spend as much time as humanly possible in every large media store while our truck was being fixed, and enjoyed some quality time with my dad over heaping piles of Chinese Buffet ( I do love that jasmine tea).

Back at home, with the downtrodden and mustached townsfolk, I'm happy to be spending some time with friends, going swimming, and watching my parents enjoy their new birthday present, the .22 shotgun which sits by the chimney. I wake up most every morning at 7.30 to the BANG! of one more evil squirrel getting blown to smithereens. My mom casually drinks her coffee on the front porch, coffee cup in one hand, and gun in the other. That'll teach those varmints to eat out of our birdfeeder.
We're also getting our first coffee-doughnut shop in town, Tim Horton's. For Gowanda, NY, this is maddeningly exciting.

Au Revoir, Boston, Bonjour Pittsburgh

For all those Bostonians who I won't get to see for a while, all the best! Boston has been great, and I will miss all of it. All of it except:
-Being called a terrorist by an Indian woman on the subway
-All those fun subway-to-shuttle-to-subway-to-work rides
-The Silver Line: It's a subway! No! It's a bus! No! It's fast!
-The completion of the Big Dig. I'm so glad it's watertight. And very safe. And the parks above ground, whoa, they blow my mind. Very industrial chic. Concrete blocks and piles of debris are so hot right now.
-The Orange Line's commuters, which include 'Violently Vomiting Milk Guy' and 'Orgasmically Dancing in the Aisles Woman', along with several sightings of cankles.
-And a personal highlight, conversations which fall flat due to the incredibly obscure area of knowledge I now posess on vintage advertising posters. How does one compete with "Can you believe it? The limestone blocks were inked...by hand!!"?

Positive thoughts on my time in Boston have included:
-Inventing dehydrated water (patent pending)
-Light being the new dark, and sitting being the new standing. And many others. Orange, however, is not the new black.
-Discovering the use of circumsized newborn's skin for grafting onto ailments
-Hipsters of every hipitude
-And who can forget a very small sampling of Midnight Shoveler performances, some of the best little art songs and recompositions of The Police that you'll ever hear. Ever. You'll be ninety years old and still nothing will quite compare.

I'm sure Pittsburgh will not hold quite the same fond memories, but I'll try my best to make it a good time.
Seriously, Midnight will continue to post whenever appropriate, and do keep checking in for updates from the land of Heinz ketchup and pierogies. There are plenty more comics up my sleeves.
(Pictured: One of my favorite buildings in Boston, seen from the Duck Tours: "Quack quack!" Shut the f'up, you ducks. Let me enjoy the gravel pits.)

First Came the Puggle

You first heard it on the news, when a Beagle was bred with a Pug to make this new kind of dog called the Puggle. Now owned by celebs the world over, a few big names (I promised I wouldn't reveal your names, Meryl Elton Cher) have requested that I find a way to hybrid some unusual animals. What a statement for the red carpet, ya? The first one off the petri dish is the Cowputer. I feel like this animal could also be useful in rural areas, where access to technology is limited. Because, of course, you're usually shovelling poop all day and don't have time for useless things like Blogging.
Still in the gene phase: the Horsetrich.

Well, Then I Hate You

It's always an unfortunate day at work when you have to disappoint your customers. As hard as one tries, at my particular poster gallery we do not happen to have posters from Armenia. Nor do we have photos of Boston's skyline, in fact we don't have any photos at all. We don't have posters of Irish Terriers or Thomas Kinkade landscapes. Or scenes from Malaysia. Sorry, folks. Usually customers walk away with something else they like, or they shrug and say, 'No prob, I'll keep hunting around.'
But one particular day, as I explained to a label-clad girl that no, we don't have any Prada or Gucci posters, I was greeted with a serious and perpetually-smiling response of 'Well, then, I hate you.' And with that, she walked away.

As someone once said, 'Nothing says love like hate'.
I love my job.

Falling Typography!

Watch out, Shane West! A razor-edged shard of typography is going to fall right on top of you!
Just goes to show that words- they cut like knives.

This is actually my favorite collage to date. If you want it, you'll have to fight me for it. And by 'fight', I mean write me a humongus check and aim it at my face as I reach out and grab for it.

CIA Wiretapping

In finding out that the US government could be listening in on potential terrorist-linked activity, I thought I might wiretap a section of my hometown's phone calls. I picked up three very valuable snippets.

1. 'Becky looked like a fat cow in school today!'
2. 'I wonder if she got knocked up at that keg party last week.'
3. 'Ethel, are you going to bridge tonight?' (This one is especially suspicious.)

There are terrorists everywhere.

I'm Toast

In the winter, one can always put on another coat, some thermal underwear, or wrap some spaceage foil around themselves to get warmer. In the summertime, in Boston, with the thermometer reading 97 degrees, I cannot remove any more layers without trying to peel off my epidermis. And that never feels good. I have another couple months of this to look forward to. I'm toast.

New Hairproducts

In the spirit of my recent trip to Iceland, where everyone has wacky self-empowering haircuts, here are a couple new hairproducts for the 21st-century generation. You might also look into purchasing 'The Consumer', which has a credit card barcode emblazoned on one's forehead. No worries about fradulent charges, ever again, just swipe your face through the scanner!