FYI for anyone who actually visits this page looking for updates…

One of the reasons I never use this is that the comments feature is impossible. It doesn’t weed spam–either I ban comments altogether, or allow them and delete a hundred spam per day with a feature that doesn’t allow batch edits.

If you’re on Facebook, you can always find out what I’m up to…and then some (I’m a loudmouth).

If you’re not, I’ll be sending some email news soon. In the meantime, I’ve started a blogger page specifically devoted to my A #1 Silly Plan of All Time: selling my shit, quitting my job, and moving into a van:

Into the Surly

Oh, Facebook, you have stolen me away. It’s so much easier to blog a few sentences every hour or so and have guaranteed interactive readers. Ah well.

Back from a couple weeks out west, one spent kicking around Vegas and LA with my gentleman friend Paul, and one spent working on storyboards for a real live movie. As soon as I can figure out how to post multi-page PDFs I’ll put some of those on the art pages (and I’ll post some pix of the Studio City place where I was doing my storyboarding sometime soon, as well, I hope). Besides being awesome because I was working on a GODDAMNED HORROR MOVIE, the experience prompted me to finally buy a Wacom tablet (to save my hands and my markers and TONS of time, I hope–thanks to new friend Liz for the tip!), and was like a sequential art bootcamp. When I’m done with this, no way will I be intimidated by the idea of drawing comics.

If all goes well (and so far, so good, why wouldn’t it go well?) next year I plan to cash out my 401K, pay my debts, buy a car, and move to LA to follow my dream of being a full-time, paid horror movie geek. My friend (and director) Adam did it. And he is, I think, poised to mentor me in my own “living the nightmare.”

This kind of confidence is pretty new to me. It’s been a wild couple of years. In the past couple of months, four people I respect more than anyone (should it be surprising that they are all men I’ve crushed on in the past or present? Have I mentioned my freakadelic animus grappling? Yeah, I think I have) have all told me, in so many words, that I am a very unusual person. I sure have felt isolated, scapegoated, lonely, and different in the past, and have mostly shaped my life from the stupid cesspool of bitterness those feelings caused. But I’ve never thought of myself as “unusual” in a positive way. Until now, I guess.

Since my dad died, and since starting therapy, I have gotten divorced, gotten my own apartment, gotten tattooed all over, taken up burlesque dancing, fallen in love while attempting the superhuman feat of not making possession a part of it, started making moves toward a huge career and location change, and gotten to the point where I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of me or what I do (while still I hope not being cavalier about the feelings of people I actually DO care about). I’d walk down the fucking street naked and dare people to say something about it. I’m 41, I’m fat, and I have nothing to lose at this point.

Recently I’ve been reading about Jung’s “shadow” concept (yeah, I think I’ve maybe resolved that whole animus thing for now…I don’t daydream constantly about older, bald characters from the TV show “Lost” anymore, anyway [don’t ask]). I think most people conceptualize their shadow sides as their “bad” side, their “sinful” side. That’s too simple. The shadow is what you hate about yourself, what you don’t wanna claim. MY shadow side is timid, fearful, starving, and gullible. My shadow side is what keeps me from being who I really wanna be, and I’m sick of her shit, frankly.

Something I wrote in my private online diary, the contents of which I usually wouldn’t publish because the corniness is puke-worthy. But if I was gonna summarize what’s been on my mind lately, this is pretty much it in a nutshell:

Good things I am:
compassionate
non-judgmental
hard to scandalize
open-minded
enthusiastic
willing to try new things
daring
funny
aware that other people have a right to their own feelings and that I don’t have to take them personally
responsible for myself
sensual
naughty
encouraging
appreciate difference in others
appreciate those who seem misunderstood by most
unapologetic, usually
try not to foist my emotions on others, try not to imprison them in my internal drama
easygoing
honest, usually
intelligent
freespirited

When I was little I had a sunny personality. I didn’t cry to get what I wanted. I was also hypersensitive. I took being bullied to heart and became timid in some ways. I became scared, and self-judging. I felt unprotected. But I mostly did not take it out on other people. I stayed compassionate, even toward the people who bullied me. Who knows why.

