tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21061963652356530942024-03-13T10:14:37.682-07:00Irregular Giggling"Oh Pete, that's later. Maybe we'll be dead by then."Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.comBlogger297125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-72578157214568220982017-01-18T14:33:00.002-08:002017-01-18T14:33:42.014-08:00Barre Burn: ballet let by drill instructorsWelcome back everyone! Or should I say no one, as I suspect no one is reading this blog that lapsed into insignificance twice over five years ago?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I could have used the "circle" to draw this face, but opted for artistic integrity. I think it really works.</td></tr>
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Regardless, I'm going to try something new. In an effort to turn my current Play-Doh-and-bones physique into something resembling human, I joined <a href="https://classpass.com/home">ClassPass</a>.1 To encourage my own participation, I'm going to blog about the weird and wonderful classes I try here.</div>
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<u style="font-weight: bold;">Week 1: Barre Burn </u></div>
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<span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://lavabarre.com/">Lava Barre</a>, </span>Arlington, VA; 12:15 - 1:00 pm, January 18th</div>
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<b>What I expected: </b>Something like my elementary ballet classes, only with less getting yelled at for zoning out and maybe more rock-and-roll music.</div>
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<b>What it looked like: </b>The space looked exactly like a ballet studio, but with intimidating extra equipment set up at the barre. This included a super thick black mat, about half the length of a yoga mat; two sizes of balls (ha), both of the kickball variety/weight; a black strap, like a webbed belt; and a pink strap, made of a futuristic material I could not identify.</div>
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<b>How I spent the 10 minutes before class started: </b>Unsticking the pink futuristic strap from itself, staring at out the window at people's feet, wondering if you should stretch for what I assumed was a stretching class.</div>
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<b>What I thought at the beginning: </b>This is like ballet... if the ballerinas were high on speed, like Jessie Spano on Saved by the Bell. Also, I might be the only person in this room who would even get that reference:</div>
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<b>What I thought in the middle</b>: Oh shit, we're using all the muscles I DESTROYED earlier this week doing Jillian Michaels videos and running for the first time in 6 weeks. This is going to be rough. </div>
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<b>What I thought at the end: </b>OH YEAH I LIKE BIG BUTTS! Sir Mix-a-Lot really made the last move, where we did the bridge pose from yoga and then shoved our pelvises (pelvii?) around in circles much more pleasant. Also, maybe the instructor WAS old enough to remember Saved by the Bell after all. Or she was a hipster.</div>
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<b>Final assessment</b>: This was a legitimately tough workout on the muscles, though I sweated so little that I didn't even shower before returning to work. On the other hand, I have my own office, and I also ate beans for lunch after that, so maybe my standards for smelliness are not the same as everyone else's. Also, we barely used the barre in this "barre" class.</div>
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<b>Recommended for</b>: Toning, particularly if you're not already doing any lifting or circuit training. People who want a midday workout but not a midday shower.</div>
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<b>Not recommended for</b>: Working up a sweat, getting an endorphin rush, etc. Also, it was pretty hard on my hips at some points, because I am not a flexible person.</div>
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So that's that. Tell me in the comments about your barre experiences, or recommend other weird workouts for me to try!</div>
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1. I was NOT paid for this endorsement, for reasons that will probably quickly become clear.</div>
Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-52605962377194957752011-08-23T14:45:00.000-07:002011-08-23T14:49:46.042-07:00In related news...I'm working on a few illustrations to fill in gaps on "Dreams," but when that's done if you want a PDF of it or whatever, let me know.<div>
<br /></div><div>In related news (get it, that's the title?) do you know what's really really good for your mental state only not really, but the opposite? Sitting at home all day watching a Law and Order: Special Victims Unit marathon with a migraine. Something about the combination of the physical sense of doom created by crushing pain and the psychological sense of doom created by watching everybody be really really not nice to each other leads to severe paranoia and a craving for bread pudding. Check my <a href="http://irregulargiggling.tumblr.com/">Tumblr </a>tomorrow for the consequences... </div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-5556082131796691782011-08-10T07:22:00.000-07:002011-08-10T07:26:49.951-07:00Dreams: The conclusion
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****</div>
<br />Roger and David put an ad in the paper. "Vintage Thrift Store Finds for CHEAP!" it claimed. They gave their phone number and their address, and people came from all over the city to buy the "classic" trash until the apartment was nearly empty. David was saving his Keebler Elf for last, and after three days they were down to a Barbie lunchbox and a green plastic flamingo besides.
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<br />On the third day they began to receive menacing phone calls about the "value" of their items, and they disconnected their phone. On the fourth day, a knock came at the door. David stood, motionless, and stared at Roger. Roger stood motionless and stared at David. Slowly, quietly David crept to the door and put his eye up to the peephole. He took a step back and looked to Roger, who nodded in return. David opened the door.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****</div>
<br />Finally, Barbie Lunchbox’s dream came true. One day the crack of light came again, and instead of a thump or a thumpthump or even a thumpthumpthump, she heard a rustling. Every day after that and sometimes more than once, the crack of light appeared and piles of junk disappeared.
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<br />And finally, she herself was brought out of the bedroom and allowed to sit with an elf, a plastic flamingo and two men at the supper table. Just then there was a knock at the door.<div>
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<br />The door opened, and miracle of miracles, the lovely Queen of the Plants entered. She ran from the door to the table, scooped up her beloved Barbie Lunchbox in her arms and spun around three times, laughing. Barbie Lunchbox laughed as well. Barbie went home with her beloved, and they lived together happily ever after.
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> *****</div>
<br />David stepped back from the door to let in a tiny tornado that spun toward one of his last relics, grabbed it, and spun away again, just as fast. He looked at the woman in the door. Karen looked at Roger. "How much?" she asked.
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<br />“Two bucks," answered Roger.
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<br />"And you can have the Elf for only a dollar more" added David.
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<br />Karen paid the men and left. Roger and David threw the flamingo out their fourth floor window, and they lived together happily ever after.
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<br />Karen took her purchase home, and set him on her coffee table. She cocked her head to one side and said "Hey there."
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<br />The Elf smiled and offered her his plate of cookies.
