he stacks the coins vertically, largest diameter on the bottom. he pinches the stack at it's base using his thumb, pointer, index and ring fingers. pinky is daintily curled and tucked into his palm. the stack of change is placed in the center of my palm. as his fingers release the coins, the fingertips are touching my palm and they trace lines outward from the coins.

when the contact between his fingertips and my palm is broken, my hand rises slightly; released from the downward force he exerts.

this creeps me out in the worst way. not in a homophobic way, but in a "i have dead people in my tool shed" type of way.

this is not an isolated incident but rather a daily occurrence. i have asked other patrons about it, some are ashamed and don't like to discuss it because it makes them feel dirty.

next time i will have the exact amount, requiring no change.

it can be hard to tell the people apart at the old folks home. they all just look old. i think they should dress them in furry animal mascot type suits. it would be easier to identify my relatives if they were all dressed as different kinds of squirrels. my kid would probably want to visit more often.

this would also make it more fun when i feed them nuts and berries.

this is the water tower in my little town. it claims frisco to be the "home of the fighting coons".

i used to live in detroit. i can't imagine something like this in detroit.

next year it will be painted over. not soon enough.

the door to the crawl space was less than 4 feet tall. inside, only one light near the door was not enough to illuminate the full space. it smelled of mildew. the cinder block walls gave it a dungeon like feel.

dad had set up the electric train track just inside the door to the left. i would often play inside but never beyond the light spilling in from the small door.

further back, behind a row of cardboard boxes is where it lived. i never met or spoke with it, but we had caught glimpses of each other. it would sometimes be peering from behind the boxes when i turned on the light. there was great reason to fear it, but i didn’t because we had an innately understood agreement. everything was cool as long as we respected each others turf. the boxes served as turf markers. i never wondered what lie beyond the boxes, our agreement squelched any curiosity.

when the electric train refused to work, i asked my dad if he could fix it. dad unplugged and replugged the power cord. he wiggled all the track connectors making sure each was secure. his final conclusion was that someone forgot to turn the track off and the power transformer burned out.

that meant the agreement had been broken, i never went back into the crawl space.

my last post points out a problem, and a very high level solution. one small part of that solution would include this book!

understanding comics is horribly understated book title. this book is not about comics, it is about visual design as it applies to all media (not just comics). i wonder if scott mccloud knew that when he wrote it.

i often wonder if good visual design can be taught. i believe design skills to be mostly innate, either you have it or you don't. as an instructor, i try to help individuals sharpen those innate skills (just like the force is innate to anakin, but he needs obi-wan to focus it). sharpening those skills starts with knowing why your "designer's intiution" is correct.

because design is innate, it is hard to explain why a particular design solution works (hard because, why would you wast time analyzing something that works?). this book doesn't teach you how to do anything, it simply exlpains what is intuitive to a designer. many times when reading this book i would say to myself, "ahhh, so that is why i always do that!".

buy this book. it's a super easy read and illustrated like a comic book.

graduation season is upon us.

i once had a design student say to me "i have taken illustrator, photoshop, dreamweaver, and all the others. when i finish your class i'll have it made, and i'll get a job."

this was the most depressing thing a student has ever said to me. he viewed his education as a checklist of software packages, and each class being independent of others.

if that is all he wanted, it would have been much cheaper and faster to sit at home and go through the tutorials. software and hardware are tools, not solutions.

learn design, learn color theory, learn typography, learn photography, learn illustration, learn how the eye functions with the brain, blah, blah, blah. combine all of these things, make them work together. then you have it made.

when i teach digital imaging, i tell the students if they refer to the class as "the photoshop class" they flunk. ideally the class teaches the fundamentals of design that can then be applied to any software (or non digital media).

i flunked him.

the insect wrangler again attempted to place a butterfly on his shoulder. it was the sixth try. it fluttered off. my son was tired of the whole scene and so was i.

"that's ok, i'll just get a few shots of him standing near the butterflies." i told the wrangler again.