Things I don’t want to be scared of anymore:
People I sense look down on me or dislike me
Poverty
Angry people
Debate, stating my opinion
rejection
asking for what I want–but I have to be prepared to cut my losses if I dont get it
expressing my discomfort
interruption of my plan/spontanaity/unexpected change/loss of control
loss of security
starving
pissing people off

Yeah. Here’s hoping. And by the way, for everyone who, like I once did, thinks antidepressants are horrible, dangerous, and for weak people…I started taking Prozac about 6 months ago and firmly believe if not for that, I would not have been able to get past my obsessive thinking long enough to be able to even look at any of this stuff. In “Listening to Prozac,” the author makes a case that rather than curing depression, Prozac’s most noteworthy effect seems to be in assisting its users in feeling “like themselves” for the first time…it reshapes entire personalities. And he gets into why that brings up plenty of ethical problems. Yup. And that’s pretty much what’s happened to me since 2007. Prozac was one piece of the puzzle, but a pretty important one. So hey, y’all who aren’t medical professionals…keep your opinions to yourselves. Thank you. Now, back to storyboarding!

Oh my, it’s been awhile.

I’ve fallen into the vortex of Facebook, where sporadic updates to a captive audience have supplanted blogging.

Much art news in early 2009.

First, I’ve illustrated another book. This one is published by BBC History Magazine (UK only) and presents a bunch of hilarious history trivia. You can preorder it here.

Secondly, with the encouragement of some good friends, I turned my “naked-ladies-with-animal-heads” into a 12-drawing series called “Calendar Girls,” which I had professionally printed as oversized postcards. You can view large files of the postcards here. You can also buy them from my new ETSY SHOP, SurlyShop. Go here!

Thirdly, my original Calendar Girls are featured in my first ever gallery show! Yes, my art, hanging on a wall! Bizarro! They’re at Kayo Gallery in fabulous Salt Lake City until mid-June.

And lastly, I have been hired to storyboard a horror movie, which is just about the raddest goddamned thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll be going to LA in July to work with writer/director Adam Gierasch on a ghost story, Fertile Ground, that will start filming in Iowa in August. Adam was the first person who ever spoke to me at Bennington and we’ve been friends ever since. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the coolest B’ton grad EVER, and if it wasn’t for his encouragement and willingness to test out a total noob, I wouldn’t even have thought of this as a “career option” (which, at this point, it sure is. LA in 2010, baby!). I’m fairly freaky with anticipation.

And in other news, I’m divorced. It was amicable. It was my doing. Yeah, that’s what the whole Joni-Mitchell-cryptic-references thing was about, in case you were wondering. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that!

And in other mid-life-crisis wackiness, I am taking burlesque classes at Studio L’Amour, owned and operated by Miss Exotic World 2005 Michelle L’Amour, and loving it. Finally, something my GIGANTIC ASS is actually perfectly suited to! It doesn’t take itself as seriously as belly dancing (I had to stop when I realized that I was in fact feeling old and fat, and it wasn’t all me–it was a vibe I was picking up, and it wasn’t cool), and unlike roller derby, it doesn’t leave me in an exhausted, puking heap. I’m not exactly the most coordinated person in the world, so you may not see me on stage anytime soon, but I definitely get a kick watching myself bump & grind in the studio’s full-length mirror. Burlesque dancers are pretty! And I am one!

And finally, the piece de scandale… Me. Topless. On the interwebs. Go here and see if you can pick me out of the lineup. And even if you can’t, the blog is by my excellent friend Mike McBeardo, Mr. Skin columnist and a man of wealth and taste.

Enjoy! I sure am.

That’s the name of a Neko Case song about how art (read:song) can accompany you through your life. Or something like that. I mistrust the tendency to take life guidance from art. Maybe that’s because when I was a kid I had a serious Marcia Brady-wish, and was vastly disappointed by a life that was nothing like the one I was supposed to be living, according to my television. The Brady Bunch unfortunately exists on the level of most of the media we consume–empty. Nothing to be learned here. Who wants their life to imitate art that isn’t really artful?

That said…I’ve been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell this year.

The women I have most admired have been a bit like Joni Mitchell–strong-willed, usually single, frank, almost “masculine” in an unsentimental approach to life, mostly childless, often adventurous. Katherine Hepburn is another of these women. Neko Case is another. Imperfect, often reckless in love, but unapologetic and brave. In my own life, my friends Valjean and Emily have been exemplars of this kind of independence.

The last several months, beginning with Dad’s death, have been full of change and loss. Just this month I said goodbye, for the most part, to roller derby, which dominated my life for more than two years. I helped my ex Al, one of my best friends and a bit of a rock for me in many ways, move halfway across the state. And there are other, far more major endings that I don’t get into here because they involve other people and while my own laundry is one thing, I prefer not to air the laundry of people I care about in a public forum, no matter how few readers it has…and no matter how easy I make it to read between the lines.

