I received a phone call yesterday I never imagined in my wildest dreams receiving.

I knew there was bad news and I expected something shitty. I braced myself a little.
I knew there was trouble, but I didn't know what. Nothing had prepared me for what
I was about to hear. Nothing had prepared me for the blow I was about to receive.

I had so little warning and so little time to get ready to hear that you were no
more. I was beside myself, I was outside of myself. I was not myself; I felt
everything and nothing all at once, but most of all I knew that it was true because
the voice on the other end of the phone is a voice that would never lie to me.

At once I wished I could call her a liar and doubt her. But I knew it was true,
and I knew you were gone.

The worst thing is not just that I will never have had a chance to say goodbye to you.
One of the many terrible things is that I never had quite the opportunity to really
let you know how amazing you were. Sure, I tried to tell you. Dozens of times. Your
writing, your words. Your wisdom, candor, wit; your presence. Your fluidity, your
truth, your passion and love. I can't sit here and lie to the world and say that
I loved you more than anyone ever loved you. I didn't. There were plenty who came
before and after I, plenty of people who adored you, gazed after you, engaged you,
protected you, a man who put a ring on your finger and wanted to shelter you from
yourself and the perils that leapt from, constantly, unwittingly.

If I could go back in time I would say a million more things to you and it would never
do justice to you. No, I didn't love you the strongest or the most, I didn't stand
by you the longest and I never saw you transition from girl to woman, but when I met
you you were a beautiful person and certainly one who could never deserve to lay down
and die at the hand of evil.

I hate that for yet another time, I feel like I don't know myself because I'm struggling with feeling what I'm feeling today. I'm smeary and weary and I know that today was a better day than yesterday, because yesterday I felt like someone stuck their fingers inside of the microscopic little holes in my being that nobody can see and tore each one of them open, gaping and ugly for the world to look at.

So many nights we laughed our heads off, gibbered nonsense at one another, spoke in
a language that maybe only Sophie or Kelly or Kellie or Glenn or someone close by might
venture to decipher and understand. But I just don't know anymore. And tonight, all I
can say is that I know I loved the person that you are and were, and I don't know where
you are right now except not here on this Earth with us.

You are gone, so far gone from us, but never forgotten.

"Why do art? Everything's been done before."

Why give hugs? Many hugs have been given before. Why fall in love?
Haven't you fallen in love before? Brushing your teeth? You did that yesterday.
Why keep living? Many lives have been lived before yours.

I believe that people, even people who haven't been formally trained as
artists or inventors or designers, have something to contribute creatively.
It pains me to hear the phrase "everything's been done before" as excuse
for why creating and making things cannot occur, rather than as inspiration. Like,
"Hey, everything's been done before! Let's think of something new! How
would my own voice be suited to express these ideas that have been used
tirelessly. How could my own interpretation contribute to the expression of this

There's so much elitism around art school, and while it's a great platform for the
sharing of ideas, comraderie, mentoring, and collaboration, it doesn't give one
person more license than the other to create.

What's the difference between a designer who's gone to school and a designer
who hasn't gone to school?

One holds a vendetta against their alma mater and the other has shitty

(no subject)

A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard
Bonedigger Bonedigger
Dogs in the moonlight
Far away my well-lit door
Mr. Beerbelly Beerbelly
Get these mutts away from me
You know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore

If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al

A man walks down the street
He says why am I short of attention
Got a short little span of attention
And wo my nights are so long
Where's my wife and family
What if I die here
Who'll be my role-model
Now that my role-model is
Gone Gone
He ducked back down the alley
With some roly-poly little bat-faced girl
All along along
There were incidents and accidents
There were hints and allegations

If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
Call me Al

A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!

If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
Call me Al

(no subject)

Thank god today is payday.

It's high time to get serious about spring shopping.

I went to make some copies this morning and watching all the young women parading into the copy center with their peptol bismol colored t-shirts and daisy-studded flip-flops filled me with an indescribable amount of envy.

Thinking about how lacking I am in the pastels department makes me a little teary.

(no subject)

I hate being cooped up in this drab shithole on such a fine, balmy, Northern Californian spring day.

Anyone want to go to the beach this weekend? I'm sick of being hideously pasty.

Michael Jackson A 'Nasal Cripple'

Although Michael Jackson says in a new documentary that he has had only two operations on his nose, a leading plastic surgeon believes he has had so much work done that he is now a "nasal cripple."

Dr. Pamela Lipkin, a prominent plastic surgeon in New York City who has studied photographs taken of Jackson at a California court appearance in November — in which his apparently scarred nose was covered by a small transparent bandage — believes something went wrong.

"What I think happened recently is that something in his nose — a graft, an implant, something — has now come out through the skin," said Lipkin, a nasal specialist who is not Jackson's doctor and has never examined him in person. "He's really got a hole in his skin."

"Michael Jackson has what we call an end-stage nose, a crippled nose, a crucified nose — one that's beyond the point of no return," she said.

People who have had so many surgeries on their nose that it becomes hard to breathe through are called "nasal cripples," Lipkin said.

Although Jackson's face has been splashed across the tabloids in recent months, Brittan Stone, photo editor at the celebrity magazine Us, says the singer's face is not being seen on magazines.

"The one thing you can't do with Michael is a beauty shot, because that shot simply just doesn't exist anymore," Stone said. "I don't think you can put Michael Jackson's face on the full-page of a magazine…. I think the flaws in his face become a little too evident, a little too frightening. It becomes like a medical study."

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