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<br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The End.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>
<br /></b></span></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-43635866489191146902011-08-08T05:16:00.000-07:002011-08-08T05:16:00.367-07:00Part 11: Lonesome<b>Part XI: Lonesome</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div>"Whaddya want?" growled David as he opened the door. Before him stood a very rumpled man in a brown suit and a white hat that read "SweetMan." David chuckled despite himself.</div><br />Roger began to cry. "I don’t know!" he sobbed.<br /><br />David stopped laughing. He stood back from the door to let Roger in, and directed him to the couch.<br /><br />Roger looked around the room. Nearly every inch of floor space was covered with decaying, decrepit, broken, busted junk, and on the coffee table stood the Keebler Elf, smiling sarcastically at him. Roger shuddered.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x41dQN1wHSQ/Tj29fmn0AHI/AAAAAAAABnw/Cm6YEUSOrE8/s1600/part11a.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x41dQN1wHSQ/Tj29fmn0AHI/AAAAAAAABnw/Cm6YEUSOrE8/s400/part11a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637870659178856562" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 246px; " /></a></div><br />"What’s your name?" asked David.<br /><br />"Roger," sniffled Roger.<br /><br />"Mine’s David," said David, and shook Roger’s hand.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>*****</b></div><br />When they left the store, Karen’s car was gone. She stood in the spot where she had left it, looking down at the iridescent puddle of oily water and wishing she had put on shoes. When Karen looked up, she saw a handwritten sign on the tree in front of her. "Vintage Thrift Store Finds for CHEAP!" it read, and it listed sample items, one of which was a pink, plastic, Barbie lunchbox.<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__sl7J-Eyuk/Tj296IeF-wI/AAAAAAAABn4/x4CCiEzNpxk/s1600/part11b.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-__sl7J-Eyuk/Tj296IeF-wI/AAAAAAAABn4/x4CCiEzNpxk/s400/part11b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637871114941496066" style="cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-9336127273308917142011-08-03T20:17:00.000-07:002011-08-03T20:19:12.343-07:00IntermissionKaren drove with her tiny guide into the heart of the city where they wandered for three hours without finding Elm Avenue. Finally, the little Queen turned to Karen, and said, "STOP!"<br /> <br />Karen sighed. She looked down at the Queen of the Plants and said, "This is ridiculous." The Queen looked up at her and frowned. She stomped her foot and said emphatically, "stop Stop STop STOp STOP!!"<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SDWaAvHNV0A/TjoPjIHZq9I/AAAAAAAABno/G66O-1EvmzY/s1600/part10.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SDWaAvHNV0A/TjoPjIHZq9I/AAAAAAAABno/G66O-1EvmzY/s400/part10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636834979755961298" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 321px; " /></a></div><br />Karen stomped on the brakes. She looked down the street. She looked up the street. She looked across the street. Then she looked beside her and saw, to her surprise, The Warehouse Thrift Store.<br /><br />Karen parked and walked in, and her tiny companion followed. </div><div><br />The two walked up to the elderly clerk, and Karen stared at her with her mouth hanging open. The woman stared back with two of her chins on her chest.<br /><br />The Queen of the Plants piped up, "WHERE’S MY BARBIE LUNCHBOX?" she demanded.<br /><br />"Look fer it yerself," warbled the clerk, and turned away.<br /><br />Up and down the aisles the Queen wandered, and Karen shuffled behind. Through 43 dumpsters of clothes and toys they sifted and came up with nothing.<br /><br />The Queen (predictably) pouted. She stomped her foot again, and said, “GO!”<br /><br />Karen left the store, wondering where she was to go, and the Queen followed close behind.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-70715100364952737472011-08-01T05:24:00.000-07:002011-08-01T05:24:00.212-07:00Part 10: The Barbie Lunchbox<img style="-webkit-user-select: none" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z4ax21ZbBHs/TjXWHUGLvCI/AAAAAAAABlM/2VUPkqo1798/s1600/part10a.jpg" />Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-88575731931248495122011-07-28T05:35:00.000-07:002011-07-28T05:35:00.851-07:00IntermissionThe Queen of the Plants stepped over the naked woman in the doorway and entered her bleak house. She looked over the white couch, white curtains, white blinds, white carpeting… she walked through the white hallway, past the white living room and the white kitchen and up the white staircase. She looked into the white bathroom and the white bedroom, then descended the white staircase and laughed.<br /><br />Just then Karen woke up. She lay motionless on the floor and stared up at the Queen of the Plants in terror and disbelief. Her mouth dropped open.<br /><br />The Queen laughed again. "You’re the boringest yet!" she cried, and laughed some more.<br /><br />Karen was silent.<br /><br />Leaving off laughing, The Queen of the Plants demanded, "Get up!"<br />Karen obeyed.<br /> <br />"C’mon!" smiled the Queen (for she was nothing if not gracious), and led the way out the door. <br /><br />Karen grabbed a trench coat and followed close behind.Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-24644447698310275182011-07-26T09:31:00.000-07:002011-07-26T09:34:07.498-07:00Part 9: A Stalker<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AbNd10_fJI0/Ti7sLHRYAWI/AAAAAAAABlE/xlgZbcYST9Y/s1600/part9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AbNd10_fJI0/Ti7sLHRYAWI/AAAAAAAABlE/xlgZbcYST9Y/s400/part9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633699859561709922" /></a><b>IX. A Stalker</b><br /><br />Roger followed David back to his apartment building on North 34th Avenue. He followed him up the stairs to his apartment and continued on to the landing above. Roger didn’t know why he was following David, but he knew he had nowhere else to go.<br /><br />He lay down on the landing and looked through the bars to David’s door below. David entered the apartment with his purchases and the Keebler elf, and closed the door behind him.<br /><br />Inside the apartment, David set the elf back on his side table, and emptied his shopping bag onto the floor. Just then, there was a knock on the door. David stood, motionless, and stared at the Keebler elf. The elf stood motionless and stared at David.<br /><br />Slowly, quietly, David crept to the door and put his eye up to the peephole. He took a step back and stared again at the elf, which only stared silently in return.<br /><br />David opened the door.Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-48175490999635970982011-07-22T01:49:00.000-07:002011-07-22T01:49:00.144-07:00Part 8: The Plan<div><b>Part VIII: The Plan </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L0TvfuIg08E/TidAiCe8zRI/AAAAAAAABks/aaoeDnSkbgM/s400/part8a.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631540812576509202" />The Queen of the Plants was an exquisite planner.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She made beautiful maps and long, involved lists, and she delegated the work so that, in under three days, she guaranteed the safe and joyous return of the pink, plastic Barbie lunchbox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">First, the Queen decided that she must (rather against her wishes) attend school the next day, carrying her lunch in a frightful brown paper bag.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She walked to school with a serious look, but just a bit of a bounce in her step.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She greeted the plants with her queenly (though subdued) greeting and carefully accepted their browning leaves into her backpack (ashamed to have them see the paper bag).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She counted every step along the walk to school, careful to avoid stepping on the cracks (though the Queen’s mother hardly seemed worth the trouble).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Arriving in the classroom, she stowed her lunch and coat in her locker and strode into the 5th grade classroom with her backpack on her back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The offending bully was standing in the corner, looking enormously tall and disgustingly fat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Queen of the Plants marched forward until she stood (all 3 feet of her) beneath the bully’s nose.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"GIVE ME BACK MY LUNCHBOX," she demanded, calmly but firmly, in her queenliest voice. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The boy stared down at her in disbelief, his mouth gaping and his eyes bulging nearly out of their sockets.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He coughed, sputtered, and said, "What lunchbox?" in a low, hoarse whisper.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"MY LUNCHBOX," the Queen replied, not lowering her voice, "MY.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>BARBIE.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>LUNCHBOX." <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her eyes flashed with all the fury of a woman scorned.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Looking carefully around the room, and discovering that none of his friends were present to witness a moment of weakness, he bent low and whispered, "I sold it to a warehouse thrift store on Elm Avenue."<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Straightening up, he bellowed, "GET OUT OF HERE YOU MISERABLE, PUNY WORM!!"<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Queen ran.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She ran back to her classroom, ran up to her teacher, clutched her stomach and cried, "I think I’m going to puke!" and ran from the room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She ran to her locker, retrieved her coat (abandoned her lunch bag) and ran from the school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Queen of the Plants ran 3 blocks down the street before she had to stop to catch her breath.