There are beginnings, too. My life feels wide open right now in a way I have never experienced… and even then, I wonder how fully I’m experiencing my current situation. I’ve always been emotionally myopic–when life gets too confusing, fraught, scary, I tend to close up on myself and narrow my focus as a way of keeping control. I once used alcohol for that purpose, as a way of packing some kind of gauze buffer around the part of myself that I’m afraid will bleed out if I leave it exposed to all the elements around me. I can’t do that anymore, so often I experience what AA calls mental obsession. The only way to stop my brain from flitting around like a bee in a jar is to focus on SOMETHING. Often this something is another person. I’ve gotten into a couple of long-term jams that way, and the objects of my obsessions haven’t been particularly well-served when I suddenly come to and realize what I’ve done. Havoc wreaked. As I mop up the aftermath, I need to remember that now.

There’s a lot I’m suppressing at the moment, I think, in order to keep myself sane. On the other hand, like the women I so admire, I am either not a very sentimental person, or I am aware that sentimentality often impedes one’s forward motion, so I’ve given it up.

For better or worse, I’ve listened to Joni Mitchell’s Hejira at least once a day for many, many months. This is the record that is currently “singing my life back to me,” I guess, or else it’s given me a path to follow, some kind of reassurance that it’s possible to do the things I know I must do, to live with melancholy and unresolved emotion and to occasionally fly too close to the sun, and to keep traveling through it all. It’s an album of deserts and roads. I go back to it over and over again to remind myself of the open spaces that lie before me, and that setting off into them alone isn’t so scary I need to look away. It’s been done before, by someone thankfully better at expressing what it is than I am.

When I was a kid and in a home of drunkenness and emotional violence and dreaming of getting out, I used to obsessively write Bruce Springsteen lyrics in the backs of my schoolbooks as a kind of exercise in grounding myself. In that spirit, here are the lyrics to the song Hejira. Maybe I’m not so un-sentimental after all…

Hejira–Joni Mitchell

I am traveling in some vehicle.
I’m sitting in some café.
A defector from the petty wars that shellshock love away
There is comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain
It’s just natural as the weather in this moody sky today
In our possessive coupling so much could not be expressed
So now I am returning to myself these things that you and I suppressed
I see something of myself in everyone just at the moment of the world
As snow gathers like bolts of lace waltzing on a ballroom girl

You know it never has been easy
Whether you do or you do not resign
Whether you travel the breadth of extremities or stick to some straight line
Now here’s a man and a woman sitting on a rock
They’re either gonna thaw out or freeze
Listen—strains of Benny Goodman coming through the snow and the pinewood trees
I’m porous with travel fever but you know I’m so glad to be on my own
Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger can set up trembling in my bones
I know no one’s gonna show me everything, we all come and go alone
Each so deep and superficial between the forceps and the stone.

Well I looked at the granite markers
Those tributes to finality, to eternity
And then I looked at myself here, chicken-scratching for my immortality
In the church they light the candles and the wax rolls down like tears
There is the hope and the hopelessness I’ve witnessed 30 years
They’re only particles of change, I know I know, orbiting around the sun
But how can I have that point of view when I’m always bound and tied to someone?
White flags of winter chimneys waving truce against the moon
In the mirrors of a modern bank
From the window of a hotel room

I’m traveling in some vehicle,
I’m sitting in some café.
A defector from the petty wars until love sucks me back that way.

Last Saturday I answered a call to help John Greenfield move his apartment via bike.

Here are the movers, in the alley behind his house. We had eight trailers, I think, ranging from my little Action Packer to Steve’s 6-foot Bikes At Work trailer, which can (and did) haul up to 300 lbs. We made it in one trip.

When I turned 30 I promised myself I’d never help anyone move again. It’s different, though, moving by bike. It’s a parade, a party. It’s a challenge to find creative ways of making everything fit (and not tip over). I made sure the Rock Em Sock Em Robots found a spot on MY trailer before we rode the two miles down Humboldt Blvd/Sacramento to John’s new place.

…and by the way…

This:

is only okay because it reminds me of this:

and I love Los Bros Hernandez.

Seriously though. All kidding aside. I need to do some frigging pilates.

Marco took this nice picture. Note: I am not actually suckling the puppy.

…when riding a fixed-gear.

Actually, the skirt was form fitting so not a problem at all, and the boots lace so high that there was no danger of the laces getting caught in the drivetrain. Toe cages weren’t really made for jackboots, though, maybe.

I like this one. I look like Max Fischer.

Visited my friends Diane and Marco in Taos last week. Diane has a fucking brain tumor (more about that later) and there were many logistics in operation. But there was also plenty of beauty at which to marvel, and the whole New Mexico vibe to rock to: they talk about “personal transformation” there the way some people talk abou doing laundry. It’s pretty different from Chicago, but if you can relax and go with it (as I must admit I was never able to do before this trip) some amazing things can be discovered, maybe.

