excuse me what?

I came home from work today to this AIM message from Steen:

(4:13:24 PM): so I meet this guy randomly at the laughing squid drinkup, and invite him to our hackspace. So we’re standing outside talking, and he mentions that he lived in Vancouver for a while
(4:13:58 PM): so I say, completely joking, because you know, it’s a fairly large city, “So, do you know Jhayne?”
(4:14:27 PM): and he says “Oh, yeah. Everyone knows Jhayne.”
(4:14:33 PM): totally deadpan, totally meant it.
(4:14:41 PM): it was awesome
went away at 4:19:44 PM.

g.t.f.o.


X-Ray Crowd, by American painter, graphic novelist, and illustrator Eric Drooker

The Westboro Baptist “Church” are coming to my neighborhood in Vancouver to protest a small play running at the Havana about Matthew Sheperd, a gay American University of Wyoming student who was hate-crime murdered near Laramie on the night of October 6–October 7, 1998. (These classy, classy people are also planning on picketing Obama’s grandmother’s funeral.)

From their awful site, godhatesfags.com:

C1/28/08 Vancouver, Canada – Havana Theatre – Matt’s in hell & God Hates Canada! 1212 Commercial Drive With signs in hand and smiles on our faces, we shall travel the great distance from Kansas to Canada – AGAIN! When Canada determined to fight against God, they took up a satanic mission which must be addressed. We cannot make you behave, but we can tell you some words, to wit: Ps 9:17 The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God. Just because you are really, really evil and hateful does not mean WE will not lovingly tell you the truth because that’s our job, man! Matthew Sheperd is in hell, 10+ years now, and will remain there for the remainder of time. Deal with it! AMEN!

If they manage to cross the border, a group of us are planning on attending as well with counter signs that state GOD HATES SIGNS, (based off Isaiah 44:24-25), GOD SENT ME TO SELL YOU ATHEISM and any other appropriate anti-slogan we can think of. As Mike Levens points out, “http://www.godhateseveryoneexceptforus.com should provide some inspiration”. What we’re going to do once we’re there is still up for discussion. Some people are planning on arriving in angel wings, which I think sort of buys a little too deeply into their belief structure, plus is something for them to rail against, which they thrive on, and some people are planning on attempting to stand with the Westboro people with anti-signs in hand. “… just kinda sidle up to them. Act like you’re in on their cause and want to support it. Act surprised and offended if they try and distance themselves. Join in their stupid slogan-chants but get the words wrong.” Me, I’m more for the second plan.

To go with this, a collection might be taken up to donate money to the matthew shepherd foundation, accepting pledges that will increase with every hour the Westboro people protest.

hold it down

Moonhead, by Andrew Broder:

did you hear the one about the day the moon fell to earth?
it had a crater exactly the size of a human head on it
and it landed on my head and now my head is the moon.
or the one about the day a thousand lives from now

when we return as a team of archeologists
and discover fossils of ourselves in a former life
on the day we spurned our nervous twitch
and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss.
on the day the stars sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief,
of coelacanth teeth, to scream loud enough
to shatter the roof of a coral reef
and the shrapnel ground up into paint
for robin’s egg colored dream and root beer float,
second hand flavored drool absorbers
and the words “hope” and “home” that sound the same,
smell the same as the day the doe caught a sad snowflake on her
tongue and melted it in an instant
and it tasted like the blackhole’s wild-eyed longing for light,
whether from the starts that radiate
or the planets that reflect it or the eyes that reflect the reflection,
or the eyes looking into those eyes and seeing the reflection of the eyes,
which if all goes according to plan,
will outlast the universe itself.

..::..

Lung is talking about bussing me down to Las Vegas to meet with him and Natasha somewhere near the end of November, and then traveling with them to the Salton Sea, finally to pick up the letter Kyle left there for me sometime last year. As November closes around me and the sun drowns in fallen leaves and crowns itself in flash flood puddles that mirror the endless gray sky, it feels less like a blessing and more like a fairytale already told, like somehow I missed it between one blink and the next, as if these places never really exist, but only hover over pages of books and mimic the careless sheen of photographs, haunting our collective conscious in a waking haze of forgotten days as long as winter dusk.

