Moving Still

Open Letter to Mitt Romney

2012-01-05T11:27:00.001-06:00

Dear Mitt Romney:

What's up dude? Remember when you were the religious weirdo? Anyway, I don't have cable anymore, so I don't watch any 24-hour political news channels. I pick up most of my news from twitter and this guy Rich at work who has a boot fetish and doesn't seem to like you very much. He's into Michelle Bachmann, but I remind you of the boot thing. He really does like boots.

On another note, do you like to wear boots? I bet you could get a couple votes if you wore some really high-quality, fine leather boots.

Yes, so, as I was saying, I stopped paying attention to the Republican race months ago. I do get to catch the ocasional clip of Rick Perry acting goofy or Herman Cain forgetting stuff and sexing women. Oh man, and those pictures of Michele Bachmann and her husband eating corn dogs? Did you see those? That was crazy funny. Spock, set phasers to LOL, am I right? Anyway, moving on. I tried to find out more about Rick Santorum in order to inform myself on the candidates. That guy is fucked up. It's quite a mixture of shit on the internet about that guy.

So, let me get to my point. Are you going to run for president this year? I haven't heard anything from you at all. All I know is you were in Iowa doing some weird state fair straw-drawing game. Quit wasting your time with those bumpkins and get in the race, bro! Go on Funny or Die or something.

Sincerely,

Kevin Lester

P.S. Tweet me.

P.P.S. think about the boots.

Updates

2012-01-05T10:53:00.000-06:00

How long has it been, faithful reader? Virtually no time at all. I have nothing new to add. I am writing and drawing today after a brief hiatus for regular life things like laundry and work and such, which is mostly tedious but actually quite satisfying with the right company, which I am fortunate enough to have. So i may start posting here again with stuff. Don't count on it. Since I last wrote anything here, I have life updates.

The loving wife and I moved into a new place. This one came without in-laws, so we snatched it up. We just recently got dining chairs, so we're ready to recieve guests at this point, I suppose. Work is still work. We have a dog. She's a cute little shitter. Here she is, posing reluctantly for a picture:

Also, my dad gave me back one of my artworks from high school because who knows, he's clearing out his already empty apartment in preparation for, again, who knows, but he does that sometimes. So, I hung it up in our new home, quite prominently. It's in glass, so a non-reflective picture is hopeless. Here it is anyway:

That's it for now. Tune in some time later for some more things.

And so it goes.

2011-05-26T10:06:00.000-05:00

I have successfully maintained very few things in my life. Blogs are never them. I always get lazy, slip up, fall off the blog wagon. I have little time in the day lately. I have just enough time to work, eat, spend time with my wife, and think up excuses not to write or draw or do anything creative. Days off involve more of the last bit. The excuses. And a lot of Netflix documentaries. Did you know that Thomas Jefferson helped introduce the tomato plant to America?

In the first three weeks of having this blog, I posted 50 entries. In the past month, maybe five or six. It happens. I will do some drawing today, if I get in the mood. I will try to post more. See if anyone starts reading again.

Here's an old picture, redone.

The staidest generation

2011-05-26T09:13:00.001-05:00

New iphone camera app. It's pretty sweet. Just a bunch of filters, but nice ones, to add to photos. It's called photosuite. I'll posts some previous doodles that I ran through the app.

More importantly, I have been totally obsessed with High Noon. Non-iphone-users, well, go eat your own vaginas. But if you do have an iphone (or comprable device, I don't know if it crosses platforms), get this game! It's a simple multiplayer old west duel. Here's the hook. You are dueling with real people, in real time, and your digital bullets are traveling through space! Isn't that just incredible? Fucking space! Instant!

Words with Friends has a couple second delay for some reason. But, be honest, you usually only play that game sitting across the dinner table with your spouse/friend. You are your grandparents; you just haven't invested in a real scrabble board. Likely, you haven't invested in the IRA that they use to fund their trips to Gettysburg either. You have no tangible games to play, nor tangible assets to divest. You write blogs about cool new apps. You are at least two generations away from noble, interesting, even respectable people.

