CAPTAIN CRANKPAWS.
Your wish is my command!
All right, so I was going to post pictures of the pirate hat anyway, but all the same.
It was a most daunting task.
Er. My arm is down her throat somewhere.
And then she proceeded to jump into her "fort" where she launched a brute-force attack on the strings to the hat, and a few fingers that happened to be in the way.
Again I tried to catch her off guard.
But quickly had to retreat.
Frustrated, I decided to show Alpo how it SHOULD be done. Perhaps she would learn from my authoritative example!
"SEE, DAMN CAT?" [Notice the curtains in the background. Cat work.]
After which, Alpo showed me precisely what I could do with my pirate hat:
Huffy and unwilling to accept defeat, I phoned my mother over for reinforcement. She held the camera, and I did the dirty work.
FAMILY PO-TRAIT, MUWAHAHHAHAHA.
Well. It was the best shot we could manage before Alpo choked a bitch.
Phew.
Man.
Rough times.
I had a dream about Neil Gaiman last night/early this morning.
I mean, it wasn't about him, per se, but he was certainly a part of it. (Which I blame, in part, on pigsnicket's recent experience, and Neil's journal.)
It was a cold, Fallish day. Either really early, or really late, whenever the sky is greyish and the sun is on vacation.
Mom came to the apartment to tell me "your favorite writer in the world has just been announced as on his way to sign books at LSU!"
First I ignored her and went about doing whatever mundane thing I was doing. My sleeping self wanted to wench-slap my dream self. Then the words sank in. I tweaked and put some clothes on (didn't know I wasn't wearing any), and tried to find a book I wanted him to sign.
(I have, of course, never been to a signing. It is a sketchy topic for me in reality, because I'm not sure I even really want to go to a Neil Gaiman signing. I have reasons. Something about the Teller Of My Favorite Stories being too accessible, or too not accessible. Best if I don't meet him, even for five seconds, because his work is too important to me. I'm weird. But obviously if Neil came to LSU, wild horses on crack wouldn't stop me.)
The obvious choice would have been Anansi Boys. But I started feeling bad, because I still haven't read it. (Still trying to catch up on House of Leaves.) It didn't seem right to have Neil sign something I know almost nothing about.
So, I grabbed Good Omens, as it was the biggest, most orange-y book on the shelf. Then I remembered reading he is not terribly fond of people bringing that one in to sign. I put it back. Time was running out, so I grabbed The Last Temptation (the one Neil did with Alice Cooper, which Sara gave me for one birthday ages ago).
The place where he was signing was so odd. And definitely not LSU.
It was the roof of a building I've never seen, or heard of, that did not look particularly stable. Red bricks were crumbling along the roof's edge. But defying all reason, there was a bookstore up there, and Neil was sitting at a desk just outside of it, near a crumbling edge.
Heights don't scare me.
But, of course, my favorite living author in the world was very near to experiencing the full effect of our current height. His chair suddenly seemed quite unsteady to my paranoid eyes, and my mounting care for his present well-being made the whole thing seem terribly ....bad. Something was quite wrong.
I began having doubts about this entire experience when I approached the line of fans. There were only about 10 of us waiting. This would seem like a miracle, but it scared me. I even bitched out loud about there being only 10 people coming to show respect and admiration of Neil Gaiman. One of them told me something about some other writer somewhere, but I have no idea what it was. Apparently there was something else going on taking away from the Neil Experience.
I kept looking around at all the other rooftops (I dreamt about rooftops because last weekend I took pictures of skyscrapers). I was getting sick over some unknown, but highly anticipated fear.
I looked at Neil. He was steady signing copies of Anansi Boys, hardly able to look up. And he was alone. No agents or managers or security around. Just him, at his desk on the roof, and us. My stomach churned, and I looked all around again, and I started seeing things.
Just, things.
Random blurry blobs, like you might fashion on photoshop, in the sky. A cloud getting fuzzy for no reason here, a chunk of blue randomly going dark blue. The other roofs began... shifting. I saw a few birds swoop down and disappear behind what seemed to be an invisible wall.
The whole fucking day was turning into a further warped version of the MirrorMask previews I've seen.
"Hello?" a very British, and very tired voice said. It was just me and Neil now. I brought the book, which changed covers somehow, and put it down on his desk. I kept looking around, like an insane person, and seeing more things.
Neil was just watching me. He had absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. I couldn't tell if he thought I was cracked out, or if he was amused, or knew something I didn't. He just looked at me.
"Would you like me to sign this?" he said, nudging the book which I still had my iron-grip hand half-on the desk.
I looked at him, and behind him, and saw more THINGS.
"What the hell is that?" I said, motioning to a rooftop across from us, over which a large black object with wings dove.
He looked where I was pointing, and looked back at me. Same lack of expression.
"I don't see anything," he said.
I was really starting to worry. I could also smell leather, which I think in the dream was coming from his shiny black jacket. (In reality, I know it was my Shakespeare bookmark that was resting near my face when I passed out.)
It was really windy up there, and Neil's hair was living its own wild life up there on his head. I repressed a giggle which would have been edged with hysteria, had I the courage to let it loose.
I took my book back and told Neil Gaiman that, no, I would not like him to sign this book.
He folded his hands together on top of the desk (which looked like it was deteriorating in action), his jacket squeaking, and nodded. Then he smiled. A very tiny, barely-there smile.
I turned around and fled, running. Shrieking piercing stabbing BELL noises followed me.
Then Alpo jumped on my face because I was taking too long to turn off the shrieking alarm clock, which was hurting her ears.
I had to wake up at 4am to bring my mom to the airport this morning, then go to work for 7am for eight hours, where I am now. And everything that can possibly be due for classes, is due tomorrow.
Anyone have some super-glue? I need to attach my eyelids to my eyebrows. And also: cry.