Out there is the storm, strangely calmed, another twist in the river, another chapter of life. Here is a pool of known days, painting, adjusting, David job hunting, tinkering with very little, watching a movie at home every two days. I’ve said yes. Of course I’ve said yes. I’ve missed Lung, his crackling humour, sharing our puzzle-piece twin set of anger and frustrations. There is no other answer. Now it rests on my workplace, if they will let me leave for a week, to work away for five days. If it all works out, I’ll bus down to Seattle after work on the 21st for Robin’s party on the 22nd, then catch a bus to Vegas from there on the 23rd. My fingers are crossed, my fingers and my heart and my bones and breath. My hope is an elephant living deep inside the cage of my chest, pressing against my skin, forged out of a cello’s long humming strokes of sound, invisible until an answer arrives.

Until then, I won’t know myself. I’ll be a string of notes without direction, as crazy eyed inside as unexpected blood on the hands, a tight rope walker with her lover on the other side and a den full of sharp toothed, hungry lions below.

Meanwhile, Antony and I are e-mailing back and forth, a piano falling from the sky. There’s nothing quite like home. Apparently he arrived in Montreal just over a week after I left, and he’ll be there until half-way through December, far after I would return from the south. Tag, you’re it. Unexpected, how life plays these games of just missed, all the way through, both directions. If he sends me his address, I’m going to try and make sure he gets another palm tree, to keep in touch.

Some times I am lucky and an entire week can go by without missing his laugh. I wonder, occasionally, that I am so changed within since we met. Given all that is fixed, will I ever want to be able to walk away again?

who wants a rabbit?

My two cats have been dealing surprisingly well with the introduction of the rabbits. They stop, stock still, when they notice Emerson is out, and look vaguely offended, as if this new, small cat is an affront against nature. “Look at those ears. There’s something wrong with those ears. What is this defect doing in our house?” Then they quietly, in almost ninja cat movements stalk up to him and arrange themselves just out of reach, preferably over him somehow, on a table of a couch, and watch, twitching, horrified at the living mystery that is A Bunny.

Tanith, the fluffy, more laid back one of my two, has been adjusting much faster than Tanaquil, my sleek hunter of boundless energy, who is far more likely to be the culprit when anything gets knocked off a shelf. She even played with Emmie a bit last night, batting about a toilet paper roll with him in the living-room before she decided he was just too weird.

Emmie, meanwhile, is thrilled with his new home. He has two cats to run at, a coffee table to hang out under, and attention whenever he wants it. It’s almost embarrassingly entertaining.

Our other rabbit, Fido, needs to find a new home. As a solo rabbit, he’s incredible, the most adorable little velvet soft gray creature your addled minds can imagine. He’s active, cuddly, sweet, and brain meltingly cute, (long walks on the beach not included), but when David took him, he took him as a rescue from certain death by mistreatment, from a home that didn’t have him fixed and now his hormones are causing him to be continually cruel to Emerson as he tries to assert his dominance, who, not having those chemicals, can’t react properly enough to make it stop.

The biggest issue, though, is that while we don’t want Emmie hurt, what we really don’t want is to give Fido to a shelter that might put him down. As with any animal, it’s a lot less effort to find a home for one that’s already fixed. So, if you would like a sweet little bunbun, or know anyone who might, please spread the word.

If adorable bunny pictures are required, I will take some, and paste his widdle picture absolutely everywhere until you all are brainwashed and cannot resist our damned cute bunny anymore.

tonight I finally get started on my trip pictures.

TYPORGANISM: Kinetic typography
a web-based project focused on interactive kinetic typography and communal interactivity in the web environment.
The project started with the metaphorical belief, “Type is an organism.”

WORDLE: Word-cloud typography
a web-based multi-option graphic text visualization, with different fonts, layouts, and color schemes, based on user provided input.
Results are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution license.

never interested in x-ray specs

Comic Book Resources has first-hand accounts of ordering a live miniature monkey in the early 1970’s from a now classic back-of-a-comics-book book advertisement.

“It came in this little cardboard box. I mean, I’m saying small. It was probably the size of a shoebox, except it was higher. It had a little chicken wire screen window in it. There was a cut out. All you could see if you looked in there was his face. I brought it home, and I actually snuck it into the basement of the house.