"just be ready to snap the picture when i find a more docile one." wrangler replied.

"no, really it's ok, thanks any way.

seconds later wrangler returned with another. without asking, he attached it to my sons shoulder. i use the word "attached" because this one was deceased.

'E's passed on! This butterfly is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! THIS IS AN EX-BUTTERFLY!!*

i took the picture only because i had to.

this was the ender for my son. i quickly removed the dead bug and we left the butterfly tent. only the future will tell how this affected him. years from now i fully expect it will manifest itself in some crazy insect crush fetish or an absurd fear of butterflies.

*thanks monty!

i think they could have made a butt load of extra cash if the actors and actresses in the planet of the apes movie stayed late on the set and made an after hours monky love porno in full make-up and costume. i would pay twice the price to see that movie.

that one monkey chick was way hot.

i stick my pointer finger into her mouth when she yawns.

i used to do this to my cats, they would make an "aack, aack aack" noise. then i tried it on my wife, she makes a very similar noise, but it is much more entertaining.

on my hands and knees, i ran my fingers through the deep shag carpet. i meticulously covered every square inch of the floor like a lawnmower, working my way back and forth.

it was the poorest i had ever been in my life.

still a nickel short and only a few more feet of carpet before me. i shared the room with 3 other guys, surely one had recently droped nickle or dime somewhere.

a dime! probably 5 cents more than i would need.

i had not eaten since lunch the day before, a box of those little debbie oatmeal cookies fused together with white frosting for 89 cents. i sat alone in the park eating one after another hoping not to be seen or recognized. i used to like little debbie, but after the 6th one my teeth hurt.

clutching my carpet cash, i made my way downstairs to the vending machine. i could hear many people conversing and laughing in the front room, i was embarrased and hoped no one would notice me. through the glass, i inspected all offerings and the net weight of each. some net weights were obstructed by the release coil. those were eliminated as options. I couldn't afford to take a chance on an unknown.

m&m's a rip off. chips and pretzels are misleading, because the hard to eat crumbs and salt grains at the bottom of the bag contribute to the net weight. snickers tastes good, but taste did not factor into the purchase cirteria. dolly madison zingers were the winner, a whopping 4.25 oz.

i returned to my room, sat on the bed alone, holding a zinger wishing it was someone else.

i never had a hairdo. i have red hair, not the copper wire kinky kind like carrot top. i have soft, baby fine, fly away hair like a kitten. i could never mold it into any shapes or styles. not even a flat top. once my hair is over an eighth of an inch long, it just sort of falls over flat.

my hairline started receding in late high school, but stopped in late college. since then i have been in a holding pattern for over 10 years. every day i search for a grey hair so i can claim i went grey before bald.

all of this really never bothered me too much, i guess you can't lament over something you never had a chance to experience. i accept my fate happily and usually shave my head every other month. if my hair gets any longer than that it looks as if i am trying to hide the obvious.

but recently i have had a semi-recurring dream. a dream of long and lush hair that i have to brush from my face so i can see. hair that moves as i move. hair that dances upon my head.

i don't sleep much and view it as a waste of time. but recently, sleep seems good, ahhh,... perchance to dream...

I often leave phone messages for myself for her to discover on the answering machine.

"griff, this is griff calling. hope all is going well. hey i saw your wife this morning... dude, i bet she is sweet in the pants. well, that's all i really had to say. smell ya later! oh, and say hi to you wife for me."

it started with the flair felt tips in the late 80's. since then, i have moved on to the harder stuff. sharpie ultra fine point black. then colors, three packs containing red and green. Two years ago i saw a guy using a purple one. he became my colorado connection, mailing purple sharpies in plain brown envelopes. I needed more than he could send and the lag time was killing me so i hit the streets. i found yellow (mello yellos) and brown (brownies).

milliseconds after removing the cap the ink aroma shatters my walnut shell skull, penetrates the brain, slicing between the left and right hemispheres, dividing them with infinite space. everything opens up. everything breathes.

there is another lusting for the sharpie. just as i extract the odor, the mead academe sketch diary extracts line. it quickly becomes a menage a' trois, both the paper and i worship the sharpie.

the paper is insatiable, upon contact it sucks the ink from the sharpie tip. thin lines are nice but thick lines are better. if feeling naughty, i just rest the tip on the paper and watch the blob grow, penetrating several virgin sheets below.

the same conversation every time we shop the "everything a dollar" store (a guilty pleasure).