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y35jiKUGo3Y/TidAU5WjD1I/AAAAAAAABkk/ZxfvFH-oABA/s400/part8b%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631540586787049298" /><p class="MsoNormal">Three blocks from the school, the Queen sat down on the curb in front of a white house.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was a white house on one side of her, a white house on the other and a white house across the street.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She sat down to think.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"Overall," she thought, "that went quite well."<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Looking around her, she wondered whereabouts Elm Avenue might be.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Looking behind her she saw the white house and its white curtains and white shutters (both pulled tight) and wondered again where Elm Avenue could be.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Standing up, she brushed the dirt off her royal garment and stared up at the windows, watching for a sign of life. The Queen of the Plants saw a shadow behind the blinds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The shadow gave her courage, and she shuffled quietly up to the thick, imposing door and knocked.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;margin-bottom: 10pt; line-height: 115%; "><b>*****</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Karen awoke and it was daytime, but dimly shadowed inside her bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her answering machine still showed a big, red "0" which reminded her of jelly doughnuts, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in several days.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She had no idea what day it was, nor how long she had been asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her pajamas and bedclothes reeked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Stepping out of bed, she shed her white nightgown, pulled the white sheets from the white mattress, and threw the lot in the washing machine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Walking, naked, past her large oak front door, she heard a light knock. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Karen did not bother to find anything to cover herself, but opened the door unashamed, looked down at the tiny visitor, and passed out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-86633308874990063242011-07-20T06:44:00.000-07:002011-07-20T06:44:00.466-07:00Part 7: Encounter[<i>Once again, this is part of a larger story I wrote many years ago and am just now illustrating. Tell me it's stupid, tell me it's boring, tell me I should be on medication... just tell me something in the comments, please!]</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>VII. Encounter</div><br />When Roger the SweetMan awoke, he began to run. He ran down the cracked and overgrown sidewalk, around the corner and down a narrow, dirty street. He ran and ran until he could run no more, and then he stopped.<br /><br />Then Roger felt the cold wind, and he looked around him for somewhere to keep warm. He found himself outside the Warehouse Thrift Shop where he had begun his first reincarnation. His only suit was soiled and torn, and all his bones ached.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eIFzyipFqUA/TiOQU9dSGtI/AAAAAAAABj8/FPjk5T95No4/s1600/part7a%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eIFzyipFqUA/TiOQU9dSGtI/AAAAAAAABj8/FPjk5T95No4/s400/part7a%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630502648912419538" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px; " /></a></div><br />Entering the store, Roger wandered the rows of dumpsters full of clothes and tables strewn with broken toys, blenders caked with food and torn and soiled books. He roamed around the Warehouse for three hours, watching the customers pick through the rubbish, and wondering what he would do.</div><div><br /> While leafing through the second half of a ripped romance novel, Roger was bumped from behind.<br /><br />"'Scuze me," growled a short little man with a goatee growing to his chest and a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Keebler Elf beneath his arm. The man seemed to stumble under the weight of the decoration, nearly as large as himself, and half fell off his ridiculously tall shoes.<br /><br />"Oh…Sorry…" said Roger, following the little man with his eyes as he furtively stole through the aisles, picking out odd bits of junk and adding them to a basket he carried on the same arm as the elf.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now and then the man cocked his head towards the elf and listened, then whispered a few words back, looking around suspiciously to catch any lookers-on.<br /><br />But the man did not catch Roger, who began to follow him around the store, often turning his back in order to appear to be heading the other direction, sometimes ducking down to hide behind dumpsters, sometimes crawling beneath them to get to where the elf man was going.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WWTiiJ7i1fg/TiOQfXd8AOI/AAAAAAAABkE/jCXG54VaA38/s1600/part7b.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WWTiiJ7i1fg/TiOQfXd8AOI/AAAAAAAABkE/jCXG54VaA38/s400/part7b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630502827693179106" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 289px; " /></a></div><br />When David (for of course it was David) left the shop, Roger followed close behind.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-67022037070955384732011-07-18T06:08:00.000-07:002011-07-18T06:08:00.750-07:00Part 6: Investigation<p class="MsoNormal">[<i>Once again, this is part of a larger story I wrote many years ago and am just now illustrating. Tell me it's stupid, tell me it's boring, tell me I should be on medication... just tell me something in the comments, please!]</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>VI: Investigation</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">The Queen of the Plants, upon discovery of the theft, burst promptly into tears, and no one could console her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After 45 full minutes of red-faced, runny-nosed, painful, gasping sobbing, the Queen of the Plants was allowed to call home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After 2 hours of repeated calls, attempted consolations, maniacal screaming and no end to the crying, the Queen of the Plants was sent home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Shuffling, head down, along the sidewalk, the Queen stopped for no greetings, salutations or otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She contemplated her loss, reliving the past three weeks of incomparable bliss.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her plant subjects were crushed by her slights and drooped their branches in disbelief.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-enpIKde6DOQ/Th8w23GZDEI/AAAAAAAABjM/ZjRN3Z-r7r8/s400/part6.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629271778298235970" /><p class="MsoNormal">When the Queen reached her home, she sat despondently upon the porch and began to sing to herself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Eventually, the Queen’s mother came out to greet the Queen, handed her a mug of chocolate milk, and said, “There, there, don’t cry anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We’ll find your little lunchbox,” then exited again, satisfied with her attempts at comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Queen of the Plants was very displeased.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Knocking the milk into the garden, she put on a powerful pout and stomped into the castle, up the winding staircase, and into her chambers.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">*****</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And still Karen slept.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She unplugged the phone and the clocks, pulled both blinds and curtains, locked all the doors and slept. </p>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-7944403323382660562011-07-15T06:07:00.000-07:002011-07-15T06:07:00.286-07:00Part 5: The Queen of the Plants<p class="MsoNormal">[<i>Once again, this is part of a larger story I wrote many years ago and am just now illustrating. Tell me it's stupid, tell me it's boring, tell me I should be on medication... just tell me something in the comments, please! I mean, no pressure or whatever.]</i></p><div><b><br /></b></div><b><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LRt-P5IviNY/Th9QTviAsYI/AAAAAAAABjs/qv9KnnaU8wc/s320/part5a.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629306359343264130" />V: The Queen of the Plants</b><div><br /></div><div>The Queen of the Plants had a brand new lunchbox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was pink and yellow with a big picture of Malibu Barbie on the front, and it was plastic so if she dropped it, it would not dent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She swung this lunch box from her left hand on her way to school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This lunchbox did not hide inside her backpack.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And this lunchbox had been safely emptied of any lunch.</div><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The old Oak tree bowed to her on the path from her house, and the mulberry bush gave her a (sufficiently humble if a bit too quiet) "Good Day."<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Queen was careful to touch every branch within her reach of every plant along her walk.</p><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgjkfjIMCwU/Th9Pu5xZHII/AAAAAAAABjc/gTo2dbB-dqU/s320/part5b.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629305726436973698" /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>She whispered encouraging words to them and gave them each a (condescending, but really very sweet) smile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Every wilting petal or brown-edged leaf was carefully plucked and deposited into her (brand-brand-new) lunch box.