Diane and Marco are caretakers for a little village on a ranch in San Cristobol. Aldous Huxley lived there, and the DH Lawrence Ranch is right down the road. Georgia O’Keefe used to ship her paintings from their trading post.

Here is the “cabin” where I stayed:

A bike killing time in the barn. Boy, did I want to take a brass brush to that sucker:

Bones. Always with the bones…

Sunset at Rudy’s:

Whitey, my favorite of their six Border Collie pups:

Marco prepares to SHEAR the sheep. That’s SHEAR the sheep, people!

More at flickr.

Check out this bike that the friendly neighborhood crackhead sold me for $10. It has a totally homebrewed front end, solid rubber tires and humongous spokes. Vern thinks it was used to haul a wheelchair. What do you think?

Well, that didn’t take long.

Mere weeks ago I was proclaiming my love for gears and joking about “fixie freaks.” But one or two sentences in defense of fixed-gear riding from Alex, along with this passage from Sheldon Brown’s site, was all it took to convince me to convert the old Bianchi frame Jay gave me in payment for the poster to a fixed-gear.

Alex used the word “zen” when describing the awareness that fixed-gear riding requires. Sheldon sez:

It is not easy to put into words. There is an almost mystical connection between a fixed-gear cyclist and bicycle, it feels like an extension of your body to a greater extent than does a freewheel-equipped machine.

Although this sounded like a buncha BS to me, I do take Alex’s word (mostly) as gospel, and Brown (RIP) was no slouch himself when it comes to bike knowledge. Plus I’m totally into new and different bike projects now. So I took a leap of faith, as it were.

This is Amelia. The frame is a 1986-87 Bianchi Strada from Jay’s basement, covered in red electrical tape (almost a perfect match for the original frame paint) to hide chipping and cuz I can’t afford (time or money-wise) to paint it at the moment. I flopped-and-chopped the original drop bars myself using some instructions I found on the web and wrapped them in brown cloth tape that I’m gonna shellac to make it look more like leather (not even I am wack enough to spend $75 on leather bar tape). The brakes were a gift from West Town for volunteering (Thanks, West Town!). The pedals are MKS Sylvans I picked up cuz I just couldn’t find any clippy ones second hand–oh well–and the toeclips have leather-padded ends to avoid shoe-scuffing and cuz they look classay! Fake brown leather straps too. Neato. I splurged on wheels and had them built by Marcus at Yojimbo’s: brown deep v’s, because I’m fancy that way.

The seat is my Brooks that I took offa the Badger (replaced it with this bike’s original San Marcos white seat, which it turns out is better for the Badger anyway in looks and fit). Of course, since one of the sweet things about fixies is how simple and beautiful they look, prompting their owners to geek out like girls looking for prom dresses, I am very bugged by the fact that the saddle’s leather is too dark to match the rims and the other components. Thankfully, the seat is also really too wide and shallow–I feel like my butt bones are constantly being pushed forward and putting too much weight on my already-numb hands. So in the name of improving the ride, I will be investing in a honey-colored Brooks B-17 and saving the B-67 for my future touring bike! Woot to self-justification!

And how does this geek-ass bike ride, you ask? Oh man. The dork in me rejoices every time I put foot to pedal. It’s really not that convenient to commute on this thing–I’m used to carrying a bunch of crap in panniers and being prepared for rain and whatnot. No rack, no fenders. I have to read the weather report and put everything in my messenger bag, and I hate that (though it turns out the bent-forward position means the bag rests on my back and doesn’t pull on my neck and shoulders the way it does when I ride upright, which was what made me hate those bags in the first place). But it’s just so much friggin’ fun to ride. At first I was terrified: how do I get my feet in the clips while the pedals are moving? How do I get a foot out in time when I need to stop? HOW DO I STOP???? What if I go down a hill and have to pedal so fast I go shooting off into space?

It takes a little getting used to but I’m getting the hang of it. I gotta anticipate more–I watch lights a couple blocks in advance and adjust my cadence to time my entrance into the intersection at the green–or I make sure I brake far enough in advance that I can come to a smooth stop. Stopping means almost standing on my left pedal while removing my right from the clip and planting it on the ground. And to ensure I’m in the right position to do this well and to get a good start when I’m ready, my left foot needs to be in the forward-up position when I stop. So that takes timing too. Cornering is fun–you accelerate through them, you don’t coast. I’m still figuring out how to raise my ass off the seat while pedaling, which is the only comfy way to go over bumps. I have no idea how to skid stop and if I had to stop on a dime, I’d probably be in trouble. And I’m working the hell out of my core in my constant effort to hold my weight off my hands (I’ve never ridden anything but upright–it’s a big change).