Anyway, here are my cool filtered pictures.

Netflix!

2011-05-16T11:26:00.000-05:00

Did you know that The Twilight Zone is the greatest black & white show besides I Love Lucy? It's true. Indisputable. And, yes, it is on Netflix, the greatest invention ever. The reason why Colleen and I won't be paying another cable bill for a good long while, maybe forever. Well, that and bittorrent.

Other shows worth mentioning on Netflix are MST3K, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Stand (miniseries), Dark Shadows, The Tick, every Futurama incarnation imaginable, and my new obsession, Sports Night! It stars Peter Krause before Six Feet Under, and it has Bill Macy! Plus, it was created and written by Aaron Sorkin.

Speaking of Aaron Sorkin, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is also on Netflix. It only ran for a season, and it was crushed by the fact that it had a similar premise to 30 Rock. It stars Matthew Perry in his greatest role since Fools Rush In. It was a tremendous show. It is worth checking out, and it's definitely one of those shows where you will be hooked after the first episode.

I have nothing more to say. I could go on about the glory of Netflix, but I sense this is incredibly boring.

Something needs to be said.

2011-05-03T10:56:00.003-05:00

Male nudity in front of someone new is marked by one universal, superbly dumb-looking behavior. If only we were as aware of ourselves as we tend to think we are at that moment--which tends to bring our bodies into the forefront of our focus in a hyper way, the sensuous equivalent to a cheesy movie camera’s frantic zoom-in-from-a-great-distance move--if only we were truly aware and not just self-conscious, we might behave in a much more suitable way, if at least more flattering.

Let me describe a scene. A man and a woman who have been flirting with the idea of becoming nude in the same room together, for whatever reason, though the reason is usually quite clear, however coyly they have avoided discussing it expressly. It may be less than 24 hours since they have met, or it may be on their wedding night. No matter how close they are socially, the ritual that occurs seems, to me, to be quite common, with few variants. Though, I must state that popular dramatic media such as literature and movies have trodden over this occasion with such banal generalness, and at such a high rate of repetition, that when we think of this moment, we might play a clip from Top Gun in our heads instead of a real memory.

An aside. I am tempted to write an entire essay on this subject (media‘s effect on reality with regard to human interaction), but I am afraid it must have been written already, over and over, with equivalent banal repetition as the subject itself. I am still tempted to clarify my point as briefly as possible. It is a simple and obvious point, so it requires little explanation. Human interaction in real life is, mostly, quite boring and awkward. We say the right things at the right time very infrequently. Most of our time is spent silently with each other. We stutter and fumble. Movies, literature, and other forms of entertainment do not contain these characteristics, unless they are trying at some sort of irony. And so, if entertainment mirrored reality in a precise way, why on earth would we bother with it instead of just going on with our lives? It must dramatize real life to be called entertainment at all. It does have an unintended effect, though, which I feel silly even mentioning. It causes us, as humans in real life, to expect real life to be as exciting as what we see in movies or read in books. I feel silly saying this because I feel silly for behaving this way. But I do. We all do, to some degree. We seek entertainment (in the form of movies and books and so on) in some way to supplement the lack of interesting shit in our lives that we expect because of entertainment. It’s a big, moronic cycle, but so sadly true.

Let me continue with the scenario. The precise moment when our fantasy comes to a halt is the moment of first nudity. This is a moment when we are brought away from the drama of flirting or dating or behaving like those people in movies, and back to fumbling reality. The ritual. For women, the thought process is similar to men to the extent that both parties are wholly focused on themselves. They have little to no awareness of the other naked person in the room. But I must remove the variants before I continue this discussion.

