Very cool:

Five links down on this page, behold the many accolades for a co-workers' project here chosen by How Design!

A cryptic speech from me:
"Yallun's go'headd an' rock it like a fin muhfuh wifout yer crackberries, aiighmain: listen all that, speakin in cooode: BECRE8IV. maki maki. Hollah. YEUUHH."

Don't ask, I have no idea. But it's from the heart.

Which reminds me -- please peruse the super-dandy, spit-polished, hand-tossed, thin-and-crispy brand new ihatemike.com. I can't speak the jive without thinking about D.J. Jazzy Mike, now can I? You guys, if you want some work from him, you best get in line and bring a book. He's in demand.




Anyway....

Herro again.

Ok, so what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by "Life and The Evil Virii Produced by Terrible Nerds" was...oh, see that is so typical. Now I can't remember. Gone. And nothing on my pda about it. So typical. And just this useless note of scribble that I left myself as a reminder...







Wait, maybe if I walk in the next room, I will remember what it was I was saying...

Nope. No luck. However, in that next room (pause) there is candy. Tiny, evil candy. Ok. Calm. I won't walk in that room again until January, I think. Because here comes the Double-O-Cee* holiday onslaught. I vow not to badmouth the holiday season though. Not yet anyway.

So, I went to a great Halloween party last night. It's always alarming to me that I can walk into my closet and make a perfectly acceptable costume in less that 7 minutes, but I can stand in that same closet every morning for 32 minutes and just stare blankly at the lack of professional options, and end up wearing "something black, something denim" yet again. Very scary, indeed.

Therefore, I've finally decided that I should either make the proverbial effort and care more, or just go ahead and dress like one of the Go-Go's for the next 10 years and be done with it.**

So. I ended up with a short pleated skirt (black) with a punk silkscreened tank (black) with fishnets (yes, black) that I ripped up and topped off with my camo fake-combat boots (yes with black and more delicate than they sound, no really). Finish it off with a cat-ear headband, rhinestoned (YES! of course black, implied from now on) collar with a bell, and crushed velvet gloves.

Then I colored one eye blue in a cat-eye fashion and colored the other a maroon-and-green variety like I got popped in the eye good for smarting off to some fellow anarchist, I suppose. Or maybe it was the establishment. Who knows. I tried to apply some fake eyelashes (why of course we all have those lying around), but that was just ridiculously hard so nevermind. Finishing touch was red hairpaint (don't ask) applied to the four fingertips and scratched at random on the neck and arms. Oh and then I added a little splatter of blood from one nostril (imagining the fight started with the bloody nose then to black eye) with a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth (I might choose to bite, you never know). This costume I deemed as The Cat Fight.

Ron pointed out that I also looked like a brunette Courtney Love on a good day. Instead of over-thinking it, I took it as a compliment and I decided on another name that I could deem the costume: Kitney Love.

I guess the costume was somewhat effective. I had a quick yet eternal conversation with a girl there that, if I could boil down my life and keep the good bones, all taken out of context, this would be one of my favorites:

"You were in a Subteens' video, right? A zombie, right?"
"Yeah. The one eating a foot."
"Yeah! I thought that was you!"

See, in a perfect world, that's really all anybody should want out of life: For someone to recognize them as a zombie who chewed on a rubber foot covered with Hershey's chocolate syrup. No, really. I mean it. It's certainly good enough for me.

Which only reminds me of, like, 1.2 billion things I was going to tell you, but I gotta huge laundry monster on the bathroom floor that I gotta kill.







*Double-O-Cee = OOC = Out Of Control. Cee? Si.

**Actually, I really decided to just flake out instead and go with my current wardrobe choice for the rest of my life until they plant my body in the cold, hard ground like a black-and-denim seed. Why? Less effort, more retirement funds. Yes, I'm motivated and therefore accessorized by fear. I'm afraid I'll live longer than financially anticipated and ironically enough be forced to exits on an All-Catfood Diet. Unless of course it's sushi. Then nevermind. In fact, just stop reading this sentence -- are you still reading this sentence? Stop that! Go chew on a rubber foot -- it's liberating and more inspirational and recommended by 9 out of 10 dentists. Go fly, my children, be free!