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And Barbie seemed happy to have them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Queen's old lunchbox had been made of cheap tin, handed down from her 10-year-old cousin, with a picture of GI Joe on the front.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That lunchbox she'd kicked from her home to school and back every day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That lunchbox carried bruised bananas and bleeding jelly and peanut butter sandwiches.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And, finally, that lunchbox had been stolen by a (kinder than he knew) bully on the playground.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But now the Queen of the Plants had a beautiful pink plastic Barbie lunchbox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And now that lunchbox held the offerings of all her adoring subjects (the sweating milk and crushed crackers were stored in her backpack).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For three full weeks the Queen of the Plants was the Envy of the School, and for three full weeks her life was an 8-year-old's heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She slept with the lunchbox, bathed with the lunchbox, even watched TV with the lunchbox, and it became her closest friend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She named it Head of the Cabinet and Advisor to the Queen, and the lunchbox was next in line for the throne, should she fail to produce any heirs.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nbzUlWahXQI/Th9QGkL7aLI/AAAAAAAABjk/Zpc_Ot6dGAM/s1600/part5c.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nbzUlWahXQI/Th9QGkL7aLI/AAAAAAAABjk/Zpc_Ot6dGAM/s320/part5c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629306132959553714" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px; " /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then, after three happy weeks, the lunchbox disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Queen of the Plants had taken to keeping the lunchbox at her side at all times, more out of comfort and love than fear of it being stolen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Sir Brownbottom, Lord of Gymnasium, requested that she leave it in her locker during Track and Field day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he was a dear old friend of the King, the Queen assented.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Queen of the Plants performed poorly on the long jump out of worry for her friend, alone and lonely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She could not reach on the sit and reach, lest the lunchbox be hurt or sad in her absence.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And when she returned to the locker at the end of the ordeal, her worst fears were confirmed; the Barbie lunchbox was nowhere to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <span style="font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>*****</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This was too much.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Karen had slept for 36 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When she awoke, the light on her answering machine was blinking.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She pressed “Play” and there was 1.5 seconds of silence, followed by a rustling, and then a click.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She pressed “Delete” and a red “0” winked at her three times.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Karen couldn’t remember if David was one of her bosses or not.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She couldn’t remember if she had a daughter who was the Queen of Plants whom she sold to an ice cream man for baby stew or not.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Karen’s head hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She pulled the curtains and went to bed.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-5188615956992687182011-07-13T07:58:00.000-07:002011-07-13T07:58:01.227-07:00Part 4: The Elf<div style="text-align: left;">David finally left the apartment the next morning, carrying the elf beneath his arm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He returned to the Warehouse Thrift Shop, and slammed the cardboard cookie man down on the wide wood counter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"It’s defective,' he growled, his voice unused to speaking, 'I want my money back.'</div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The elderly clerk stared at him, her folding jowls wobbling in disbelief.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"We don’t do refun’s" she warbled. When David opened his mouth, she pointed nonchalantly to a sign at her elbow that read, "This is a class ESTABLISHMENT: Please conduct yourself Accordinly"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VoYVpJy4Gx4/ThfEC2gd_gI/AAAAAAAABgI/9NG5iCNmQtY/s400/part4a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627181812693204482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 222px; " /></span></p><div>David stalked out of the store, elf in tow, and tromped back to his apartment.</div> <p class="MsoNormal">That night, David cleared out a section of the bedroom floor and curled up amidst the piles of thrift store rubbish.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He slept only fitfully, rolling back and forth between the precarious walls until a relic finally came crashing down upon his head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With a terrified scream, David threw the Keebler elf across the room, and sat down in the corner to rock himself and cry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As his sobs subsided, David heard a gurgling murmur from the other corner of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Stifling his sniffling, he cocked his head to one side and listened.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Through the smothering heaps of trash, he heard the sounds of a wee elf’s wails of misery.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Suddenly, David felt guilty for hurting the poor thing, and he crawled over to where the cookieman lay.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NBbUIE9K-1M/ThtfSf6XIUI/AAAAAAAABgg/RK83xVKEJfY/s1600/Part4b.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NBbUIE9K-1M/ThtfSf6XIUI/AAAAAAAABgg/RK83xVKEJfY/s400/Part4b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628196930738135362" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px; " /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Don’t… uh… don’t cry… little man,” stuttered David, “I’m sorry…"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Fat Bastard!" cried the elf, and smashed David in the nose.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"OW!! Fuck!" whined David, recoiling into a toaster oven and a Barbie lunchbox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"What the hell’d you do that for?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Fat bastard…" whimpered the Keebler Elf.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Why do you keep saying that??"</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The elf sat up, wiped his eyes and shot a glare at David.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>"I’m just trying to point out that you are fat, and you’re a bastard."</p> <p class="MsoNormal">David was silent.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>On the morning after the third night of these new and awful dreams, Karen did not get out of bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Karen lay and stared at the blank white ceiling or the blank white walls or her blank white comforter (which brought her no comfort).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She ate neither breakfast nor lunch that day, and no one at the small café on the office building’s second floor missed her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For dinner she ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch before returning to her bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At 9 p.m., Karen went to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><br /></span></p><p></p>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-75527488529174221272011-07-11T07:02:00.000-07:002011-07-11T07:02:01.982-07:00Dreams, Part 3: Roger<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rvRiwfLv2ms/ThiKSMVWeZI/AAAAAAAABgQ/8ZMg22Ivo9k/s1600/part3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><p class="MsoNormal">When Karen woke up she was an hour late for work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She did not shower, she did not eat breakfast, and she drove faster than usual in the end-of-rush-hour traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When she got to work, she did not pour her cup of coffee; she went straight to her cubicle, slid off her shoes and went to work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She entered data for two hours, then went to lunch at the small café on the office building’s second floor (egg salad sandwich on white bread with pickles, Lay’s potato chips and a diet Pepsi), then returned to work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After work she went home, microwaved a frozen dinner, opened a can of beer and watched television until 9 p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At 9 p.m., Karen went to bed.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">III.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Roger</p> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rvRiwfLv2ms/ThiKSMVWeZI/AAAAAAAABgQ/8ZMg22Ivo9k/s1600/part3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rvRiwfLv2ms/ThiKSMVWeZI/AAAAAAAABgQ/8ZMg22Ivo9k/s400/part3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627399779552491922" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 400px; " /></a><p class="MsoNormal">On morning of the fourth month, Roger woke up and realized that he was tired of the Day Care biz, and even the babysicles were not what they used to be.