"how much is this?" i will ask her, holding an item.

"how about this?" holding another item.

"and this?" holding yet another.

amazingly she always politely answers the first few times. around the seventh item she replies "every thing in this store is a fucking dollar, got it?" through gritted teeth.

mission accomplished.

of my alternate personalities designed to annoy her, "dumb guy" is the most efficient.

the cross table discussion to my left suddenly erupted to an easily audible level that all of mcdonalds could enjoy.

"and if you don't like kids, don't sit by us. I am a mother doing the best i can! you don't know me, you can't judge me!"

another maternal melt-down at mcdonalds.

today i a side with the mother. the kids were just being kids. they out numbered the mother by three.

why would an elderly couple come to mcdonalds expecting a quiet, relaxing, and leisurely dinning experience? an equivalent opposite would be expecting a bachelor party to break out at bill knapp's*

*a michigan/ohio restaurant chain, serving denture friendly food to the blue haired at a mind numbingly slow pace. commonly referred to as god's waiting room.

5 notes into the song the car radio became a mobile karaoke machine. She sang. what she lacked in quality she made up for in volume. the volume peaked with the chorus.

"i love ceceil" she sang.

being the uptight anal music fanatic i am, i stopped down the karaoke machine. i told her that the go go's were not lesbians and the lyric was actually "our lips are sealed".

head cocked and brow furrowed, she looked at me like a mental patient. she said nothing and reached for the volume knob just as the chorus came around again.

"i love ceceil" she sang louder this time.

the point guard glanced at me while adjusting the shower head, but quickly looked away.

several other guys from the pick up game are also in the shower room. not much conversation happens here, it is usually saved till underwear is donned.

"hey, how much do you weigh?" asked the point guard of me.

"ummm, two-twentyfive or so, i don't know for sure."

"hmmmm." was his only response.

that was the end of the conversation. a conversation that took place years ago. a conversation i still wonder about.

is that a proper question for the shower room? why did he want to know? what about my nakedness made him want to ask? should i answer? should i lie? what kind of a response is "hmmmm". was that a good "hmmmm" or a bad "hmmmm"? is this a form of sexual advance? am i bootylicious? did he see something in my genitalia that warranted such question (not)? shit, my brain hurts.

i could stand to loose a few pounds, but i am far from freak show fat that might elicit such an inquiry. I am definitely not fit enough for someone to look at me and want to aspire to my weight. so why did he ask?!?!?

perhaps he works at the carnival and is just trying to keep his weight guessing skills sharp.

after meeting several cool people last night at dfw blogs happy hour, i prepared a proposal for the ultramicroscopic executive director board.

the proposal was an exceptional plan to fill the vast amount of wasted space to the left (of this page) with links to fellow bloggers pages. the proposal contained many interesting pie charts, bright, colorful graphs incredible art, fabulous information and intelligent concepts.

this morning i dressed in my best underwear and presented the proposal to the executive director board. the board did not find me entertaining. they reminded me of paragraph 2, section 8 of the ultramicroscopic code of conduct, behavior and other things document.

paragraph 2 plainly states that linky love to other blogs is absolutely forbidden (unless, as later stated in paragraph 3 section 8, nude photos of the blogger are submitted to ultramicroscopic and the blogger in question is deemed to be a "hottie").

my only recourse in the matter would be mutiny and a plan to overthrow the board. or i could figure out a clever way to subtly work links into the body text without mentioning names in a way the executive board will never notice.

i walked into he breakroom to use the sink. the pepsi guy was restocking the pop machine. he was wearing shorts. tiny music came from his headphones. sunglasses perched atop his head. he was tan.