All right, so I was going to post pictures of the pirate hat anyway, but all the same.
It was a most daunting task.
Er. My arm is down her throat somewhere.
And then she proceeded to jump into her "fort" where she launched a brute-force attack on the strings to the hat, and a few fingers that happened to be in the way.
Again I tried to catch her off guard.
But quickly had to retreat.
Frustrated, I decided to show Alpo how it SHOULD be done. Perhaps she would learn from my authoritative example!
"SEE, DAMN CAT?" [Notice the curtains in the background. Cat work.]
After which, Alpo showed me precisely what I could do with my pirate hat:
Huffy and unwilling to accept defeat, I phoned my mother over for reinforcement. She held the camera, and I did the dirty work.
FAMILY PO-TRAIT, MUWAHAHHAHAHA.
Well. It was the best shot we could manage before Alpo choked a bitch.
Phew.
Man.
Rough times.
I had a dream about Neil Gaiman last night/early this morning.
I mean, it wasn't about him, per se, but he was certainly a part of it. (Which I blame, in part, on pigsnicket's recent experience, and Neil's journal.)
It was a cold, Fallish day. Either really early, or really late, whenever the sky is greyish and the sun is on vacation.
Mom came to the apartment to tell me "your favorite writer in the world has just been announced as on his way to sign books at LSU!"
First I ignored her and went about doing whatever mundane thing I was doing. My sleeping self wanted to wench-slap my dream self. Then the words sank in. I tweaked and put some clothes on (didn't know I wasn't wearing any), and tried to find a book I wanted him to sign.
(I have, of course, never been to a signing. It is a sketchy topic for me in reality, because I'm not sure I even really want to go to a Neil Gaiman signing. I have reasons. Something about the Teller Of My Favorite Stories being too accessible, or too not accessible. Best if I don't meet him, even for five seconds, because his work is too important to me. I'm weird. But obviously if Neil came to LSU, wild horses on crack wouldn't stop me.)
The obvious choice would have been Anansi Boys. But I started feeling bad, because I still haven't read it. (Still trying to catch up on House of Leaves.) It didn't seem right to have Neil sign something I know almost nothing about.
So, I grabbed Good Omens, as it was the biggest, most orange-y book on the shelf. Then I remembered reading he is not terribly fond of people bringing that one in to sign. I put it back. Time was running out, so I grabbed The Last Temptation (the one Neil did with Alice Cooper, which Sara gave me for one birthday ages ago).
The place where he was signing was so odd. And definitely not LSU.
It was the roof of a building I've never seen, or heard of, that did not look particularly stable. Red bricks were crumbling along the roof's edge. But defying all reason, there was a bookstore up there, and Neil was sitting at a desk just outside of it, near a crumbling edge.
Heights don't scare me.
But, of course, my favorite living author in the world was very near to experiencing the full effect of our current height. His chair suddenly seemed quite unsteady to my paranoid eyes, and my mounting care for his present well-being made the whole thing seem terribly ....bad. Something was quite wrong.
I began having doubts about this entire experience when I approached the line of fans. There were only about 10 of us waiting. This would seem like a miracle, but it scared me. I even bitched out loud about there being only 10 people coming to show respect and admiration of Neil Gaiman. One of them told me something about some other writer somewhere, but I have no idea what it was. Apparently there was something else going on taking away from the Neil Experience.
I kept looking around at all the other rooftops (I dreamt about rooftops because last weekend I took pictures of skyscrapers). I was getting sick over some unknown, but highly anticipated fear.
I looked at Neil. He was steady signing copies of Anansi Boys, hardly able to look up. And he was alone. No agents or managers or security around. Just him, at his desk on the roof, and us. My stomach churned, and I looked all around again, and I started seeing things.
Just, things.
Random blurry blobs, like you might fashion on photoshop, in the sky. A cloud getting fuzzy for no reason here, a chunk of blue randomly going dark blue. The other roofs began... shifting. I saw a few birds swoop down and disappear behind what seemed to be an invisible wall.
The whole fucking day was turning into a further warped version of the MirrorMask previews I've seen.
"Hello?" a very British, and very tired voice said. It was just me and Neil now. I brought the book, which changed covers somehow, and put it down on his desk. I kept looking around, like an insane person, and seeing more things.
Neil was just watching me. He had absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. I couldn't tell if he thought I was cracked out, or if he was amused, or knew something I didn't. He just looked at me.
"Would you like me to sign this?" he said, nudging the book which I still had my iron-grip hand half-on the desk.
I looked at him, and behind him, and saw more THINGS.
"What the hell is that?" I said, motioning to a rooftop across from us, over which a large black object with wings dove.
He looked where I was pointing, and looked back at me. Same lack of expression.
"I don't see anything," he said.
I was really starting to worry. I could also smell leather, which I think in the dream was coming from his shiny black jacket. (In reality, I know it was my Shakespeare bookmark that was resting near my face when I passed out.)
It was really windy up there, and Neil's hair was living its own wild life up there on his head. I repressed a giggle which would have been edged with hysteria, had I the courage to let it loose.
I took my book back and told Neil Gaiman that, no, I would not like him to sign this book.
He folded his hands together on top of the desk (which looked like it was deteriorating in action), his jacket squeaking, and nodded. Then he smiled. A very tiny, barely-there smile.
I turned around and fled, running. Shrieking piercing stabbing BELL noises followed me.
Then Alpo jumped on my face because I was taking too long to turn off the shrieking alarm clock, which was hurting her ears.
I had to wake up at 4am to bring my mom to the airport this morning, then go to work for 7am for eight hours, where I am now. And everything that can possibly be due for classes, is due tomorrow.
Anyone have some super-glue? I need to attach my eyelids to my eyebrows. And also: cry.