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So, that day he took his leave of the other ice cream men and their burgeoning business, and went on the road, wearing his polyester suit, white suede shoes and SweetMan hat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He traveled on foot, eager to explore the far reaches of the country, seeing sights he had never seen.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But he when he reached the heart of the city it was dark and he was tired, and Roger soon realized that these streets were nowhere for a retired ice cream man to wander unprotected.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the night closed in, so did the walls of the buildings; from doorway to doorway, the former SweetMan bounced like a lost rubber ball.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, sometime after 10pm, he collapsed on the stoop of a tumbling down apartment building and fell asleep.</p>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-12268209547208601452011-07-08T04:33:00.000-07:002011-07-08T04:33:01.018-07:00Part 2: David<i>Just a reminder: for the next month I will be sharing with you a story I wrote more than a decade ago, but am just now trying to illustrate. Please yell at me about it in the comments!</i><br /><br /><div><br /><b>Part 2: David</b><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2I2cGvmHyEo/Tg9ypPLsnlI/AAAAAAAABe4/A8Y4DJ_JcKs/s1600/part2a.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2I2cGvmHyEo/Tg9ypPLsnlI/AAAAAAAABe4/A8Y4DJ_JcKs/s320/part2a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624840512384835154" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">In a claustrophobic building in a tight little neighborhood of a large and angry city, David Alexander found his first apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It had three rooms: a bathroom, a living room and a bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In each room there was a round, yellow overhead light powered by a 60-watt bulb.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the living room it flickered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The walls were papered yellow with dusty orange flowers, and the floors were warped wood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>David dropped his solitary suitcase on the stained green rug and muttered, “Furnished my ass.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The living room held a sunken foldout couch, the rug and a plastic wood end table.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the bedroom was a matching chest of drawers and lamp stand, and the bathroom was empty except for the toilet and a shower head protruding from the opposite wall.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Great,” growled David, “I can take a shower while I piss.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How efficient.”</p><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y090uPf7n_E/ThHrpQZDZcI/AAAAAAAABfo/doSWqxs09Fg/s200/part2b.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625536503569671618" /><p class="MsoNormal">That night David slept on the foldout couch, his belongings still unpacked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The next morning he left the apartment to look for a job.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For three days straight he left his home to explore the angry city, and for three days straight it turned its back on him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Every morning he opened the neatly packed suitcase, dressed, folded his pajamas and placed them inside.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then he reached into the inside pocket, removed a plastic pencil box, and counted out his money for the day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, he replaced the box in the suitcase, and latched the case shut.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NhoqrGy7Gms/ThHrKYJeYvI/AAAAAAAABfg/B3_lX_P5oec/s200/part2c.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625535973075870450" /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">On the fourth day, David quit his job search at 1pm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He entered a warehouse-sized thrift store and wandered the aisles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With the 20 dollars in his pocket, David bought a poorly matched 3-piece suit, platform shoes and a Barbie lunchbox.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That night he put the lunchbox in the empty bedroom, and the next morning he wore the suit to look for jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>With his platform shoes, David reached the height of 5’5”, and he felt much more confident.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fldli9Rjp0/ThHr56oRazI/AAAAAAAABfw/70MCv_iBclo/s1600/part2d.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fldli9Rjp0/ThHr56oRazI/AAAAAAAABfw/70MCv_iBclo/s320/part2d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625536789785701170" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px; " /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">For three more days David Alexander looked for a job.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He entered every shop, restaurant and bowling alley with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window, filled out an application, and never heard back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The three days stretched to nine, fourteen, twenty-three… David took to visiting the Warehouse thrift shop every day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He bought a plastic flamingo, three plastic roman-style pillars, nine broken vacuum cleaners, several dirty blenders, a Roto Rooter, innumerable flowerpots and six Slinkies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He stored all these things in the tiny bedroom until, soon, he could not open the door.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal">On that day he visited the thrift shop and used his last two dollars to buy a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Keebler Elf.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This he placed on the fake wood table next to the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was 3 feet tall and supported by a length of half inch dowel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When David stood next to it, the Elf standing on the table, and David standing in his platform shoes, the two were nearly the same height.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day David Alexander did not go out to look for work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That day David did not get off the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He did not get dressed, he did not fold his pajamas or take out the empty pencil box or latch the pitiful suitcase.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That day David stared at the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The next day, David stared at the wall as well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On the third day, David stared at the Elf.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And on the fourth day, the Elf spoke to him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Fat bastard," the Elf said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAQ5sjcqwPw/ThHsKpxEjuI/AAAAAAAABf4/73Af1OreZAU/s1600/part2e.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAQ5sjcqwPw/ThHsKpxEjuI/AAAAAAAABf4/73Af1OreZAU/s400/part2e.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625537077316980450" style="cursor: pointer; width: 274px; height: 400px; " /></a></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p></p></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-87378322427050534562011-07-06T04:57:00.000-07:002011-07-06T04:57:00.802-07:00Dreams: Intermission*<div><i>Just a reminder: for the next month I will be sharing with you a story I wrote more than a decade ago, but am just now trying to illustrate. Please yell at me about it in the comments! This part is un-illustrated on purpose.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>Intermission</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>The dream came back to Karen in vivid black and white while she sat at the breakfast table pouring milk on her Cap’n Crunch. She promptly dropped the carton, spilling its contents across the bright white tablecloth left from Christmas. Karen had never had a dream before, not in twenty-three years of a silently bored existence. Every night she had gone to bed, and every morning she had woken up no more interesting, imaginative or exciting than the day before. Now suddenly this living man and his baby-cooking lifestyle was running around inside her sparse, if not unintelligent, mind. </div><br />Karen went to work that day. She poured her cup of coffee, sat in her cubicle’s twisting chair, slid off her shoes and went to work. She entered data for four hours, then went to lunch at the small café on the office building’s second floor (egg salad sandwich on white bread, Lay’s potato chips and a Pepsi), then returned to work. After work she went home, microwaved a frozen dinner, opened a can of beer and watched television until 9 p.m. At 9 p.m., Karen went to bed.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-52591106805844689782011-07-05T02:38:00.000-07:002011-07-05T02:38:01.334-07:00Dreams Part 1: SweetMan<i>Just a reminder: for the next month I will be sharing with you a story I wrote more than a decade ago, but am just now trying to illustrate. Please yell at me about it in the comments!</i><br /><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Part 1</b><b>: SweetMan</b></p><p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcFkG76WeXg/Tg5FgwpkGrI/AAAAAAAABeI/VmvfDczwyjk/s1600/page1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcFkG76WeXg/Tg5FgwpkGrI/AAAAAAAABeI/VmvfDczwyjk/s320/page1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624509413749693106" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcFkG76WeXg/Tg5FgwpkGrI/AAAAAAAABeI/VmvfDczwyjk/s1600/page1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Once there was fat, white ice cream salesman who grew tired of bomb pops and began to eat babies.