But oh my goodness. I can go so fast. And the whole “one with the bike” thing is true–it’s starting to feel really instinctual, like it’s a part of my body. I’m afraid it’s all true. I feel like Dennis Christopher in Breaking Away. Or make that Daniel Stern (Cyril!) cuz I’m a big dork.

So I am commuting on it. At least on days I don’t have to haul anything, and the weather is dry (I say bah! to fenders for now) and it’s warm enough that I don’t have to bundle up like an oompah loompah.

I’m calling the bike Amelia after Amelia Earhart.

I don’t really know too much about Amelia Earhart, though I plan to change that soon. But her persona has obvious meaning for a buncha reasons. And I’ve been listening to Joni Mitchell’s Hejira like it’s my fucking theme music, for better or worse–every song on it has really personal meaning for me at the moment to the point of discomfort. So good to acknowledge that with a naming. Also, the preppy colors remind me not only of the era in which Amelia reigned as the premier example of adventurous womanhood, but also of my grandmother Mimi, of Katherine Hepburn (my grandmother’s idol), and of my “so elegant, so intelligent” college roommate Jill…who was also an admirer of Amelia and of Joni. Too bad Mimi and Jill never met.

Here’s another picture of Amelia, with the Star Lounge espresso machine as a backdrop. Had to take the picture at Star in honor of Jay. Sorry I didn’t name the bike after you, Jay, but everyone knows vehicles get women’s names anyway (though I plan to buck that trend when I name my future touring bike after Werner Herzog).

Now that my bike has a name, I can refrain from calling it “the hipstermobile.” (See below)

Lately I’ve been hearing a lot about “hipsters.” People argue much about what that word means, who it applies to, whether it holds any meaning at all, whether it’s an insult, or just a demographic, or…etc.

I ran across this article in the amazingly humorless magazine Adbusters (sorry dude. I am all for culture jamming, but Adbusters seems to forget the playful aspect of that objective). Apparently hipster culture (which Adbusters claims cannot even be called culture) is the harbinger of the apocalypse.

I must admit that I have never formally studied media or worked in advertising, and that my days of hardcore political engagement are behind me, so perhaps I am not the most trenchant or knowledgeable critic you could come across. But I must say I find all this sturm and drung pretty ridiculous and misdirected just based on my own experience living near Wicker Park, a “hipster” epicenter in a big city.

Most of the people I hang out with on a daily basis, who I’ll admit are much, much younger than I am, could be classified as hipsters if you go by the Adbusters qualifications for identification: they smoke Parliaments. They ride fixed. Many wear those scarves (see Braley, below), or recycled old man golfing outfits from the 80s (I should post an entire series of pix of Christopher from Star sometime–amazingly weird to see, for someone like me who lived through this fashion hell the first time) and deck shoes.

Invizabl turntabel

Maybe the fact that I find very little in life that should be taken very seriously at this point makes me more sympathetic to the ironic outlook that so offends Adbusters. Or maybe I’m just a pathetic middle aged lady full of regrets, who wishes she was 20 so she could do it all over again.

In any case, until I read that article, I suppose I didn’t have a label to slap on all these incredibly creative people I’ve met in the last year or so. Personally, I find it encouraging that so many people who are the age I was when I was doing nothing but watching tv and consuming pre-made shit, are riding bikes they can repair themselves and making their own art and clothes and hacking their electronics. It seems to me that they are taking control of their culture and their world in a way that my generation (X, gawd help us) didn’t know was possible.

I suppose the one thing that makes me scratch my head is the sexual component of some of the media targeted at this demographic, typified by the American Apparel ads (oy) and Vice Magazine. I find it sexist in a way that seems at odds with the personalities of many of the young women I know (fit in by showing your ass in these tight shiny leggings! Empower yourself by sleeping with your skeevy boss!) but I guess the fact that it’s so prevalent doesn’t necessarily reflect on real people, necessarily. I worry about what these younger women are being told is important, that’s all. But it’s not like people born in the late 60s had it right, either.

Is “DIY” culture something that was created by hipsters? Appropriated by hipsters? I know that the DIY mandate is something that I think CAN be considered political, in that it takes power out of the hands of mass media, corporations, and the government and teaches individuals that they can create their own tools and entertainment, and survive without a tit to suck.

Are hipsters real, Virginia? I’m not sure. But Adbusters could slap a label like that on half my friends, and I would still say that knowing them has changed my mind about many things, and changed my life.

I also feel really uncomfortable writing stuff like this because I fear it makes me sound really, really stupid. Oh well.