we glanced at each other. nothing was said, but much was communicated.

i thought, what a great job he has. listen to music all day, drive around town, wear shorts, get a tan while working, you and the cans no one to bother you, physical work that ends when the day ends, no long term projects with deadlines.

he thought of me, what a great job he has. hang out in a cush office all day, no traffic hassles, doesn't have to wear a stupid uniform, gets to interact with other people, no strained muscles, all the free coffee he can drink.

back at my desk, i did a monster board search for pepsi driver positions.

no rules apply to the men's room here, anything goes. common sense and etiqutte are no where to be found. we often share amazing potty stories, a co-worker related the following.

standing at urinal one he noticed urinal three guy was eating crackers. crackers balanced on the top of the urinal. snacking and pissing at the same time. shoving one after another into his cracker hole.

WTF?

i find this more amazing/disgusting/weird than palm pilot guy, who feels it necessary to tinker with his little pilot as he urinates.

because you are my favorite reader, and i have great trust in your ability to keep a secret, i am making a limited time offer.

about a year ago, i hoaxed a nationally syndicated radio show. the hoax ended up being much larger than i ever imagined. the hoax eventually went beyond the radio show and the web site, it also showed up in a magazine.

i put together a small site for friends that details the hoax and the results.

i am limiting the life of the link here, because only a select few people know of the hoax, and i would like to keep it that way.

enjoy.

"and if the crystal spins clockwise, i can eat it. but counter-clockwise, i can't"

overhead, only minutes ago. i can't think about this or my brain will explode.

the artwork above is an illustration by michael mentler. his work stood head and shoulders above the mediocrity of the McKinney Art & Jazz on the Square festival today. Fantastic pen and ink portrait illustrations of fictional characters. Very humorous and a little dark. he himself was very nice and showed my son (and i) a sketchbook he was working on.

i nabbed a biz card that only contains only his phone number (Dallas local). email me if you find his art as interesting as i and would like to contact him (don't want to post his phone on the net without permission).

on a clear night, on a lightless rural road, i open my moonroof to let the stars in as i drive. i look straight up through the hole to view the spectacular skies. the wind rushing around me and the headlights switched off greatly exaggerate the feel of forward motion. the road in front of me takes a backseat to the view of stars above me.

there is a good chance this is the way i will die one day, but the moment is greater than the risk and it is not a concern. the night time sky is more elegant than i can comprehend.

tonight we went to a local community theatre to see opening night of a play. why don't more people attend these things? it is cheaper than the movie theatre and so much more entertaining.

the worst live play is better than the best movie.

the worst live music is better than the best recorded music.

the worst live poetry reading is better than the best written poetry.

the worst live baseball game is better than the best televised game.

the worst in person conversation is better than the best IM chat.

the worst draft beer is better than the best bottled beer.

get off your spoon fed lazy ass and participate. a passive life is not worth living.

the best thing about my recent business trip was the availability of Leinenkugel's. a beer i miss dearly since moving to texas.

as an added bonus, i found Kabooms, a toasted oat cereal in the form of small multicolored severed clown heads mixed with tiny marshmallows. the very first cereal i ever consumed as a child.

i sat in the hotel room eating bowl after bowl of kabooms, substituting leininkugel for milk. the ratio of one box per six pack is perfect.

the national guard soldier stood looking over the shoulder of an airline employee as she matched picture id to boarding passes. He was radiating a aura of goofiness that should have been concealed by his athletic stance, military fatigues, a very deadly automatic rifle, and a smart looking beret.

a woman with a long white cane and dark glasses supplied her id and boarding pass. she was blind. the airline employee studied the documents, and allowed her to pass. she resumed walking towards baggage x-ray.

"did ja see that? she's doin' real good, and people say they aren't as smart as we are. and she was good look'n too. i knew a blind guy once that was smarter than most regular people." said the bullet head. the blind woman will still easily within earshot.

the airline employee said nothing. she ignored his attempts at conversation, but he was determined to pull her into a discussion.