No instructions [were included]. He had this waist belt on, a collar, if you will, on his waist, with an unattached leash inside the box. So I opened the box up inside the cage, the monkey jumped out, I withdrew the box and found the leash. I have no idea where it came from; I assumed it came from Florida. I figured, well, it’s probably near dehydration, so I opened up the cage to put some water in it. It leapt out of the cage when I opened it up the second time! I mean, it was eyeing the pipes that I was unaware of. As soon as I opened the cage, it leapt up and grabbed onto the plumbing up on the ceiling and started using them like monkey bars, and he was just shooting along in the basement, chirping pretty loud. It was heading towards the finished side of the basement, where there was a drop ceiling, and if it got into those channels, I never would have got it. It would have been days to get this thing out of there. I grabbed it by its tail, and it came down on, starting literally up by my shoulder, like a drill press it landed on my arm, and every bite was breaking flesh. It was literally like an unsewing machine. It was literally unsewing my arm coming down, and I was pouring blood. I grabbed it by its neck with both my wrists, threw it back in the cage. It’s screaming like a scalded cat. I’m pouring blood. My friend’s laughing uncontrollably, and my father finally comes in the basement door and goes, ‘Jeffery! What are you doing to that rabbit?’ And I go, ‘It’s not a rabbit, it’s a monkey, and it just bit the hell out of me.’ ‘A monkey? Bring it up here!’ I’m pouring, I wrapped a t-shirt around my arm to stave off the bleeding, carried the cage upstairs, and I don’t know why I bothered sneaking it in, because they fell in love with it, and it was like, there was no problem at all. They took me to the emergency room and I got 28 stitches on my arm. “

I remember traveling with my parents as a kid, looking through the back of the vintage comics, Conan, and Heavy Metal my dad bought for me, wishing with all my being that I might have an address someday so I could send away for my very own pet monkey. (Conan was my colouring book). This got so bad, especially after my parents took me to a market where some guy was actually selling them, that when they bought me a fluffy stuffed white monkey I promptly named it Monkmonk and carried with me absolutely everywhere. In fact, this desire was so powerful that I still have it, sitting on a shelf, much weathered, still wearing the flowered pink dress my step-sister Brianna wore back from the hospital when she was born.

Eeeeeeee! SCTV clips up on youtube!


Dr. Tongue’s 3D House of Stewardesses.

I didn’t make a penny with my time intensive Hallowe’en post-an-hour this year, which is only disappointing when considering how much time I put into it. Last year I made fifteen dollars grocery money and barely put a lick of effort in. Lesson learned: just throw junk together at the last minute.

Alas. Alack. Whatever. I sincerely have better things to care about, (and I mean that, as apparently it’s in doubt), like when will our painting get done, how hard is it to put up wallpaper anyway, what colour should that bit of wall end up, and, most importantly, how soon can we have you wonderful people over to scope out our terrific newly semi-renovated place!?

no more bare little toes in the rain unless I want them

The same day I finally gave in and bought a new pair of on sale flats, tired of borrowing David’s ill-fitting canvas converse, my wonderful cousin Francis sent me a note on Facebook, “I found a shoe in the back of my jeep that I don’t recognize. I think it might be yours. It’s a little black one.”, the same day that Fashion Envy Costumes, the people from eBay who insisted they send me something free, put new boots for me in the mail.

My mother will be pleased.

I love that he took the stage after midnight EST. It means he took the stage on NOVEMBER 5th!

My friend Marc-Anthony Macon has some good things to say:

"Joy. Let’s start there. No, here. Joy is here and we’re a part of it. Let’s start here.

For those of us who have lived through eight years of incompetent and malfeasant American leadership, Joy has now earned a capital J, if for no other reason than to signify the celebration we’re all holding in our tired little American hearts for its return: Joy, the prodigal daughter of the American dream. Slaughter the fatted calf and fire up the barbeque pit, because Joy is back and she’s bigger than life.

President Elect, Barack Hussein Obama. I’m going to say it again, because I want to: President Elect, Barack Hussein Obama. And when I say it, I put my hand on my heart and goes dum-dum-ditty like it did back in grade school when the teachers told us that we lived in the best country in the world, the country that forges past prejudices, the great melting pot, the land with her arm raised in unison with Lady Liberty, enlightening the world; a bright, shining beacon of blazing hope on the horizon of humanity.

My belief in that beacon had been stressed and tapped; it flickered and sputtered under Bush’s administration, a feeble candle in the wind of blind bravado. And now that wind has changed direction. It’s fanning my flame. That candle is glowing bright this morning and my hand feels my heart burning with it. With this new president comes more than the hope he’s promised, more than his clear sobriety of judgment, more than his seasoned and stalwart thoughtfulness, and more than his stunningly inspiring charisma. This new president, as impressive and transformational as he is, will not be the animus that transforms this nation.

We will be.