This is Braley:

She works with me at Star. She helped organize and run the national bike polo tournament. She’s 20 years old. Last night she trued a wheel at the coffee shop, using her legs as a truing stand.

In a few days she’s leaving for five months on a student work Visa in London. She is taking her bike and everything she can fit in a huge messenger bag.

She is awesome. Need I say more?

One day in the 90s I was walking through the Loop when I noticed a big black dude sitting in a folding chair and scribbling on a huge piece of what looked like drywall board with magic markers. Upon closer scrutiny, he was “painting” a sweet sketch of the street scene in front of him. He had scores of these pictures at his side, as well. I thought they looked cool. I asked him how much. “Twenty dollars! For you…Twenty-five!” was his enthusiastic response. I happily forked it over and walked away with what I later discovered was an “original Wesley Willis.”

Wesley Willis died of Leukemia a couple of years ago. Before that, he was rather famous around town for his terrible, profuse home recordings, his fun artwork, and his habit of headbutting–HARD–people for whom he felt affection. He was a fixture on the local indie music scene, kind of like Thax Douglas, only a lot less polite. I guess his reputation is national, too. Hipsters dig him.

Wesley was mentally ill. He lived on public assistance and made a moderate income from selling his art to people like me. From time to time, some local hipsters would decide to “support” Wesley by sending him “on tour” with a “band.” He was not equipped to handle so much excitement. From what I understand, these tours never ended well. But the promoters always got away with some cash, as did Wesley, I suppose.

Then he died. And now, of course, there is a “market” for his art. Chicago is rather a hub of “outsider” art. As most people know, Henry Darger lived here. I wonder how much Darger’s original scribblings go for? There are a lot of them–he, like Willis, was compulsive and probably worked on art as a way to calm the inner dialog. I wonder who is making money from Darger’s art now?

I have never know how to feel about this stuff. As someone who is attracted to “outsiders,” I of course have an appreciation for the pathos of the production of the art, as well as for the ambivalence of the final product. Would I ever listen to Daniel Johnston if I didn’t know his backstory of psychosis? How about Roky Erickson?

I actually saw Roky play Sunday night…it was the concert for which I did the woodcut last week. Since last year, he supposedly has cut back on many of his meds. He’s let his hair and beard grow, and seemed tougher, angrier, and more in touch with his songs–he certainly improvised lyrics and phrasing more than he did last year. He didn’t seem quite as stable. And of course, that made the performance much better as far as I was concerned.

There’s a gallery here called “Intuit” that features “outsider” or “self-taught” artists. But the backstory is always very important. The viewer has to know that the artist in question compulsively erected toilet paper sculptures in his unmowed lawn to make them worth looking at. And who makes the money from the sale of the toilet paper sculpture? I wonder.

I wonder about selling art in general, though. I’ve certainly never made much of an attempt to sell mine. And my treatment of the Wesley Willis painting reflects that attitude, the questioning of art’s value as a marketable possession–it sat, unhung, on top of my kitchen cabinet for many years.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to sell it. Why not? I wasn’t really getting any pleasure out of it. A few months ago, I asked a friend who works at another “outsider” gallery how much a Wesley Willis in questionable shape might fetch and she said about $350. Small potatoes I guess, but I’m broke.

Did some Craigslist checking to confirm the price, and didn’t see anyone selling, but saw a post (ALLCAPS…bad sign) from someone looking to buy WESLEY WILLIS AND ALL OTHER OUTSIDER ART (argh). So I shot him an email. After attempting to “make an appointment” with me (yeah, because I’m not busy enough) and telling me my initial figure of $500 was “very high” (higher than I thought I’d get for it, yeah. That’s how haggling works), he agreed to come to Star when I was working and take a look.

So I brought it to Star. The guy didn’t show up for an hour after I started my shift. In the meantime, Garrett, a regular at Star, an artist who paints naive street scenes, and the sweetest guy ever, almost fell over himself when he saw it and asked me how much I wanted. He’s a young artist, so he’s got a lot less money than me. But he was so crazy in love with it. So I told him $300, and he could pay in installments and keep it hanging at Star so he could visit it until it was paid off. I made Garrett very, very happy.

After that was settled I got on the horn and tried to call the Craigslist dude, but he had given me a wrong number. Then I tried to email him. He walked in just as I hit send. When I told him I’d sold the painting, he practically lunged at me and asked me how much. Then he offered me $500.

Uh…wha?

I didn’t sell to Garrett as a bargaining chip. I sold it to him because the painting obviously meant something to him. So I said nope. Sorry. Too bad. We didn’t have a deal… and he was late, and that was that. And that REALLY pissed him off. He started yelling at me, in the middle of Star, saying he KNEW I was “one of those” (?) and how he KNEW I’d “do this to him.” Etc. Cursing me, he exited.