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The old man had been peddling icy treats to kids for 40 years, driving around in his square white truck, listening to the ten second jingle on infinite repeat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Day after day he had bent his face toward them to take the sticky nickels and dimes, and day after day he’d handed them ice cream and a pat on the head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their joyful grins or spoiled pouts were the same each year, a source of comfort to the childless old man.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p> </p> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5vi2tj9G0bI/Tg5Ongw4Z1I/AAAAAAAABeQ/Q0r202IE6LM/s1600/page1b_picnik.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5vi2tj9G0bI/Tg5Ongw4Z1I/AAAAAAAABeQ/Q0r202IE6LM/s320/page1b_picnik.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624519425349150546" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 197px; " /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Then one day he reached mandatory retirement age and was asked to turn in his pressed white jumpsuit and the keys to his cherished SweetMobile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Roger (the ancient ice cream man) now sat in his little white house with the short, white picket fence and ate Blue Bunny vanilla ice cream from the carton with plastic spoons.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He no longer bothered getting dressed in the morning; every day he wore the same sweaty underwear and soiled “SweetMan” hat that he had refused to turn in with the rest of his uniform.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Finally Roger snapped out of his waking coma, dressed in his bathrobe and bunny slippers, and walked to the nearest thrift shop.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2aH-7WxClCM/Tg5UrD8joTI/AAAAAAAABeo/Tw1xCyZ8HpQ/s200/page1c.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624526083402735922" /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>With the last of his retirement fund, he bought a dark brown polyester suit, khaki shirt, white suede shoes and a lawn angel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Roger straightened up his apartment and hung out a hand-painted sign that read “SweetMan Ice Cream Man’s Day Care Center.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Men and women who had bought creamsicles and popsicles from him in their childhood recognized his house and the name, and they sent their children to be cared for by his ice-reddened hands and round rosy cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They left their toddlers to his olive shag carpeting, their preschoolers to his cardboard box jungle gym, and their first graders to his library of 30-year-old Reader’s Digest Magazines. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0e9ksnQtqSQ/Tg5UXlYKsbI/AAAAAAAABeg/qff6bn8c4yA/s1600/page1d.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0e9ksnQtqSQ/Tg5UXlYKsbI/AAAAAAAABeg/qff6bn8c4yA/s400/page1d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624525748779528626" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px; " /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The babies however… the babies were left to the dark shed behind the garage and his ever-expanding kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Somehow, the mothers and fathers did not notice their missing babies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They scooped up the toddlers, preschoolers and first graders and blithely went home to their pot roast or meat loaf dinners, never wondering why the family seemed that much smaller or there was an extra crib in little Johnny’s room.</p>So for several years Roger lived on the frozen corpses of stolen infants and the little<img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IlIA5YBCna0/Tg5Yy37mOXI/AAAAAAAABew/3n61HXFmi9A/s320/page1e_picnik.jpg" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 177px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624530615662950770" /> money he got from the Day Care Center. Soon, however, other ice cream men nearing retirement began to come to him for advice on dealing with the change, and, after careful consideration, he let them in on his secret. The men then flocked from all parts of the country; retiring, near retirement, or simply quitting the sweet-pushing business, they came to him, and in three months the Center had expanded to three buildings with a state-of-the-art play center and two computers equipped with Teaching Tools for Young Children. And for those three months, Roger slept as soundly as a baby.Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-53544581252220441132011-07-03T14:41:00.000-07:002011-07-03T14:58:18.740-07:00Daily Animal Doodles for JulyThe Daily Animals Doodle challenge started by Paper Sparrow continues in July, and I'm going to try to throw a few in there when I can. I'll mostly be focusing on "Dreams," so I hope no one is offended if I kind of half-ass it here and there. <div><br /></div><div>To start off, I'm catching up by combining some animals. Here are days 1 and 2: Aaardvark and Badger.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ffL7LvuaXEY/ThDiidYeZoI/AAAAAAAABfA/tsibQqUO1yM/s1600/31%2BAardvark%2B32%2BBadger.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ffL7LvuaXEY/ThDiidYeZoI/AAAAAAAABfA/tsibQqUO1yM/s400/31%2BAardvark%2B32%2BBadger.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625245016216462978" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 285px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Zinnia is an aardvark and she is only 6 days old, but she has already made a new friend: William the badger. William is only 4 days old, so Zinnia tells him all the time how things will be when he grows up. For one thing, he will have to start eating ants, because that's what the big people eat. Zinnia hasn't actually eaten any ants yet, but she assures him they will be delicious, nutritious, and make them grow big and strong.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And here are days 3 and 4: Chameleon and Deer</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-09jQbK0r3W8/ThDjfYhcIGI/AAAAAAAABfI/cGpypVaMs0I/s1600/33%2BChameleon%2B34%2BDeer.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-09jQbK0r3W8/ThDjfYhcIGI/AAAAAAAABfI/cGpypVaMs0I/s400/33%2BChameleon%2B34%2BDeer.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625246062883905634" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 285px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Growing up in Minnesota, I've seen my share of whitetail deer, but since I'm not a hunter or an animal whisperer, I've never gotten really close to one. Who knew they had so many colors going on? Maybe that's why Gertrude, the chameleon, likes Frank here so much. Gertrude is a world traveler, and she has seen 23 countries so far. She's a fan of the U.S. because there are so many different kinds of animals and terrain and things to imitate. However, despite Frank's indisputable beauty she does not like Minnesota, because it is too cold and most of the beaches don't have sand. Frank wouldn't mind if Gertrude moved along either because, first of all, she's kind of clingy and it makes his antlers hurt, and second of all he doesn't like people hanging around his home town talking about how it sucks. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-84857961372553108652011-07-01T16:34:00.000-07:002011-07-01T16:49:53.590-07:00A little about the story you will soon readStarting Tuesday I'll be sharing with you (hopefully) a story I wrote when I was in college called "Dreams." This may be the only story that I ever felt like I finished writing, and to punish myself I have been trying to illustrate it now for twelve years and failing. <div><br /></div><div>When I first wrote it in a creative writing class in about 1999, the Internets were still the Wild Wild West and also I was 20 years old and didn't think about things like "copyrights" and "long term plans" and whatnot, so for my final project I took a mix of my own drawings, pictures I took and photos I downloaded from the few web pages that were not dedicated to porn back then and cut them up and literally pasted them onto pages. I then took these collages to Kinkos and paid $1 a color copy to make it into a book. I kept forgetting about putting them front to back and what order they should go in, but they also didn't have the copier cards back then, they just let you make your copies and then carry them up to the register to pay, so I probably made about $100 worth of copies but only paid about $35. Still, that was a lot of money for a college junior. I have since lost that copy. Has anyone seen it? Doesn't matter, it's completely unpublishable anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not a very good drawer, but when I focus I can do all right, and I figured out that Paint now lets you sort of cut and paste in a way that's like a collage, so I'm trying that out and not investing in any more glue sticks this time. I also have a scanner now, so hopefully I can do this without destroying any originals. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another important thing about this story is that it's really too long to be a "short story" (about 13 pages without illustrations, maybe 3o pages with them), so you'll be getting it in sections. Also, that gives me a chance to actually draw them, since I only have about 10% finished right now. Here's hoping I stick with this, and if you like it or hate it or just are concerned for my sanity, please leave comments because I have a feeling my commitment will wane if you don't. </div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, see you Tuesday!</div><div><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-13111748203490602292011-07-01T02:14:00.000-07:002011-07-01T02:14:00.349-07:00Daily Animal Doodles Review<div style="text-align: left;">Here they all are! I can't believe I made it to the end!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wHvNjSpbP5g/TgpGBp-s1gI/AAAAAAAABco/spXosNEFYmg/s1600/02%2BFox.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wHvNjSpbP5g/TgpGBp-s1gI/AAAAAAAABco/spXosNEFYmg/s200/02%2BFox.