Hey! Over There! The Parties Over HERE!

Hey - I thought I would give a shout to all of you who have subscribed to this blog recently - and I know you do, because I know everything. I've not posted on this blog for ages because I moved to greywarenart.blogspot.com. So I highly recommend you jaunt on over and visit me there! Thanks!

Yes, You ARE Late to the Party

Um, I know it seems like I've been quiet. But I haven't, actually. I've just not been talking here. For reasons too obvious to mention, I'm trying to incorporate my two blogs into one . . . so check it out at greywarenart.blogspot.com. And be sure to yell and scream if you don't like the idea.

I might say "too bad" or I might return to being funny here and artistic over there. Who knows?

Rebel Hearts in Recliners

"Augustine" - 11 x 14" colored pencil on paper.
Click here to buy.

Today I saw a huge motorcycle in the grocery store parking lot. Gleaming, red, chrome covered, imposing. C'mon, I saw Top Gun. I grew up in the 1980s. Of course I want a bike. Gimme a break! So it was with a general love of the species that I approached said motorcycle. To me, motorcycles embody a sense of rebellion, freedom, independence, hardiness, tomboyishness. If you're on a motorcycle, it seems to me it says you're your own person and you laugh in the face of the creature comforts that four wheeled conveyances offer.

And then I saw that the motorcycle had a cup holder.

Somewhere, a childhood fantasy went phhbbbbt, shot down by a tiny arrow marked with some corporate logo.

Somehow, when I'm fantasizing about the freedom of the open road and the rugged bike rider, I don't picture him reaching down to his trusty cupholder and grasping his Starbucks coffee. Or 7-11 Big Gulp, take your pick. Are you kidding me? Try a flask, you pansy!

Links for this post:
Tom Cruise Lookalikes
Music for Cowboys who Drink Starbucks & Shop at Eddie Bauer

Extreme Motorcycle Mug Holder - Now that's rugged, baby!

Art Boogers

"Three's a Crowd" - 2.5 x 3.5"
Click here to bid.

Tonight I would like to take you behind the scenes of art-making to the soft, unprotected underbelly that no one else sees. See, here's my secret. When I tell people that I'm going to go spend an hour creating art, I spend 15 minutes actually painting or drawing, and I spend the other 45 minutes doing an activity I believe some people refer to as "dicking around." (pardon my French). So I'm uniquely qualified to work at the DMV.*

*Don't hurt me, DMV employees! I really love the DMV -- that's why I spend so much time there every time I go. Oh, no, wait, that's just the insanely long line. Never mind. Let's talk about something else.

So yesterday my non-art activity of choice was getting rid of my art boogers. What are they, you ask? This, my friend:



Dried crusties of paint that have not been used or cleaned up at the end of the day. Paint dries faster in the heat, so I had really developed a back log of boogers by the end of my outside horse show that I was painting at last weekend.

As you can imagine, these little crusties are a lot more resilient than most nosejobs and are more like the sort you'd get after a good long sleep: those ones that crust your nose over entirely so that you look like you've got leprosy.*

*everyone with leprosy, I love you as well. Don't be offended.

So it takes more than a tissue to get these suckers out. It takes . . .



And finally, whoo! Doesn't that feel better? Don't let Mom catch you with that one!

Home Buying for the Creative Person

Okay, for the record, it not "talking to yourself," it's "thinking out loud." Nor are my methods "crazy." I prefer "ingenuitive and ahead of their time." And finally, I was not giving that man in the Honda the finger, I was swatting a very small fly that didn't require all of my hand to squash.

I mean, as an artist and writer, I'm not that different from other people. I watch prime time TV (while painting the edges of canvases black). I cook and clean (leaving a ten foot berth around my art desk lest I vaccuum something worth more than $100). I have average hopes and aspirations of owning my own house (and once I accomoplish that, I'm going to take over the world).

So, as an artist, I know creativity when I see it. These last few weeks as my husband and I (I almost said "my husband and me", the grammar gods would've struck me down) have been looking at houses, I have seen more creativity than in any art gallery. Honestly, where do they get these descriptions from? Much less their prices?

CUTE LITTLE COLONIAL FOR FIRST TIME BUYER = confused rambler with the square footage of a college dorm room; feeble attempt at landscaping has resulted in copious numbers of pink annual flowers.

