Saturday, April 22, 2006

What you're missing

It's a beautiful day in Seattle. So I decided to trot over to the park (the entrance to which is two blocks from my house) to take some pictures.




And here's one of the ravine behind my house, for good measure (taken from my balcony):



I hope it's beautiful where you are too.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Art learns a skill
Two photos of my apartment

OK, finally, a couple of pictures of my condo.

My dining room/living room, and a picture of my chaise (I'm working on getting the right picture to go above it).


Tuesday, April 04, 2006

At first I was afraid, I was petrified...

yeah, hi. Several of my family members have requested that I post a health update. This, naturally, makes no sense to me since no member of the public at large gives a good God damn about whether or not I'm still dying from a cold. (People who do care have already written to inquire after the details of the ongoing near-death experience that is my life. My temperature almost reached 100, people!!!)

Well, you will be happy to know that I am inching my way towards healthy. Or, if not healthy exactly, then less ill. Yes, I will soon be less ill. In other words, I will survive.

Let me go ahead and tell you what is NOT going to survive, however. What is NOT going to survive is the week-old mangy-ass rat pelt that is growing on my face. It sure as hell ain't a beard. I can't grow a damn beard. (I can grow a couple of whiskers here, a couple there, and that's it.)

"Why the bad mood, art?" you may be asking yourself. If you had a week-old near-beard on your face, you'd be grumpy too. It itches, it hurts, it pokes me. Kleenex gets caught in it (exceptionally lovely during cold and flu season). It sucks. I seriously don't know how my brother can grow one of these things every year for his annual Moustache Bash.

"But why did you ever start growing a beard in the first place, art?" Well, let me tell you. There's this girl at work, one of my closer friends, and she is in need of a touch-up for her highlights. So somehow, she negotiated with me (ME, a very sick person, clearly out of his mind, which if you ask me VOIDS the agreement) to grow a beard until the day she gets highlights. (That day being this Thursday. Or tomorrow, if I bring a bucket of peroxide into work and dump it on her head.) So here I sit, mind, body and hair follicles exhausted from the effort of becoming hirsute.

I look like a damn maniac. How much do you want to bet that the bus speeds by me tomorrow morning, too afraid of the consequences of letting me board? (Don't bet much, they let Raymond on and I'm pretty sure he had a jimmy beard too.)

One last thing: how in the WORLD is it possible that some of my whiskers grow in CLEAR? Not white, not blond, CLEAR. Like fishing line.

So as you can see from the above rant, I am doing much better.