One main variant to this scenario involves a man who will not allow himself to be seen naked until he is fully ready. The term ‘ready’ here refers to the readiness of his penis. There are such men who will go to great lengths to never allow their partners to see their flaccid penises, even in long-term relationships. This appears to be more common than I had realized before discussing this subject with others (women, specifically). How this sort of secrecy can be maintained over the course of years baffles me, and the psychological implications are just too shallow and base to warrant discussion here. The female equivalent to this behavior would be the lights-off-during-sex type of woman. Another variant, though much less common, I am sure, involves men whose penises are about the same size when flaccid and erect. There is a colloquial term for this, usually expressed inversely as an excuse for men who insist their penises change form and size quite a bit from one state to the other. We all know the saying, and I frankly don’t care to type it out here, but I will remind you that it rhymes, in case we are on different pages.

With those exceptions removed, I must now discuss the difference between men and women, for interests of clarity and fairness. Women, in the moment of first nudity, can and generally do experience the same anxiety and self-consciousness as men. This is obvious and, in our society, well-established: women are expected to be insecure about their bodies. Men are expected to be less aware. And, to the point, men can be very unaware of their entire bodies at this moment of nudity. They tend to me more focused on a single body part. And finally, the argument I have been trying to get to, through all of this digression and rambling, is that men have a distinct, hilarious reaction to their self-consciousness at this very moment, which is quite different to women. Women, as a reaction to the feeling of self-consciousness and acute awareness of their bodies, tend to do their best to appear attractive. This might have been practiced in early puberty, and onward, in front of a mirror.

The woman in the moment of first nudity will try to strike what she has determined to be an attractive pose. Whether it involves arching the back, or making sure never to bend forward, for fear of allowing the belly to show any miniscule sign of a roll of fat (no matter how skinny she is, mind you), she will find some position that she has determined flattering. If only she knew that the man in the room with her has close to zero percent of his attention placed on her. He may be looking right at her, even speaking to her about her appearance, but let me assure you that he has only the smallest bit of his awareness focused on her, if any at all.

The man, in this instance, feels all of that self-consciousness and hyper-awareness that is usually reserved for the fragile woman and not the strong, dumb, loping man, but which occurs in all of us, at I assume a similar frequency across the sexes, with the only difference being the way we react to this feeling. And this is my point. This is, finally, where I get to discuss a very bizarre behavior exhibited by men in reaction to this universal feeling of self-consciousness. Instead of trying to strike an attractive pose or act naturally and confident, men tend to swat at their penises.

Yes.

Swat may be too violent of a verb. Call it juggling or bobbling or batting. The point is that the man immediately and quite frantically touches his flaccid penis in an attempt to grow it. This must be, I am sure, some sort of subconscious reflex. If the man knew what he looked like when batting at his penis, if he was even slightly aware of his appearance and how bizarre it looks, he might decide that the softness of his penis is a much lesser worry. The fact that he is juggling his genitalia like so many baboons at the zoo is much more embarrassing than the natural state of said battered genitalia.

This behavior baffles me. As a result of our alertness of our bodies as something to be seen and evaluated, we choose the most unflattering action possible. Truly, like a monkey. And the whole tableaux is more than just a little funny. The woman is arching quite uncomfortably and artificially on one side of the room, wondering what the man thinks about each self-perceived imperfection on her body. The man, on the other side of the room, is frantically bobbling his junk (or variably tugging on it like taffy), completely unaware of anything but the thoughts in his head, which usually include the paradox of trying to will his penis to a larger state while knowing all the while that the more he thinks about it, the more difficult it will be to achieve erection (note that I chose the word ‘difficult’ instead of ‘hard’ to avoid confusion). There could be a home invader in between the two, or a giant, ferocious grizzly, or zombie Hitler, and neither the man nor the woman would have a clue.

Pointing out the ludicrousness of this scenario would be redundant, but it’s still fun. This is a moment where connection tends to jump to a whole new level. Sex bonds people in a rapid way, whether they just met or are long-time friends. But at this moment just before the bond occurs, there is absolutely zero connection, except for the rare occasion where both people become simultaneously aware of how self-conscious they both are, and a moment of eye-contact and psychic connection causes instant laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole thing, which (the laughter) can create an even more powerful bond than the sex to follow, because it is a moment of unspoken but real honesty.