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623384078988137986" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7-LYkGCKMaw/TgpF96XmfKI/AAAAAAAABcg/OGf0KHTeoIA/s1600/03%2Bpig1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 156px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7-LYkGCKMaw/TgpF96XmfKI/AAAAAAAABcg/OGf0KHTeoIA/s200/03%2Bpig1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623384014668070050" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tl8_LoD_96o/TgpF6tOxOtI/AAAAAAAABcY/bd5ZRfGNzgw/s1600/03%2Bpig2.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tl8_LoD_96o/TgpF6tOxOtI/AAAAAAAABcY/bd5ZRfGNzgw/s200/03%2Bpig2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383959601756882" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qNczmpgDVXc/TgpF3ogXP3I/AAAAAAAABcQ/sqJAwNB9MxY/s1600/04%2Bllama.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qNczmpgDVXc/TgpF3ogXP3I/AAAAAAAABcQ/sqJAwNB9MxY/s200/04%2Bllama.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383906793766770" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2V241U0VM3A/TgpF0WAWaQI/AAAAAAAABcI/gQUOshZ9DuU/s1600/05%2BOrangutan.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2V241U0VM3A/TgpF0WAWaQI/AAAAAAAABcI/gQUOshZ9DuU/s200/05%2BOrangutan.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383850288048386" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3xweGjgai3s/TgpFxPDn77I/AAAAAAAABcA/sRZkrp-gHmQ/s1600/06%2BKangaroo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 104px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3xweGjgai3s/TgpFxPDn77I/AAAAAAAABcA/sRZkrp-gHmQ/s200/06%2BKangaroo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383796883124146" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c5bZC3B51RM/TgpFtrYsHdI/AAAAAAAABb4/2B2WE2CcDu0/s1600/07%2BSheep.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 162px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c5bZC3B51RM/TgpFtrYsHdI/AAAAAAAABb4/2B2WE2CcDu0/s200/07%2BSheep.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383735768194514" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nTbHjuhfbmY/TgpFqQM_QoI/AAAAAAAABbw/bUf-5zmZLrE/s1600/08%2BHedgehog.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nTbHjuhfbmY/TgpFqQM_QoI/AAAAAAAABbw/bUf-5zmZLrE/s200/08%2BHedgehog.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383676931752578" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lIW3rv9W1Bs/TgpFnWsBxFI/AAAAAAAABbo/08dHUaB9g1A/s1600/09%2BLion.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lIW3rv9W1Bs/TgpFnWsBxFI/AAAAAAAABbo/08dHUaB9g1A/s200/09%2BLion.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383627132945490" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l7tLC_pmun8/TgpFj5PtWLI/AAAAAAAABbg/IdgLcTcw9x0/s1600/10%2BGiraffe.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l7tLC_pmun8/TgpFj5PtWLI/AAAAAAAABbg/IdgLcTcw9x0/s200/10%2BGiraffe.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383567689930930" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-40RS68XlXQM/TgpFgyP44vI/AAAAAAAABbY/6rud7mLx3Jc/s1600/11%2BWhale.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-40RS68XlXQM/TgpFgyP44vI/AAAAAAAABbY/6rud7mLx3Jc/s200/11%2BWhale.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383514272031474" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_hfr8jf16fM/TgpFc4b-yFI/AAAAAAAABbQ/Uvz5GlOKB4k/s1600/12%2BDonkey.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_hfr8jf16fM/TgpFc4b-yFI/AAAAAAAABbQ/Uvz5GlOKB4k/s200/12%2BDonkey.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383447213885522" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SvKG_RpYNo8/TgpFYkjj8xI/AAAAAAAABbI/YxA2uCTE_Eg/s1600/13%2BSea%2BLion.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SvKG_RpYNo8/TgpFYkjj8xI/AAAAAAAABbI/YxA2uCTE_Eg/s200/13%2BSea%2BLion.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383373157495570" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2zoatZKEZk0/TgpFUXtPMNI/AAAAAAAABbA/SyKyBF-Fupc/s1600/14%2BElephant.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2zoatZKEZk0/TgpFUXtPMNI/AAAAAAAABbA/SyKyBF-Fupc/s200/14%2BElephant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383300988940498" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J2lAxXzzt_8/TgpFRFI5Z3I/AAAAAAAABa4/PGvOW-_URkw/s1600/15%2BPanda.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J2lAxXzzt_8/TgpFRFI5Z3I/AAAAAAAABa4/PGvOW-_URkw/s200/15%2BPanda.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383244465071986" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MFF5kNMSjMw/TgpFN_K-hjI/AAAAAAAABaw/na57xjscEcc/s1600/16%2BHorse.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MFF5kNMSjMw/TgpFN_K-hjI/AAAAAAAABaw/na57xjscEcc/s200/16%2BHorse.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383191323575858" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LzGBIOqFSY4/TgpFJrJrmhI/AAAAAAAABao/l-hETMMmc9Y/s1600/17%2BPlatypus.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 155px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LzGBIOqFSY4/TgpFJrJrmhI/AAAAAAAABao/l-hETMMmc9Y/s200/17%2BPlatypus.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383117229955602" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OiOB8-gFWrU/TgpFF3H3yYI/AAAAAAAABag/3YWOCkHtFjM/s1600/18%2BMonkey.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OiOB8-gFWrU/TgpFF3H3yYI/AAAAAAAABag/3YWOCkHtFjM/s200/18%2BMonkey.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623383051724114306" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yA1hOVSNO1k/TgpFBpM1xCI/AAAAAAAABaY/BXb-09IekO0/s1600/19%2BCheetah.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 117px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yA1hOVSNO1k/TgpFBpM1xCI/AAAAAAAABaY/BXb-09IekO0/s200/19%2BCheetah.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382979267380258" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rDgS3Jzec9Y/TgpE3wEEqLI/AAAAAAAABaQ/ANLPZaxEwto/s1600/20%2BBeaver.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rDgS3Jzec9Y/TgpE3wEEqLI/AAAAAAAABaQ/ANLPZaxEwto/s200/20%2BBeaver.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382809310963890" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EQqxSMJo0Gc/TgpE0BZfAQI/AAAAAAAABaI/t6dXhVZQmlw/s1600/21%2BDog.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EQqxSMJo0Gc/TgpE0BZfAQI/AAAAAAAABaI/t6dXhVZQmlw/s200/21%2BDog.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382745244696834" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jt-GiOHrBkY/TgpEwsWtdiI/AAAAAAAABaA/94t3woLzwwA/s1600/22%2BFlamingo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jt-GiOHrBkY/TgpEwsWtdiI/AAAAAAAABaA/94t3woLzwwA/s200/22%2BFlamingo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382688056309282" /></a></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4VXJ6AfFQXE/TgpEsMef5nI/AAAAAAAABZ4/oz2Wtw4MG2Y/s1600/23%2BRhino.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4VXJ6AfFQXE/TgpEsMef5nI/AAAAAAAABZ4/oz2Wtw4MG2Y/s200/23%2BRhino.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382610779563634" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZticwMhtf4U/TgpEn4Cwt_I/AAAAAAAABZw/IBrFCke_YLo/s1600/24%2BOwl.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZticwMhtf4U/TgpEn4Cwt_I/AAAAAAAABZw/IBrFCke_YLo/s200/24%2BOwl.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382536575039474" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DcSN5_zvhRY/TgpEkdg-A8I/AAAAAAAABZo/JGMOoObq1VU/s1600/25%2BCroc%2B26%2BTortoise%2B27%2BFlying%2BSquirrel.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DcSN5_zvhRY/TgpEkdg-A8I/AAAAAAAABZo/JGMOoObq1VU/s200/25%2BCroc%2B26%2BTortoise%2B27%2BFlying%2BSquirrel.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382477914375106" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O3CR4D3epU0/TgpEh0l-JPI/AAAAAAAABZg/h1KjVTyAqRE/s1600/28%2BOtter.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O3CR4D3epU0/TgpEh0l-JPI/AAAAAAAABZg/h1KjVTyAqRE/s200/28%2BOtter.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623382432569763058" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dmfBU_yTVaw/TgtCs1DLkbI/AAAAAAAABdY/Vmj5g44FAG4/s1600/29%2BHippo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dmfBU_yTVaw/TgtCs1DLkbI/AAAAAAAABdY/Vmj5g44FAG4/s200/29%2BHippo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623661897624293810" style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 123px; " /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqQLsaxWSrM/Tgx3pI2ZukI/AAAAAAAABeA/W9ByWC7wwOY/s1600/30%2BCat.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqQLsaxWSrM/Tgx3pI2ZukI/AAAAAAAABeA/W9ByWC7wwOY/s200/30%2BCat.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624001583312910914" style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 138px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-36526712420341343232011-06-30T05:56:00.000-07:002011-06-30T06:13:32.597-07:00Day 30: Cat<div style="text-align: left;">I could see how "cat" would be easy. I really can. But apparently my drawing skills completely fail me when it comes to doing animals I know and love. Maybe that's why I suck at people too. Anyway, here are my real-life cats, Duane and Lew (kind of):</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0IvdhOYayBA/TgxzFw02qmI/AAAAAAAABdo/2coXJ1JaBpk/s1600/30%2BCat.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0IvdhOYayBA/TgxzFw02qmI/AAAAAAAABdo/2coXJ1JaBpk/s400/30%2BCat.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623996577522035298" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 276px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Lew (a.k.a. "Fat Cat") is the one on the back of the couch, and Duane (a.k.a. "Neurotic Cat") is the one that looks like a dog, which is too bad because he's really very pretty. In real life he's kind of Egyptian-y, but he's also one of those totally black and white cats, so coloring him was a challenge. Lew is fat, hence his nickname, but he's also a Maine Coon cat, so he's about three feet long, which makes him kind of like Shaq in the off-season... big frame with a little jiggle around the middle because of too many Doritos and not enough free throws. We got Lew from a Chicago alley as a three-week-old, not yet weaned kitten, and back then he fit in the palm of my hand and I fed him with a bottle and wiped his butt for him. He's dumb as rocks except when it comes to getting what he wants: he figured out that the best way to get all the food is to eat the dog's food first because she's the pushiest, then Duane's because he's the nicest and then his own, because everyone else has some kind of antiquated notions about not eating other people's food. He also figured out how to get the shiny things in my jewelry box by prying open the lever, opening the doors and pulling out the drawers. Most importantly, he figured out that he doesn't really have to clean himself because Duane or the humans will do it for him. Duane, on the other hand, is a very clever cat, but he's too nice to put it to good use, so he mostly likes to be picked up and held like a baby, to sleep on people's faces at night and to chase the laser pointer, which is his oldest and most deadly nemesis. We found him outside our college dorm living on mice and cans of tuna from the R.A., so he almost even pre-dates our relationship. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow, you'll get to see all the drawings next to each other, and then I will embark on a project I've been trying to get started for 10 years: illustrating my "short" story "Dreams." I wrote it in college and at the time just used pictures of the Internet to illustrate it, but found out afterwards that that probably constituted copyright infringement and have been trying and failing to illustrate it myself ever since. With my new-found confidence bought from this challenge, I'm going to give it a shot. Characters you will meet include a retired ice cream man, the Keebler Elf and a Barbie lunchbox. Teasers!</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, the Daily Animal Doodles continue in July with some truly awesome animals, so I will definitely be joining up with that, just maybe not every day, depending on my ability to actually get this other project going.</div><div><br /></div><br /><a href="http://papersparrow.typepad.com/papersparrow/2011/05/daily-animal-doodles-project.html/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://i928.photobucket.com/albums/ad129/papersparrow/dailyanimaldoodlesbutton.jpg" /></a>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-38009956764179458232011-06-29T08:02:00.000-07:002011-06-29T08:15:26.517-07:00Day 29: Hippopotamus<div>Welcome to the penultimate day in the Daily Animal Doodles challenge!</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_ZOFuYpJfY/Tgs-1vN2gCI/AAAAAAAABdI/080LT3uzruk/s1600/29%2BHippo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_ZOFuYpJfY/Tgs-1vN2gCI/AAAAAAAABdI/080LT3uzruk/s1600/29%2BHippo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_ZOFuYpJfY/Tgs-1vN2gCI/AAAAAAAABdI/080LT3uzruk/s400/29%2BHippo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623657652630749218" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P_ZOFuYpJfY/Tgs-1vN2gCI/AAAAAAAABdI/080LT3uzruk/s1600/29%2BHippo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is Ned, and he is trying to catch that balloon in his mouth. He's a full-grown hippo, he just has an overgrown sense of whimsy. The idea is that he will catch the balloon without popping it, but as you can see he has very sharp teeth and he's in danger of choking if he's not careful. Ned has already been to the emergency room twice for this, and he has been warned to stop it, but he just can't help himself. Ned is what you'd call a special hippo. In addition to extreme sports, Ned likes the Crayola 64-pack of crayons that comes with a sharpener, French poetry, ham radio and crickets.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://papersparrow.typepad.com/papersparrow/2011/05/daily-animal-doodles-project.html/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://i928.photobucket.com/albums/ad129/papersparrow/dailyanimaldoodlesbutton.jpg" /></a><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-85393736212243421822011-06-28T13:59:00.000-07:002011-06-28T14:11:54.980-07:00Day 28: OtterI went for a river otter with this one, because they have them at the Minnesota Zoo and when I was a kid they were my second favorite only behind monkeys.<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x_8j_KppLrI/TgpBDtoGxwI/AAAAAAAABZA/Bf4mqa1Ow-U/s1600/28%2BOtter.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x_8j_KppLrI/TgpBDtoGxwI/AAAAAAAABZA/Bf4mqa1Ow-U/s400/28%2BOtter.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623378616768710402" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 255px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is Paula, and she does not live in the zoo, though she has friends who do. She lives on the banks of the Mississippi river, way up by its head in Lake Itaska, and her favorite thing to do is to run to the top of a hill, fill her mouth with dish soap, surf down into the river and then come up blowing bubbles. That's what she's doing right here. She also likes eating sunfish, but only if they are breaded and fried, because she's trying to build up her layer of fat for next winter already. On weekends she plays in an Uno league with other otters, in which she is the reigning champion, and works at a pizzeria busing tables for extra cash. She is saving up to go back to school to be a chiropractor, specializing in marine mammal adjustments.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-17350715601502898292011-06-27T05:48:00.000-07:002011-06-29T08:05:19.993-07:00Days 25 through 27: Croc, Tortoise, Flying Squirrel<div style="text-align: left;">Sorry for getting behind here, but none of you read blogs on the weekend do you? I totally stole the three-animals-in-one idea from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/eef-ink/5868135434/">Eef</a>, another participant in the animal-a-day challenge. She's a good draw-ist, so I figured it doesn't count as cheating.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFfEqT9buds/Tgs_JWgqnoI/AAAAAAAABdQ/qVsw0dVnIYc/s1600/25%2BCroc%2B26%2BTortoise%2B27%2BFlying%2BSquirrel.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFfEqT9buds/Tgs_JWgqnoI/AAAAAAAABdQ/qVsw0dVnIYc/s400/25%2BCroc%2B26%2BTortoise%2B27%2BFlying%2BSquirrel.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623657989596159618" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 244px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is Clint, Jennifer and William. Clint is a crocodile, and don't think he's not aware of the alliteration; he is, and he hates it. His best friend is Jennifer the tortoise, and she knows that he loves flowers, so she's bringing him this orange daisy in a pot for his greenhouse. Unfortunately, William thinks that Clint is about to eat Jennifer, because he doesn't know either of them, so he's about to dive bomb Clint and try to scratch his eyes out. Luckily he will probably fail because he thinks he's tough, but he's really not. William gets himself into problems like this all the time trying to protect the ladies, but he has still never had a girlfriend, even though he is already two years old. Jennifer likes the white knight type, though, and she and Clint are really just friends, so it might just work on her.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://papersparrow.typepad.com/papersparrow/2011/05/daily-animal-doodles-project.html/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://i928.photobucket.com/albums/ad129/papersparrow/dailyanimaldoodlesbutton.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2106196365235653094.post-31271410886756400892011-06-24T09:33:00.000-07:002011-06-24T09:49:15.040-07:00Day 23: Rhino and Day 24: OwlI really was very excited for drawing a rhino, but then I got all busy and stuff, so he remains half-finished:<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMaOvItRwp4/TgS8kgWKkqI/AAAAAAAABYk/CbmgUyqMTpo/s1600/23%2BRhino.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xMaOvItRwp4/TgS8kgWKkqI/AAAAAAAABYk/CbmgUyqMTpo/s400/23%2BRhino.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621825570209436322" style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 248px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is Mark, and he is a baby rhino: he's only about 1 year old, but that's about 10 in people years. He really wanted to have his suit on for his drawing, since it is his first one and he just got it last week, but we ran out of time. He has heard all about poachers stealing rhino horns and thinks that if he paints his green maybe they will be less desirable, even though he thinks it looks rad. He painted his toenails to match, just for this picture. Anyway, Mark lives in Montana, where his parents are ranch hands and have been ever since they had him and escaped the cult they had been living in in Utah. Mark doesn't remember the cult, but it really turned his parents off religion, so he has to lie to them when his friends invite him to the Lutheran lock-in and tell them he's going to an all night concert instead. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For "owl" I decided to see if I could still paint at all, and the answer is: Kind of.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wh6kjal2pqk/TgS91CuhcbI/AAAAAAAABYs/6emjhAkCuZY/s1600/24%2BOwl.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wh6kjal2pqk/TgS91CuhcbI/AAAAAAAABYs/6emjhAkCuZY/s400/24%2BOwl.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621826953827938738" style="cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I went for traditional colors on Madeline here, not only because that is what color she actually is, but also because most of my paints, which hadn't been used in half a decade, were all dried up, with the exception of the browns. Anyway, Madeline is an owl model, so she was more than happy to sit for my "doodle" here. Unlike the owl stereotype, she is not very smart at all, and she dropped out of school after the 8th grade to go to New York to model. She's doing pretty well in this market, which is kind of mad for owls, particularly cute ones with giant eyes. Madeline was a very sweet owl before starting this career, but now she has gotten a big head and sometimes throws temper tantrums when her iced coffee is too weak or they accidentally get her cheddar instead of mozzarella cheese sticks. She's very particular about her cheese. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a href="http://papersparrow.typepad.com/papersparrow/2011/05/daily-animal-doodles-project.html/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://i928.photobucket.com/albums/ad129/papersparrow/dailyanimaldoodlesbutton.jpg" /></a><br /></div>Antelopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09662381986963688962noreply@blogger.com2