Buncha practice drawings using this gesture drawing practice tool: Pixelovely.com.

30 minutes of sketches, ranging from 30s to… actually I have no idea how long. 5 or 10 mins?

(Click to Embiggen!)

I got bored and this happened:

“Hipthulhu would devour the universe, but he’s sure it’s not sustainable agriculture.”

Feel free to add your own captions in the comment section.

Last night I had a dream.  In one part of this dream, I was watching a comedy sketch show, like SNL but British.  Below, I have faithfully recreated a sketch from that show…

 The Most Charming Man in the World

Backstory (on title card scroll, narrated): During the learned and erudite times of the Renaissance, there was a man so charming that he was known as the Most Charming Man in the World.  Cursed by an evil wizard, the Most Charming Man in the World is frozen, a statue, returning to life only moments a day to offer his wisdom and advice.

Setting: Exterior, a town square in Elizabethan England.  The Most Charming Man in the World (Ian McShane) is frozen, statue-like, in a regal pose.  He wears an exquisite jerkin over a white satin doublet and matching padded hose, with a puffy, round plumed hat.  A nobleman and his wife stand before him.

Nobleman: Any moment now, I’m sure of it!  There, you see, he returns to life!  Quickly, good sir, before foul wizardry takes thee again.  My wife is barren, unable to have children but I desperately want them.  Should I buy the children of the poor?

The Most Charming Man in the World: HellOOOOOO! Fear not, my good man, you may have my BUTT BABIES!  [He lifts a leg theatrically and farts loudly.] I have THOUSANDS of them! [He farts again, leg in the air and face contorted.] Ooooh, thaaat was a BIG ONE!!

The Most Charming Man in the World resumes his noble pose and once more becomes a statue.

Then I woke up.

As previously mentioned, 2011 has been an asshole.  Things actually got worse since the last post, with my dad getting terribly ill and being hospitalized, more earthquakes, tornadoes and so forth, and me having a minor bout of crazy due to all the stress.

But fuck that.  I declare this shit to be over.  You can’t crush me, universe.  Life is the best thing, even when it’s being shitty.

From now on, I’m bringing the thunder.

…whatever that means.

So far, this is one hell of a year.

In just the three months that have passed so far:

• The Middle East has exploded with revolution and violence
• Japan has experienced one of the largest earthquakes on record
• My mum had a health scare
• My dad has been sick
• Toni got the bitch flu from hell
• Munchie got sick
• My car got broken into

In the plus column: I did get a promotion at work.  Yay.

This is not a good start, 2011.  You better shape up, mister, or I’m going to start 2012 early.

I haven’t updated in so long. Life has been too busy.

I must try to get my Iceland posts finished and posted soon! In the meantime, here’s this story about me:

Last year, I got food poisoning and spent the better part of a week with the shits and vomiting. It was pretty awful and I spent three days seriously dehydrated, dizzy and delirious.

During this period, I had an amazing dream wherein I discovered the hidden mathematics of the universe that bound everyone and everything together and when I woke up, I thought, “I HAVE TO WRITE THIS DOWN!” but I was too dizzy and tired and went back to sleep.

When I woke up and wasn’t crazy dehydrated, I became aware that I was, for a short time, insane.

Good times.

You get lost. The bus takes you into what might be the suburbs of Reykjavik instead of the Saga Museum. You expect that the museum stop will be easy to notice and it’s not until you’re on some strange Reykjavik highway that you start to wonder if things have gone awry.

The bus driver is probably the only person in Iceland that doesn’t speak perfect, fluent English, and struggles trying to figure out where you’re going. He suggests a different bus. You suspect he’s just suggesting a you get off the bus so he doesn’t have to deal with you anymore.

You transfer, getting on a bus carrying mostly youths and teens, and head off into small residential streets. This is not the way to the museum… Idealistically, you get off the bus hoping to catch one going the other way. Maybe you can retread your steps and figure out where things went wrong?

The places where real people live are very similar almost anywhere. The sound of children playing carry from a schoolyard. A bell rings, calling them back into class. There’s a strip mall, lawns, and houses.

It’s cold and it’s raining and you might be near one of Iceland’s famous thermal pools, but it’s hard to tell because everything just looks like suburbia. In the distance, the sign for a taxi stand mocks you with its lack of taxicabs.

Besides, you bought a three day bus pass so you could save money, so it’s probably best to wait a bit longer.

This damned bus is never going to come.

The Saga Museum, once reached, turns out to be an audio tour of Iceland’s discovery and settlement, up through the ages to shortly after the Inquisition. Seventeen numbered exhibits, exquisitely crafted by Special Effects people, the eyes of the past stare out at you.

Then one of them breathes and you freak out.

Later, the clerk explains that the building is actually a giant water silo, collecting the 90 degree Celsius water that steams from the ground and is held here, used to heat the homes of everyone in Reykjavik. This small exhibit is the only museum attraction in the museum.

(It turns out there’s a classy revolving restaurant in the top of the building the museum is in (The Pearl or “Perlan” in Icelandic), but the woman refers to it as a cafeteria at the time, so you have no idea until someone tells you this a couple nights afterwards.)

You trudge back out into the cold and rain, looking for a bus to get back downtown.

You’re walking down a street in the rain, looking for someplace to duck in out of the cold when you hear drums. Drums, and the faint throb of a bass through a wall.

Around the block, you walk into a tiny record store, where a band is playing in the middle of the floor.

Makronir. The singer’s guitar is labeled in bold, block letters: MAKRONIR

The mystery of what this means won’t be solved until later.

Iceland is great.

(MAKRONIR means “macro” in Icelandic, it seems.)