…and then came back in a few minutes later to start yelling at me about karma, and how I’d get mine. Josh finally had to tell him to stop yelling at his employees and get out. It was all very exciting. I’m glad Garrett had left, I’m sure he would have felt awful about it.

A few hours later the dude shot me a very long, involved email. I didn’t read it, but I let Josh have a look. Apparently he buys up these “outsider” artworks for some stockbroker who pays him like a $3000 commission every time. So by selling to Garrett, I had screwed him out of thousands of dollars…which he intimated he would have split with me. Considering that he told me $500 was “very high,” I’d say that was a big buncha bullshit.

The last thing I said to him as he was being pushed out the door was “Hey, I’m not an art dealer, and you shouldn’t expect to deal with one if you’re advertising on Craigslist!” As he was screaming at me about art market ethics and business practices, I couldn’t help but thank my lucky stars that this was my first dealing with those items. Hopefully my last, as well.

I’m glad I sold the piece to Garrett. People like this Craigslist douchebag are making a mint off dead suckers like Wesley Willis. Hope he’s resting peacefully as the art market grinds on without him.

1. Tote 50 pounds of bananas:

The best part was the look on the clerk’s face when I told her I didn’t need any bags.

2. Gather a few friends

(or in this case, a few Windy City Rollers)

My derby lovah and Co-President of UPWGSD, the Union of People Who Get Shit Done, Loco Chanel

My ultimate goil crush, Malice w/ Chains

3. Distribute said 50 pounds of bananas to a few more friends.

(or in this case, a few thousand hungry Critical Mass riders)

Note the excellent Travis, of somersault bike fame, at center…

Like the loaves and fishes, these bananas will provide sustenance for a lotta hungry pilgrims. But next month I might need to figure out how to convert water to wine, as well…or at least rig up a second trailer full of beer.

The hand of a hobbiest. Check out those grungy nails!

I’ve been getting a lot of comments on all my “hobbies” lately. Some of ‘em are snarky: “Just what you need–another HOBBY.” Some are jokey: “You really don’t need to be good at EVERYTHING, you know.” Some (mostly from Vern) are just incredulous: “You’re volunteering for SOMETHING ELSE???” And it’s true (obviously, from my last 20 posts or so) that my time is richly occupied.

Not to beat a dead horse, but I’m really, really, really happy with my life right now. Yes, my calendar is packed. I have to shuffle things around alot. Sometimes I hit an obstacle (or a toeclip!) or can’t figure out where something fits, and I have to let it go for awhile. Every now and then (though not often) I forget to do something (like eat dinner, the past two nights); and not everything I’m doing gives me pleasure all the time: I could certainly do without most of the drama and politics involved in my roller-derby related positions at the moment. Sometimes I even lose sleep over some of the stuff I’m involved in, because it’s all pretty important to me. But the bottom line is, the fact that I’m actively pursuing so many things that are important to me is mother. fucking. awesome. So put that in your pipes and smoke it, snarky peoples.

When I was a kid, I did a lot of running around outside, riding a bike, getting into hair-pulling fights with other girls, playing with my dogs, building forts… you know the drill. I was always a little oversensitive I guess (I had a drunk for a dad: so no wonder), but I was still a pretty active, leggy, smiley, smart, artistic kid. I don’t know exactly what changed or when… moving from Ann Arbor to Kentucky was traumatic in about 20 different ways I guess. I really didn’t fit in with the other kids, and increasingly stayed inside reading instead of running around like a jacked-up crazoid. Maybe the advent of cable sealed the deal. At some point, I stopped riding my bike and hardly left the house except to visit my one or two friends (I couldn’t bring them over what with Dad the way he was) and go to school. You’d think I’d be eager to get away, but my records, my books, and my Movie Channel kept me very good company. I barely moved from the time I was 11 until I was 18. I had my own subscription to TV Guide. Ask me anything about tv from the 80s. Go on…ask me. I dare ya.

No wonder by the time I got to college, I was numb, depressed, listless, self-conscious, fat, and a budding drunk (booze made it a lot easier to leave my room and speak to people). I think there was somthing going on down there–I certainly had the angst of someone with an unconscious–but I was so completely incapable of accessing or expressing any of it, or even knowing what the fuck I was interested in… I mean, I wasn’t a complete turd. I had some pretty awesome friends in college, they must have seen something worthwhile there… Probably my rather dark sense of humor. But I just remember being terrified and repressed, for the most part. And depressed. Very, very depressed. This was pretty much my life story until, oh, 1999 or so. I was more or less a zombie.