And, much like the sex to follow, this essay ends abruptly, with little satisfaction to likely be derived.

Osama Bin Laden

2011-05-01T23:07:00.000-05:00

Now that Osama Bin Laden is dead, I am preparing myself to find out who at work is going to make an overtly racist comment to me. This is one fringe benefit of Bin Laden's death. Easy discovery of racism.

Words on the back of sweatpants that didn't sell

2011-04-22T16:44:00.003-05:00

SOGGY
STINKY
DROOPY
POOPY
LEAKY
FARTY
DIMPLY
PIMPLY
NAZI
COCKY
HERPY
CHUNKY
DUMPY
FRUMPY
LUMPY
FAT

Process post: face

2011-04-22T13:28:00.000-05:00

I decided to take a few pictures while I draw my face. I intended to take a bunch, but I ended up getting too involved in the drawing. So, here are a few pictures. The first is just outlines of features. I always start with eyes, work down to the mouth, then decide what facial outline would fit those features.

The next picture is just facial detail. If I took more pictures, you would see that I start by adding detail to the eyes and nose, then the rest. I add facial hair after the face is shaded. It's usually an afterthought, and sometimes not included.

I save the hair for the end because it's a pain in the ass. The hair is what causes me to replace my pens so often.

The eyes I usually leave blank, but for the sake of having another photo to post, I added them. Better with or without eyes? Tough call.

I Love Lucy

2011-04-22T11:13:00.002-05:00

Here I am, curled in a ball. Snot is in various places on my body and the bed. She is rubbing my back between my shoulder blades. She is saying "it's okay." My legs are jerking. One has a quick, stilted shudder. The other swirls, as if riding an invisible bike. I haven't thought about this in years. I feel like I am going to vomit.

He was my mother's boyfriend. His name was Bob. He taught me how to draw and introduced me to the Three Stooges. He once made my mom really angry, I remember, when he brought home a carton of mushrooms, of which my mom is allergic. He said, "You don't have to eat them." She didn't want them in her house, and she was very particular about this. They screamed at each other about this in the kitchen while I sat at the table. The big mushroom fight. Looking back, I wonder what they were fighting about.

She says, "Don't worry baby. I'm in my pajamas, so it's okay if you throw up."

I remember other things. Not many. I remember that my dog ran away. I remember a yellow upholstered stool that I used to climb onto so that I could achieve a higher vantage when the grown-ups were in the kitchen. I remember the royal blue shag carpet in my bedroom. I remember hiding in my toy chest. I would crouch down and stay there until someone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I remember hiding in that toy chest for very long periods of time and eventually crawling out by myself. I would run into the living room, where my mom and Bob would be on the couch, and I would shout, "Here I am!" I don't say this to sound like I was a victim of neglect. I don't know why I say this. It's just a memory. One of a few from that age.

I am on the bed, in a ball, and I keep saying that I'm sorry. I don't know why. Neither does she. I just keep saying it. I flinch when she touches my shoulders. "It's okay," she says. I flinch.

I have one funny story from back then. I was five, or maybe four. I only remember bits of it, and it's one of those you-had-to-be-there stories, so you might not find it very funny at all. My mom was at work, and my brother must have been at school. I suppose I was too young for school yet, so I was probably four. I was sitting on Bob's lap and we were watching black and white TV. I remember that image, anyway. Sitting on his lap, black and white TV. I don't remember the whole setup. I remember that his face was always stubbly. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my cheek. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my neck. I remember that his hand was almost the size of my entire back. His breath was warm and stale and smoky. I remember trying to bury my body, head first, as deep into the couch as possible. I remember trying to sink and disappear between the couch cushions. His monster hand rubbed my back, and his breath was warm and stale and smoky. "It's okay," he said. The punchline. "It's okay."

