Monday, June 29, 2009
Adventures in Cheese Snob Land
Vacation Notice
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Movie Review, Short Story, Comic, etc.
Monday, June 22, 2009
"The Summer of Sandals" and Two New "Forget Fairytales"
*I am updating my latest fashion writing project, "The Summer of Sandals," tonight. Read my most recent commentary at Give Me Paisley and Parasols. You can also view past entries and other fashion projects on my Associated Content page.Sunday, June 21, 2009
New Collages and YouTube Additions
Thursday, June 18, 2009
NIAF Photos and "The Prom Dragon"
ICG Scholarship...and more!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Latest in My Career
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
More from the fashion and fairytale front
Monday, June 15, 2009
Yes, another post
Sunday, June 14, 2009
News! News! News!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
TODAY: 2009 NIAF
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
New Writing
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
"Co-worker Abuse" on YouTube
Release of "Co-worker Abuse"
Monday, June 8, 2009
New T-shirts and NIAF News
Resurrection of "Eleven Weeks of Eclectic Elegance"
Updated Resume and Additional Comics
Two new comics, a collage, and a short story
Friday, June 5, 2009
The 2009 Neo-Indie Arts Festival is one week from tomorrow!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
"Labs and Leggings" and "Ugali"
*Here's my latest short story, "Ugali." You can read the rest on my Associated Content page.
"Just 'cause you're a Creative Writing minor doesn't mean you can write," Randall sneered. "Can you even spell 'recidivist'?" He crumpled his lip and threw down his pencil. Randall and I had attended the same school since pre-kindergarten and he was just as whiny then as he was now. I still believed he suffered from colic and possibly wore diapers that his mother changed right before his 9 p.m. bedtime. Talk about living in Eden's nursery garden.
Calm down, Casey, I told myself. Deliver your blows with composure. "Just because you're a Literary Criticism minor doesn't mean you can recognize quality writing. Oh, and to prove a point, R-E-C-I-D-I-V-I-S-T."
Randall always pouted instead of making come-backs, as if those azure eyes could salvage anything he said. He sniffed and started marking up my poem on Freud and biscotti. I narrowed my eyes at his trademark red pen, but quickly diverted my attention. Maybe I could write a poem about that brown splotch on the window. Randall would hate that more than a generic brand suit. He had written about the limousine his parents had recently scrapped. It ended with the less-than-sentimental "Good riddance."
"Really, Casey," Randal began again, now that he had recovered from his magenta blush, "You shouldn't have ended that sentence in a preposition." He pen stabbed the line.
"'Was' is not a preposition. It's a conjugation of the word 'to be.'"
He scoffed. "Please, you don't have to explain such base grammatical points to a former English major. I--"
"I thought you might have forgotten some of what you learned from your pre-Accounting major days, Randall." I snatched his pen away.
"Hey! That's a personalized executive pen, ya know! Sterling silver!"
I slipped the pen down my blouse, confident that Randall would never reach there. That guy didn't want me any more than I wanted him, which was about as much as I wanted an STD. Randall gritted his teeth, squeaking, "I was referring to that sentence." He pointed to the sentence above the one I thought he meant.
"Oh." Curses, I had ended the sentence with a preposition without any nerdy-sounding, literary B.S. justification. How would I save myself this time? "You see, I selected that specific sentence construction because--"
The answer arrived much too conveniently.
"Okay, everyone," Professor Oxley announced. "Peer editing's over. I want to quickly collect Week Eight's assignments. Make sure you have your name, the date, and course number written on your portfolio or commonplace book. Then put them in the basket right here next to my desk."
Randall shot up his hand to ask one of his typical goody-goody questions. That freed up my paper. I snatched it away, picked up my tote bag, and headed out the door. I had turned in my portfolio a week ago. Just as I reached the doorway, Randall began basking in Professor Oxley's attention and spewing out word for word what the man had said during his lecture, sort of like a Born Again prostitute beaming before a preacher. Performing proverbial lap-dancing, folks, is how you earn an A.
I knew the library would be open, so I wandered in that general direction. I needed to revise "Dolce Cioccolati," my now-slaughtered poem. Since nobody occupied a cubby in the far back corner, I plopped down my bag there. An industrial sized fan blared like a mutant insect. The library's excuse was that they were in the process of fixing the 1970s air-conditioning, which meant they could not run it. Lacking both headphones and earplugs, I had to endure the sound of a thousand flapping cicadas. Somehow it still wasn't as obnoxious as the sound of Randall's voice.
As I exchanged one word for another, revised syntax here and there, I thought about Randall, as much as I tried to avoid it. Whenever I wrote or read, I had to think about Randall. We taken writing and literature classes together since the days when the sky was green and the grass was blue. He wasn't a bad person and certainly not an evil one, even if he taunted random strangers with his keen spelling knowledge. Randall was simply annoying and unintentionally so. If I were the average American 19-year-old, I might blame his parents for creating an entitled snob of a young man, but I've always had more of a European streak. C'est la vie--et pas la culpibilité de ses parents. Randall could have resisted his parents coddling, he could have been as ornery as I was. Yet he smiled and dribbled and kicked his chubby Winnie the Pooh clad legs as he suffocated beneath the weight of his mother's breast. She would never wean him.
[Read the rest of the story here.]
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Anemone Sidecar and Rachel Radical
Monday, June 1, 2009
Greetings Sailor
"Greetings, Sailor"
By Christine Stoddard
Don't creak like a door in the night anymore, tired ocean traveler.
The Arab's little wife will lick away your strife, those quixotic tears
streaming down your tender cheek and past your crooked beak
into the mounds of good food she prepared just for your arrival.
She knows the gentle art of flavoring; how to cook like a peasant
and eat like an Egyptian queen pleasantly plucking cotton blooms
beneath the dooming sun that fluttering palm leaves barely mask.
Rest your stained heels as she rubs the arches of your meaty feet
and you sink deeper and deeper into the throes of Saharan heat.
Dream that the sweet-eyed woman feels the same warmth for you
as the long strands of steam dancing from your plate into the air.