"i wonder how she does it. yep, some of 'em can be just as smart as you and me. And do things just like you and me."

he was right about one thing, he and the blind woman probably did not share the same i.q.

"HOGWASH!"

before i had finished speaking the word, i realized how stupid it sounded. i'm 35, but the word made me sound 95. too late to retract it.

i should have said "that's wack!" to connect with the younger generation.

at least i didn't pronounce it as "haagwaarsh".

the party was well underway by the time she arrived. she looked very plain, dressed in jeans and carrying a large duffel bag. she quickly slipped into the bedroom almost unnoticed. a few of the party people saw her, the word spread quickly and the anticipation increased.

she emerged from the bedroom in full costume gripping a boom box. some cheered her others quietly stared. she set the boom box on the floor and pushed play. she then made her way over to the couch where the guest of honor sat. she moved to the music. he sat motionless and transfixed. she gently tugged at his arm, she wanted him to dance with her.

he did. they were surrounded by all of the revellers. each watched with jealousy, but they knew their turn would come.

suddenly the guest of honor began to cry. her extremely large head was a little overwhelming, the nursery rhyme from the boom box was just a little too loud.

she hardly resembled buzz lightyear at all, more like buzz's fat dim witted cousin.

i pulled the peppers from the grill, held them firmly against the cutting board and sliced them into bite size pieces. my contact lenses had been bothering me so i removed them. seconds later my eyes began burning. the preasure of my eye lids on my eyes was incredible. The urge to rub my eyes had to be ignored, it could only make it worse. i stood at the sink splashing water in my eyes but the efforts were futile. instinct had tightly clamped my eyes shut. i knew i needed to open them but i could not. only time brought relief.

the next morning i put my lenses in. seconds later i went through the same burning experience. the lenses had absorbed the heat from the peppers. each time i put in my lenses, my eyes would burn. this continued for 2 weeks, each time the sensation was a little milder and shorter in duration.

here is the odd part. the first time you eat a pepper you wonder why anyone would ever purposely eat one, but soon you find yourself craving peppers. the cravings turn to hotter peppers and the frequency greater. this same phenomenon happened to my eyes. after the first few days, i came to crave the sensation when putting my contact lenses in. i became disappointed when the sensation weakend and eventually disappeared.

stop.
make it all stop right here.
all is perfect.
he never needs to know about 9-11, pedofile priests, cancer, or school shootings.
right now his world is the slip and slide on a sunny summer day.
simple, perfect, and finite.
i want to capture this, not with text, photo or video. in a way he and i can experience with all of our senses, again and again .
memory is not enough.

*title stolen from xtc

the speech synthasizer on my mac is set to agnes. agnes reads all system messages aloud in an amusing/annoying robotic type femal voice.

my wife kept hearing the voice of agnes complaining from the den, but did not know where it was coming from. it irritated her.

"where the fuck is stephen hawking's wife? i hear her here some where." my wife said.

after ripping the bedcover from the bed, i notice the phone message light flashing. how nice of my wife to leave a message for me before i even arrive!

push one, push star the voice message begins. the voice is female but not my wife's.

"damn it, where are you, why don't you call me back? i just wanted to let you know that carlos and iggy are looking for you. please, please, please call me back, shit!"

obviously the message was meant for the previous occupant. suddenly i realize how boring my life is. carlos and iggy have never come looking for me, and even if they did i doubt anyone will tell me that they are.

i re-listened to the message several times pretending it was for me.

the message became my obsession. who were these people and what exactly is going on. i invented hundreds of scenarios. perhaps carlos and iggy were big time cuban cigar dealers looking for their american connection. perhaps carlos and iggy were an older gay couple looking for the former occupant to claim his newly born puppy begat from their shar-pei, ginger snap. perhaps carlos santana and iggy pop were trying to find a drummer for their new co-operative recording together.

a guy named bob once looked for me, but no one called to warn me.