And we already have been. Barack is the right person, in the right place at the right time. Americans, throat-scratchingly thirsty for change, crawled their way past the oasis of John Kerry, and kept crawling until they found him, the perfect prism through which to focus their newfound resolve to not only remake the country they once loved so dearly, but in doing so, to remake themselves and possibly the world in the bargain.

Yes, this is about political change and it’s about repairing the damage done by the (alas, for now) current administration. But this is also about individuals and communities, and if you live in America, you must have experienced what I have over the last few weeks: Unity from diversity, happening organically, in the most mundane and surprising of places.

Everywhere I went recently was abuzz with excitement and people from all walks of life, gushing with nervous, cautious optimism. My little Obama button earned me hugs from old white ladies, fist bumps from young black kids, high fives from blond cheerleaders, thumbs up from construction workers, and friendly waves from church pastors. More than all of that, I got to TALK to people. Really talk. Get right into it. Smear it around on the table and see what its guts look like. If you don’t live in America, maybe that seems commonplace to you. It isn’t that way here. It wasn’t. It hasn’t been until now.

Until recently, my neighbors kept to themselves. We might have given a friendly nod whilst passing on the street, at best. Americans had become very insular, letting their lawns and cars and averted glances protect them from one another. No longer. Now, when I stop by the bodega to get a candy bar or a bottle of juice, this little gay white boy and the big muscle-bound black clerk have shit to discuss, and it’s not just “Hey, it’s a beautiful day,” or “What did you think of Iron Man?” We get to talk about our country. Ours. Together. We’re Americans, and together, we changed the face of America. Implicit in all of these interactions, especially now between black and white Americans is the understanding that neither of these groups could have done this alone.

Barack Obama would never have been elected without the support of all of us, and it wasn’t half-assed, better-than-the-horrific-alternative Kerry-type support. It was full-on cheering and flag-waving support from people of all colors and backgrounds. And we all realize it. It’s hit home. It’s hit the gas station and the supermarket check-out. It’s hit our offices and schools and now we’re all looking at one another, ourselves, and our country with fresh eyes, wide open and sparkling with wonder and possibility. We as a people; Black, White, Asian, Latino, Native American, Arab American, and every other American variant you can imagine, faced seemingly insurmountable odds.

We did the most American thing you can do: We took a very, very big risk in the hopes of a very, very big pay-off. Had our gamble of electing the first African American president failed, look at what we would have had knocking on the White House door, come January. We can’t deny that we took a big, big gamble, but we did it as one united people and that unity won last night more than President Obama did. He knows it, and we should all be glad that he does.

Of course, this does not mean that racism is dead in America. It does not mean that all of our wounds are miraculously healed. It does not mean that we’ve made amends for our bloody and brutal past. It does not mean that Dr. King’s dream is 100 percent realized. But it does mean that we’re closer. Much closer. America made a giant leap last night, and from that springboard, may we steer her through the Obama prism into 8 long and glorious years of reconstituted faith in America, progress toward lasting peace in the world, and a reconciliation with a world that we desperately need and that has desperately missed the gleaming beacon of hope and progress that we once were.

Americans, and the world, should take gleeful solace in the implications made manifest by the clear contrast in the political camps last night. On Obama’s side were massive, scintillating, undulating throngs of hopeful and energized Americans; ready, willing and able to pull up their sleeves and make whatever sacrifice they must to bring back our standing as a force for good in the world. On the McCain side, a relatively tiny and inconsequential blob of bitter, squabbling haters. McCain himself took the opportunity to show those few, those willfully ignorant, those paragons of paranoia, what a true statesman is.

He conceded gracefully, eloquently, powerfully and beautifully. Unlike his hellmouth of a running mate, he fervently endorsed unity and embraced the ideals of democracy by booming out the message that the people had chosen, and chosen decisively. Gracious winners are a dime a dozen. Gracious losers are preciously rare, and we should all applaud Senator McCain for truly putting country first and refocusing his energy on helping Obama do what needs to be done.

So now the work begins, and as Obama warned us, it won’t be easy. But we Americans have already shown our power, a power that we’ve only just discovered at this late, but not too late hour. It’s the power of unity within diversity. It’s the power of acknowledging our brutal past so that we might some day firmly place it in history, next to other travesties that we now consider unimaginable. It’s the power of seeing communities in American transformed into something greater, literally overnight. It’s the power of seeing a world of billions celebrate that little silly thing we did, when we waited in line, checked off a box, and went home to sleep and wake up to a bright, brilliant, beautiful American Dawn."