So what came first, the sedentary half-life, or the depression? Did I sit on my ass consuming entertainment and Oreos 24-7 because I was depressed, or was I depressed because my thighs were melded to the couch?

Dunno. Do know that the few times I’ve managed to gather enough wherewithal to DO SOMETHING with myself, though ultimately doomed to failure of confidence (or alcoholic relapse), I’ve always been happier with myself. When Vern met me, I was in one of those periods: I was performing with the Gospel Jubilee, managing Tallulah and doing PR and doing a lot of bike riding…compared to now, my schedule was actually pretty light. But I was pretty happy with my life. I’m fairly sure this was an attraction for him.

And then I got married, and I did what married people do…I made marriage my hobby for awhile. And that was pretty awesome. But it was also pretty sedentary after awhile… involved a lot of couch-sitting and video-watching; and I think depression naturally followed (although it also involved a lot of artmaking, which I think probably kept my head above water). It took a MAJOR effort to drag my butt into roller derby…but I had to heed the frigging call to adventure or whatever. Sometimes I get asked if I’ll regret getting my WCR tattoo. No way. Throwing myself into something so passionately reminded me of how satisfying my life can be. Even though I basically sucked at it.

But something about Dad dying kind of cranked it all up to 11, I’ll admit. The guy who joked that I don’t have to know how to do everything kind of hit a nerve. I’m gonna die, buddy, and so are you. And there are a lot of things in this world that interest me and that I’m good at, or could be. So, in fact…maybe I do have to know how to do everything. Or everything I’m interested in, anyway. Why the hell not???

I know this chick named Mia Park.

In the time I’ve known her, she’s hosted a cable tv show, done PR, been in umpteen bands, done corporate sales, hosted a clothing swap, acted in numerous plays and films, taught yoga, done writing, editing, accounting, and traveled the world. I’m sure there are other things I’ve failed to mention, and that she hasn’t been 100% happy that whole time. But I’ve rarely seen her looking anything other than radiant. She seems to love life, and her attitude just conveys generosity: all that satisfaction is projected outward.

I’ve always admired the hell out of Mia. For one thing, she seems to be working on something all the time. And lately, I seem to be working on something all the time, too, whether it’s art, or accounting, or bikes, or taking notes on some book and keeping a journal. Didn’t someone once say it’s all grist for the mill, or whatever?

I read somewhere something about the Japanese and how they can’t understand Americans’ obsession with leisure time: how we make this huge distinction between work and leisure, and strive our asses off at one in order to have time for the other, and end up satisfied in neither (or maybe I’m embellishing–aren’t the Japanese supposed to be stressed out of their minds? Anyway, that’s MY interpretation…).

But the way I see it lately, if you think of your life as work, and spend most of your time working on SOMETHING, then life becomes work and work becomes life and it all becomes satisfying, or it becomes what is (”Chop wood, carry water”… yeah, I did take the Buddhist precepts. I forget sometimes). Or something. Fun? I think it’s fun. I think working my arms for 4 hours pulling prints in a hot, humid studio and getting something beautiful out of it is way more fun than sitting on the couch watching tv. I think working on a painting is more fun than browsing the web. I think getting my hands dirty in a failed attempt to overhaul a hinky bottom bracket is a lot of fun too.

And then while I’m doing all that stuff (even the art, I for the most part do while hanging out at Star) I get to interact with cool people who teach me new stuff, or get something out of what I’m doing, or I get something out of the interaction–it becomes an exchange. It’s stimulating. It makes life more interesting.

Sometimes I decompress and watch movies or veg out in front of the computer (that will hook me faster than the tv these days, unfortunately). Unless I’m staring at something really engaging, I often come away feeling kind of lousy. But I understand that sometimes, a person needs to stand still.

…but not nearly as often as I used to. And I find I need a lot less sleep these days. Is that weird?

Yeah, I do kind of want to know how to do everything. I’m kind of desperate for it. I probably think about the fact that I’m gonna die a little too much. This is the only way I can think of to deal with that.

I read a Joseph Campbell book the other day and he was talking about the three cultural attitues that evolved re coping with the knowledge that we’re all gonna die. One was asceticism, or saying NO to everything: this world sucks, so I’m going to totally withdraw from it and when life runs out, I’ll be better off; one of ‘em is like the Judeo-Christian thing: a qualified yes: I’ll approve of this world when it lives up to my standards, and in the meantime, I’ll work to earn my place in the next one; and of ‘em involved acceptance: saying YES to everything, to packing in as much as possible. That’s my favorite.

Sure beats the alternative.