I am sobbing on the bed. I am in my mid-twenties and I feel like I am five, maybe four. There is a distinct feeling of childhood. It can't be described. I am telling her to stop rubbing my back, but it is such a natural reflex when trying to comfort. She holds me tight, trying to stop the shaking. I am repeating my apologies. She says it's okay. I mostly believe her.

When I was seventeen, my mom confessed that Bob sold the dog. It never did run away. I like cats anyway.

Beastie Boys: Fight for your Right Revisited (in three parts)

2011-04-21T11:45:00.000-05:00

An Open Letter to Nicolas Cage

2011-04-17T15:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Nicolas Cage,

Do you remember young Nic Cage, Nic Cage? Remember that movie where you thought you were a vampire? That was awesome. Remember 90s Nic Cage? Remember your where-the-fuck-are-you-from accent that dipped in and out in Con-Air? Remember friggin Face-Off? The Rock? Do you remember when your hairline stayed in the same spot on your head? Remember pre-weave Nic Cage?

Do you remember when you didn't make terrible movie after terrible movie to get out of debt? Do you remember that, Nicolas Cage? Do you remember when you didn't beat your wife, get arrested, and get bailed out by Dog the Bounty Hunter? I remember that Nic Cage.

The you I remember was H.I. McDunnough, baby-thief. You had a receding hairline. In the 80s. Your hair wasn't jet-black. Your face wasn't freakishly pulled back. You won a fucking Academy Award! I even liked your marble-mouthed, sad-sack performance in City of Angels. I liked that move, Nicolas. I liked you!

And I trusted you, God damn it! I saw Lord of War in the theater!

Now, I just don't know what to do with you. I miss you. I miss the days where I could call you ugly because of your dumb cow eyes, not your wigs and plastic surgery disasters. I miss your stoic performances sprinkled with bouts of batshit flailing. I miss Castor fucking Troy! Where the hell did he go?

What happened, Nicolas Cage? Where did things go wrong? You were such a good actor in a couple of your movies. You picked decent scripts. You worked with Martin Scorsese. You certainly did not star in 3-D knockoffs of shitty movies you made ten years ago. And you didn't beat your wife. You used to go to jail for defending your wife's honor. Remember? Yeah, that was in the movie Con-Air, not your real life, but I had no idea what was going on in your real life back then. This is probably because you weren't fucking insane back then.

Maybe you were, I don't know. But if you were insane even back then, in the 90s, I had no idea. You know why? Because all I paid attention to was your movies, which were good enough to overshadow your possible insanity. Now, I have the choice between watching Bankok Dangerous or watching your face melt like a nazi at the opening of the Ark of the Covenant.

Thanks, Nic Cage. You are such an asshole.

Sincerely,

Kevin Lester

P.S. You suck.

Scientific Observation

2011-04-15T14:48:00.000-05:00

Failed Cosmetic Procedures

2011-04-15T14:29:00.000-05:00

Some old new thing.

2011-04-13T11:53:00.000-05:00

Here is another drawing of my face. This time, it has a neck. I will be working all evening, and you will have the pleasure of looking at a picture of my face in the meanwhile. You're welcome.

On my face.

2011-04-12T15:59:00.001-05:00

I am off my game today with regard to drawing famous people. As usual, when I am having trouble with whatever it is I want to work on, I take a break and draw self-portraits. I don't know precisely why always do this, but I do. When I try to write and the words come out clunkily or not at all, I take a break and draw a picture ofmy face. Same with drawing and painting.

I used to just draw pictures of my face exclusively. It was at a time when I lacked any confidence, I realize as I now reflect. I wasn't brave enough to try things outside of my comfort zone. All shit stems from some fear of failure. It used to keep me wrapped in a ball, constantly anxious, muscles sore from nervous shaking. And somewhere in that ball I had a pen and some paper, and I compulsively scribbled pictures of my face, most of them ugly and distorted.

