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Jan. 23rd, 2004 02:03 pmOh, Bob Keeshan, you were the first man I ever loved.
You and Popeye.
You and Popeye.
Jan. 23rd, 2004
(no subject)
Jan. 23rd, 2004 04:13 pmFound out today that Muckrakers, the newsstand under the Douglas Theater, has Megos for astonishingly reasonable prices. Dammit. I haven't seen so many in one place since the death of Kresge's.
My current project is a custom Famous Covers Heckler. I thought the hard part would be doing the little HAs on his shirt. No. Easily done with a flat brush and fabric paint. Then I thought, Oh, it'll be the black dividing lines. No. Quarter-inch ribbon appliqué. But the white 'H' that goes from chest to knees (the crossbar is his belt) is a giant pain in the sphincter.
On the other hand, a year ago I wouldn't even have attempted him. A half-dozen plushies have improved my sewing skills immeasurably.
And at least I'm not a screamer, like my sister. When I was little, the house would ring with her cries of GOD DAMMIT! as she attempted pleated mini-skirts and Jackie Kennedy dresses. Terrifying.
Speaking of swearing, I don't know if I've mentioned that Mom talks in her sleep. Using words that, as a rule, she doesn't employ during daylight hours. Her sleep rhythms are such that she often does it just as I'm drifting off to sleep, and I will be jolted awake by cries of SON OF A BITCH! or YOU BASTARD! from the other room. She's either dreaming about Dad or President Bush.
My current project is a custom Famous Covers Heckler. I thought the hard part would be doing the little HAs on his shirt. No. Easily done with a flat brush and fabric paint. Then I thought, Oh, it'll be the black dividing lines. No. Quarter-inch ribbon appliqué. But the white 'H' that goes from chest to knees (the crossbar is his belt) is a giant pain in the sphincter.
On the other hand, a year ago I wouldn't even have attempted him. A half-dozen plushies have improved my sewing skills immeasurably.
And at least I'm not a screamer, like my sister. When I was little, the house would ring with her cries of GOD DAMMIT! as she attempted pleated mini-skirts and Jackie Kennedy dresses. Terrifying.
Speaking of swearing, I don't know if I've mentioned that Mom talks in her sleep. Using words that, as a rule, she doesn't employ during daylight hours. Her sleep rhythms are such that she often does it just as I'm drifting off to sleep, and I will be jolted awake by cries of SON OF A BITCH! or YOU BASTARD! from the other room. She's either dreaming about Dad or President Bush.