4-Year-Olds Talking About Death

A 4-year-old buddy of mine and I were drawing on a blackboard over the weekend.

We were being quiet when she looked into my eyes and said:

“When I die, I want to remember drawing with you.”

Which was very sweet, but very ominous. Kids can be really creepy.

I told her she had a long time before she died. It’s what we both needed to hear, even if it’s not necessarily true.

Trust me: anything can happen. Yesterday was the first book club since one of our founding members abruptly died.

If-I-Die

Matt was a runner, a tea enthusiast, an LGBT activist, and a Scrabble player at the state level.

Matt was in his 30s.

One day, he fell ill and went to the hospital. The doctors found basically nothing but cancer inside him.

He was gone within 2 weeks.

BookClub

A bunch of our members know each other through a cancer support group (which he was not, ironically, in).

A few didn’t come to the meeting, maybe because the emotional wound still hurt.

Matt’s ottoman sat empty while we discussed the meh-ness of the book. I don’t think he’d’ve liked it, either.

I guess we’ll have to consult with him on the other side, if there is one.

Inside my Sketchbook: Terrifying Dali-Masked Male Ballerinas In Tutus

Want to see a performance that’s halfway between Cirque Du Soleil and the most fucked thing you’ve ever seen? Try La Verite!

It has all the Dali-masked ballerinas in tutus you could ever need. There are also people in giant rhino heads, enormous dandelions, trapeze artists, and a goddamn terrifying doll controlled by men in all black.

Lots of great nightmares to sketch.

Masks-On-Masks

Also on the drawing radar: the break room table. Sketching during lunch beats checking your email or Facebook (again).

Ugh, Facebook. I need a cleanse.

Break-Room-Doodles

In response to questions you probably didn’t have:

1. No, I’ve never had sriracha before yesterday. I get on board with everything too late.

2. The only exception to my Whole30 diet is one of Liz’s tiny cupcakes a week. She makes these itsy-bitsy, dainty cupcakes from scratch and brings them in every Friday. They are very special.

3. I absolutely make lists of the dogs I pet in the street. The giant brindled English bulldog was at the post office. The doofy, slightly-greasy pug was on the sidewalk by a tiny subterranean Korean restaurant.

4. The pens/inks used were Bent Nib Jinhao w/Japanese Beautyberry, Hero 9315 w/Visconti Bordeaux, a vintage Pelikano w/Pelikan turquoise, and a vintage Sheaffer w/Private Reserve Ebony Purple. I use a lot of vintage fountain pens because I keep snapping them up at thrifts, antiques shops, flea markets, etc. I clean them out and re-fill them with blunt-nib syringes. Here are a few on Instagram.

5. I really do have a friend named Jiggy. (She insists her Korean birth name is unpronounceable.) She sits next to me and eats the healthiest stuff imaginable so she can continue being (literally) the strongest woman I know.

Jiggy

I draw her lunches in the vain hope that some of that healthiness will rub off on me.

My fountain pens are basically tiny barbells, right?

… Right?

An Ode to Guy Fieri

Celebrity chef Guy Fieri is the human equivalent of a tribal tattoo.

DonkeySauce

He’s basically a billboard for America.

Everything about him — including his trademark “donkey sauce” (pimped garlic mustard) — is a particular source of disdain for classy sources like the New York Times. (That article was so harsh that SNL made a skit about it).

GUY

His overblown, sincere attitude toward a tackiness is appealing. He’s figured out what he likes; he’s famous for it. He Keeps It Real.

In a way, he’s the human equivalent of my beagle.

I’m kinda jealous. Not of his life, specifically, but of his attitude. The fellow doesn’t know shame. He saves his fucks for things that matter.

Today, let’s all geek out over the things we like. Food, or music, or trash TV, or crochet. Let us brave the world, bowling shirts and all.

Do not go gentle into that good night, homies. Burn and rave all the way into Flavortown, and beyond.

I haven’t killed anybody!

Up until two weeks ago, I ate mostly peanut butter sandwiches, Doritos, Reeces cups, and Diet Coke. My DNA strands were comprised of sugar and caffeine, held tenuously together by delicate strands of aspartame.

Woefully, the time has come to stop treating my body like a trash can. So I’ve cut back on sugar and processed foods.

Considering this total about-face, I’ve been surprisingly un-murderous.

I daresay saintly.

Saint-Leah

As of this posting, I have received neither medal nor monument.

My new diet looks like this:

Kebabs

When this thing inevitably flies off the rails, I am going to get ridiculous on something chocolate and melty.

What’s your guilty pleasure food? I need performers for my Circus of Terrible Ideas.