pale stories

Can you guess what this is? It was created with paint (and water), but it's not really a work of art ... although I guess the photograph is. I'll call it: The day Tooth wandered out of the jungle (and continued in his terribly pale ways).

This one's more obvious. To my mind, it certainly makes a good case for the accidental nature of abstraction. I'll call it: What I need are good city-glare colours.

Hmmm ... how about: We are Pioneers 10, 11 and 12.

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Hosted a poker game last night. It was a cash game, which is best when your guests are less experienced or just haven't played for awhile (the latter applying to most of us at the table); a cash game has a more relaxed character, with none of the pressurized and escalating decisions of a tournament. For a short bit I had most of the money at the table, but then I decided it would be fun to play *every hand* (it was fun, but expensive). I still came out ahead, though.

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This rich, moody piece belongs to Neil Ornstein, who was kind enough to include it with his payment for a cigar-tin story. A very nice surprise: thanks, Neil.

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Cigar-tin stories (from top down) #23, #22 and #21. The middle one is already *sold*.

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Putting things in the mail these days, which is always an exercise in controlled anarchy (and bottled rage). Yes, the postal clerk is there to help you, but only after you've stood there for ten minutes while the she and the other clerk play a game of I'm Going To Look Busy And You're Going To Look Busy And We'll See Who Blinks First And Serves This Jerk. And then, if she's really in a bad mood (or just bored) you'll get to watch her demonstrate how your chocolate-bar-sized envelope won't fit through the standard mail slot (who has these anymore anyway? last time I looked it was all mail boxes with top-loading lids) and how it's going to have to be sent as a parcel and can you fill out this completely chintzy customs form so we can cover up your carefully-written address? (Which puts me to mind of the time that the US Postal Service *eviscerated* a parcel of mine so badly that the clerk handed it to me, with a shrug, inside a plastic bag ... I could trace tire tracks across the shredded envelope and the stretched, torn sweater inside.) And then, after she's calmly informed you that it will cost about a million dollars to send, she tries to up-sell you to a courier service. At which point I can do no more than shake my head, I don't care if they promise to put my "parcel" in a rocket ship for an extra dime.

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This fellow (devil ... in a storm, with his bird) is going to live with my friend Susan, who will one day take me on a guided tour of her magical gallery and feed me big, crumbly cookies with milk.