Nowadays, I suppose I use the self-portrait as some bizarre form of therapy. It's similar to masturbation releiving sexual frustration. A quick jerky sketch relieves the artistic flow that occasionally gets blocked.

So, here is today's ugly, distorted picture of my face:

Haley Joel Osment

2011-04-12T13:30:00.000-05:00

The first in my series of celebrities who look like Matt Rowan is Haley Joel Osment. It's hard to draw soft faces with ink. The gentle curves of Mr. Osment's cheeks and nose beg for the soft touch of a pencil. I have the exact same issue when trying to draw women. Ink does not work, especially not with my hand. I need more rugged faces with which to work.

The Des Plaines Theatre

2011-04-11T10:50:00.000-05:00

I have not updated in a while. I am more busy lately, having a job and all, so the time I spend considering writing in this blog lasts just the moment it takes to say to myself, "I should post something." Today is a day off, so I have some time.
Last night, I was reminded of the benefit of actually having friends. I don't have many friends. What I do have is a charming, witty, affable wife. Consequently, I get the opportunity to hang out with her friends. Yesterday, a few of them went to see her play, and we had dinner after. Fortunately, one of the dinner guests was the infamous Brian Wolf.

For those who don't know, Brian Wolf is a fellow WMTH alumnus and a super-awesome historian. A great fringe benefit of being Brian Wolf's friend is that he has keys to the Des Plaines Theatre. If you grew up in Des Plaines, you remember the shit pile that was the Des Plaines Theatre. Very few people know the tremendous history and beauty that has been buried under black curtains, ugly carpeting, and bollywood movies.

Now, the theatre is undergoing some incredible restoration. The two screening rooms were opened back up to one, and the old stage that was used for vaudeville was revealed anew. Right now, in the middle of its restoration, the Des Plaines Theatre looks beautiful. I cannot wait until it opens up. I hope they put on live shows and stuff.

Anyway, last night, we walked around, went into the old projection rooms, and went on the roof. I took pictures.

Inverted Ziggy Stardust

2011-03-28T17:03:00.001-05:00

In lieu of producing new work, I played around on photoshop today. You may notice the jarring nature of the background on this here blog. Here's an inverted and color-altered version of the Ziggy stencils I did a couple weeks ago. See earlier posts for originals.

Rick Moranis

2011-03-28T15:02:00.000-05:00

Last night, Colleen and I watched the musical classic, Little Shop of Horrors. The 80s version. It left me thinking, why did Rick Moranis not have an immense career? He was/is so talented, although I imagine he's all old and fat now, so the boyish charm he had in the 80s has likely faded. Then again, Bill Murray has yet to lose his charm, no matter how old and fat he gets.

Speaking of Bill Murray, Colleen suggested that Bill Murray's best comedic performance may have been the single scene he had in Little Shop of Horrors. It is an amazing scene. Hard to argue. Steve Martin, however, steals the whole movie. He is incredible. If you haven't seen the movie, check it out if only for Steve Martin as a would-be serial killer who became a dentist to satisfy his sadistic tendencies.

I do love Rick Moranis, though. That is the point. He shrank [sic] the kids, he was the keymaster, and he was Lord Dark Helmet. I am hoping for a Rick Moranathon. We'll see if my giving, selfless, generous, amazing wife will agree. I know she will. She loves me.

Here's Rick Moranis, sketched in pen.

Charcoal with glasses and mustache.

2011-03-24T20:05:00.002-05:00

Charcoal and grammar.

2011-03-24T19:32:00.000-05:00

Got my charcoal from my dad's house, so i decided I'd give it a whirl tonight. I haven't worked with charcoal in very very long, so I started with a plain old self-portrait. Stay tuned for more, maybe.