PRICE JUST REDUCED = still overpriced.

SHOWS LIKE NEW = doesn't smell. Anything without this modifier smells or has bad wallpaper.

SITUATED IN COMMUNITY WITH ALL THE AMMENITIES = monthly HOA fees approach that of your car payment.

and, of course, my favorite:

DON'T LET THE OUTSIDE FOOL YOU = the inside has been carved into rooms than a multi-chambered nautilus. Each bedroom is approximately the size of a dining room table with closets just large enough to fit one in-law.*

*Just kidding, in-laws! Don't hurt me!

Eh, I'm about to give up on the whole process. I like my car. I could live there. At least it has the guts to call itself an "economy" car instead of "roomy little investment or first-time buyer" car.

LINKS FOR THIS POST:
Home Owners' Association Horror Stories
The Chambered Nautilus, a poem which we have all be forced to read.
History of "The Finger"

More Power to You

"Untitled Work in Progress" - 8 x 22" pastel on illustration board.

Well, I'm now a "Powerseller" on eBay. I can already see the questioning/ disinterested look in your eyes. "What, dear Maggie, is a Powerseller?" "Does it mean you sell while swinging your arms vigorously to burn more calories?"

What it means is that I work too darn hard, that's what it means. It means I have now breathed more pastel dust, painted my arms more, made more colored pencil lines on my desk, and ordered more canvases than the entire population of Bozeman, Montana will in their entire collective lifetimes. Of the two hundred and fifty words that my two year old daughter knows, about fifty* of them pertain to the making of some kind of mark on some kind of surface.

*The rest of them are the words that I say when I find the marks she's made on the wrong sort of surface.

Some artists say they live for art. Ha! I am art. The twisted little U my body makes poised over my easel like a vulture eyeing a speck on the side of the road (which later turns out to be a tire patch, but my vulture eyes didn't know it at the time, so it doesn't count) is art made real. Real, baby!



That's why now, at 10:43 p.m. at night, while the rest of the world is watching CSI and eating Ben & Jerry's ice cream directly out of the carton, I am using a papertowel and Q-tip to get most of the pastel dust out of my keyboard before I go to bed. And why, as I trudge slowly upstairs to my room (body still in previously mentioned U-shape) I will scratch the black paint off my elbow so that my husband doesn't have to keep staring at me tomorrow morning until I figure out that it's there.



So! That's what Powerseller means, my dear readers! It means totally-obsessed-in-for-the-long-haul-paint-on-your-elbow-seller. Just in case you wanted to know.



Links for this post:
The real definition of powerseller
Bozeman, Montana
My eBay store with all my cool loot

Artificial Intelligence

"Guess Who?" - 2.5 x 3.5" colored pencil on drafting film
Click here to bid.


Okay, you know what I hate? I mean, other than bell peppers? Those stupid verification codes on online blogs and stuff like that. You know, you've entered all your personal data or your message (which took you years and years to write and was very meaningful), and then it says:

enter the verification code as you see it below:

What you then see is a combination of crooked letters and numbers that looks like it was written by a drunk freshman in an elementary Greek class. But if you squint funny, you can sorta make out E98Tyhi, right before your eyes cross and you pass out. So you obligingly tap tap taperoo (five points to the reader who can tell me what movie that's from) E98Tyhi into the box, hit "submit," and you get a message that says:

JUST KIDDING! WE MEANT TYPE IN THIS CODE INSTEAD:

And it gives you some more letters to try, but not before wiping out all of your information and your message, which you have to retype before you try to break the code again. You go through this process about four times, and then you reach the Point of Decision. You know the one. Where you decide whether the message or the order, or whatever it is that you're trying to send, is really worth it.

Of course, for me, it becomes a matter of principle. I'm gonna beat you, you d$%^ computer! So I clunk away for a half hour (While my husband says, "Maggie, I thought you were supposed to be painting, stop playing on the computer") until finally I am rewarded with a page that tells me yes, I'm a sucker, and yes, I have finally invested enough time for my response to be counted worthy. GOAL!

Yeah, I hate those buggers. Wait, maybe I hate voice mail with options more . . .