An aside. Dear place where I work, there is a difference between acronyms and initialisms. Please learn the difference and stop calling plain old initialisms acronyms. The rule is simple. If you pronounce it as a word (SCUBA or FUBAR), it is an acronym. If it's just a bunch of letters to initialize a phrase (FTD, DTF), then it is a simple initialism. Seriously, I don't want to have to correct my bosses about this, but I may be forced to, lest I explode.

Haz Basement Cat Finally Found Love? (Page 1)

2011-03-23T20:18:00.003-05:00

Excerpt from Henry’s semi-private blog, “Strike Force 4: The Rise and Fall of Basement Cat: A Lonely, Unwitnessed Exploration, or How to Whine to Friends under the Influence, People.”

4 Aug. 2010, 01:33 A.M.

wondedays imma get me a girlfriend. wondedays imma own that bank, then we’ll see who’s loanin what to whom, fucker. my aunt was just diagnosed with stage four wondedays. when are you going to finally toss out that old piece of trash and get you a wondedays? it looks like i picked the wrong day to start huffing wondedays. are you going to wondedays this year? i hear they’re doing face painting! hey, i’m just talkin bout wondedays. he’s a bad mother-won-de-days.

it’s a great word. i’m trying to get it to meme or turn it into a meme or something. i’m not really sure what meme means. like signifying. someone give me a concise, meaningful definition of the word “signifying” and i will give you a million wondedays.

anyway, wondedays. it’s my new word. it’s like “one of these days.” but it can mean absolutely anything. it’s versatile, much like me, sexually. top, bottom, wondedays, whatever.

no, i’m not gay, but i have dabbled in wondedays. once or twice. hey, it was college. who hasn’t succumbed to wondedays at least once in his life? let he without wondedays throw the first wondedays. so yeah. wondedays. pass it on. it’s going to be big.

Henry has a few blogs. This one is read by subscribers only, so four people: his older brother, two friends from his lolcatz forum, and one stranger with a female name, Jules, but the picture of a black man as an avatar.

This blog is used primarily for random thoughts and occasional hyper-personal revelations, which means he writes in it when he is drunk and lonely at night. His main blog is "Sanctuaris Felidae": a public blog where he maintains a steady stream of homemade lolcatz pictures, using his three cats. He also features particularly poignant or hilarious pictures from bigger lolcatz sites, or whatever he finds and likes on forums.

The last blog is a secret blog. He writes posts on occasion, but every entry is set to private. There are no subscribers. It's like a real diary, but he can make it public any time, which he has vague intentions of doing at some point, maybe, but who knows.

The "wondedays" entry is of particular interest tonight (August 6th, 2010) because Henry just noticed a comment. It was from Jules, the black guy. "Wondedays, you'll realize how much I love you."

It's a girl. It's Samuel L. Jackson in the picture. It must be a girl named Jules. Henry reads the comment, and the voice that plays in his head is soft and sultry. Something warm, some voice from a bygone age, is in that voice he imagines. He pictures a curly bob haircut and heavy eye makeup. He doesn't know why.

Please let it be a girl, he thinks. Who do I know named Jules, he thinks.

Libya Fist Pump

2011-03-22T21:09:00.001-05:00

This is my wife's and my intro into posting videos on youtube. Hopefully, it will be the last.

The genesis of this video involves me hearing this absolutely terrible song on the Howard Stern show and playing it for Colleen. It is the sort of song that will never ever ever leave your head once you hear it. You will catch yourself in front of the microwave, days later, and it will be whirling in your head "I do my fist pump pump pump pump pump pump," and you will hate yourself.

So, a few nights ago, while watching CNN, Colleen pointed out that the Libyan protestors were fist pumping, and we considered what hilarity might occur with this awful song playing in the background. Only after it was made did we consider whether it might be offensive. We're still not sure.

Comics

2011-03-22T10:38:00.000-05:00

You know you have no life if your main goal of the day is to get retweeted by Michael Ian Black.

In other news, I have nothing new to show. I did find some old comic strips that I made, though. They were stored in a box with art supplies so they are wrinkled and filthy, but here they are: