He’s right. He does look damn fine in it.

The other night I was dropping my mom and sister off after yet another holiday gathering, and as we turned onto my mom’s street, there was a pair of coyotes standing in the alley. I stopped the car and we sat and watched them as they took their time walking away—they’re such incredible animals. The way they move is so slick and shifty, and they are fully aware that the city is theirs after dark, you can see it in their eyes. Such presence, those cocky bastards—I love them, and always feel so fortunate to catch a glimpse like that. Of course I would prefer if they would refrain from eating any more of my cats, but that’s my only quibble.

Happy new year, all, and thank you so much for continuing to visit—I can’t believe I’m at post #78, it feels impossible. Here’s to 2008, and another 365 drawings. Oh, wait—it’s a bloody leap year, isn’t it? Can’t catch a break. 366 drawings.

—after posting this, Saucygrrl sent a link to an incredible website, The Daily Coyote, about the luckiest girl in the world in Wyoming, raising an orphaned coyote. It’s amazing, be sure to check it out…

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I often hear people talk about raccoons, how they look awkward and uncoordinated—even that they’re a little spooked when they stumble upon them in the dark, bumbling along in the shadows. Well, these people have obviously never seen a raccoon on a trapeze. It’s poetry in motion.

The Illustration Friday topic this week is “soar”.

This morning I went to life drawing. As I was setting up I noticed that the fellow to the right of me had a large canvas, sporting a half-finished painting of a man lying on his back. For a moment I panicked, thinking I had read the schedule wrong and that this was a three-hour session of the same pose, which this particular studio offers over four weeks—but the model sitting waiting for the session to begin was a woman. He must simply be picking up this painting from last time, right?

Wrong. He sat beside me—in his self-consciously quirky hat and shoes with fake spats that screamed “hey world, check me out, I am an ARTIST”—the entire time tinkering with his canvas, opening and closing tubes of paint, and scrubbing the odd bit of blue on the background between fits of fidgeting and shuffling. He would open his brush cleaner and close it, get up and move around and sit down again, then leaf through one of his books—I kept thinking “why are you HERE, man??” He never once paid attention to the model, stunk up the place with his oil paints, and did everything in his power to attract attention to himself. It was all I could do to keep from hissing “STOP it!!!” and smashing his canvas over his head so he would wear it in shreds around his neck, cartoon-style.

Finally he left, loudly and in the middle of a pose, leaving his trash behind on his bench.

You, sir, embody everything I despise about “artistes”. I hate to break it to you, but I believe for some it actually boils down to more than the outfit. If you dare sit next to me again, I promise I will sit on your hat and spit on your spats.

(by the way, the model’s feet were on a chair—I thought it might be interesting to leave it out, and I like the legs in the air—but now I realize it kind of looks as though she’s got her hands on her stomach because her abs are in agony from holding her legs in that position for half an hour…)

Tonight I saw the movie Juno—it was great, but I must admit I was a little distracted watching it. I had heard it was shot here in Vancouver, like many films, but I didn’t expect it to hit quite so close to home. In it, the characters attend my old high school, and the girl goes to a medical building that happens to be our weird old clinic near my mom’s house. It’s perfect for a movie—it looks like a funeral home inside, with dark wood paneling and busts of Hippocrates in alcoves. Behind the very 1962-style front desk are all of these built-in wooden cabinets, and up high there are latched doors which, when opened, contain crazy old pneumatic tubes that send things upstairs. It was so strange to see the receptionist in the film sitting back there, after visiting the place for so many years. Then there were several scenes on a running track, and these take place on the campus of the university that I work for. It was odd just how familiar the entire thing was.

Now, I am distinctly NOT one of those people who peaked in high school. I wasn’t tormented or anything, I simply couldn’t wait for it to be over—and so I rarely think about that time. But the last couple of months have really sent me back, between a call about a high school reunion, bumping into a former classmate, and a memorial service for an old friend that I met back then, which brought together some folks I haven’t seen since back in the day. And now this movie. It has stirred many memories, and a central part of all of them was my little ‘74 Datsun 610. It was a fantastic car, despite its tendency to backfire like a gunshot if you decelerated too fast, and that you often had to pop the hood and jumpstart it with a screwdriver, and that it sometimes would run rough and you would have to tighten the carburetor head, which over time would loosen so much that the screws were close to falling out. I changed the brake pads an awful lot of times over the course of those years which, looking back, is a little alarming—but it kept running through it all.

We got the car (used) when I was about ten or eleven, and soon after a gallon jar of milk broke in the trunk. My dad sold it to me when I turned 16, and I drove it through my early twenties. It emitted a faint waft of rotten milk every time it rained—and I suspect it still does, even if it’s a wee cube in a junkyard. If you have ever spilled milk in a vehicle, you know what I’m talking about—no amount of rusting, rotting or crushing could ever get that stink out.

Sidney owns the house my suite is in, she lives downstairs—and pretty much any time I go on vacation, or on a date, or even just out with friends, she says “just remember Bambi, no dogs and no babies.” Of course my standard response is “if I came home knocked up and carrying a puppy, I really don’t think you’d kick me out.” It’s our schtick. However, tonight while I was playing around with my watercolours, I realized nowhere in that statement does she forbid pigs. Look out.

Awhile ago I wrote about my long-standing obsession with New York, and my experience upon arrival, but that first trip was somewhat disappointing, not because my expectations were too high (I had traveled enough that I knew to suspend them), but because I didn’t want to simply visit New York, I wanted to visit New York in 1978. Part of what appealed to me was the dodginess factor: the dirt, the crime, the grit. Of course I know it was more dangerous and I wouldn’t have felt so safe walking through Manhattan, and I can imagine it’s a vast improvement for those living there—but as for fulfilling my big-city fantasies, it simply wasn’t what I was after. I have certainly learned to love it for what it is now, and once I got my bearings and began to avoid the more touristy areas and wander through the somewhat forgotten bits, I found a taste of what it had once been.

I had a conversation about this awhile ago, and I was asked if I wouldn’t rather be there in the 20’s than the 70’s, but really, if I could do the time travel thing, I would spend the 20’s in Paris, without a doubt. Havana in the 1890’s, Miami in the 30’s, Mexico in the 50’s. It adds an extra edge to the typical “if you could go anywhere” question, doesn’t it? Where would you go?

Just another typical Christmas: my cousin Dan makes an Olympic event out of stuffing himself, mainly with the best buns in the world (I know, who would think that dinner rolls could be the highlight of Christmas dinner? But you have no idea—it’s seriously all about the buns), my father and uncle have their smart-ass-comments/guffaw wars, and then just when we think it’s all over and time to get up from the table, Dan stuffs one more bun down the hatch. It’s creepy.

Then we all retire to the living room, where Chris attempts to make balloon animals (two lame balloon dogs, after which he “progressed” into his balloon non-linear abstract expressionism phase—terrible), Dan eats a ridiculous number of butter tarts, and we all play some game with extremely complex word puzzles in the Will Shortz oeuvre, i.e. take two four-letter names of animals and put three letters in front of both of them to complete two common seven-letter words. Difficult enough to keep track of when you have it written in front of you, let alone having the clues read aloud—makes for many requests of “wait, read it again…? How many letters…? What was the first part…?” Certainly annoying—but surprisingly addictive. Between the large meal, drinks, dessert and a number of these puzzlers, we’re all more or less asleep on the floor by 9.

However, one thing was out of the ordinary this year: it snowed. Granted, it was very wet snow compared to the fluffy stuff old Bing dreams of, but a white Christmas is not a common occurrence in Vancouver—we’ll take what we can get.

So, my true love decided he’d send me some drummers for the final windup to this Christmas fiasco, but, blessedly, the drummers (and even better, their drums) were traveling from parts south and got stopped at the border—something about a suspicious package taped to a foot pedal. Whatever. A dozen drummers would have been the proverbial straw, but just the mention of drumming tonight caused the whole motley crew to begin banging something or other—a large group of them started slapping the table in syncopation, and that got the night rolling. The rhythm was rollicking, the dancing divine, and Lord Byron was drunk out of his gourd. Now that’s what I call a party.

To all of you who have been checking in on this blog, thank you so very much, and here’s to a very Merry Christmas to all…

(by the way, I didn’t start the drawing until after the party, so it got very late indeed. It’s not entirely finished, so do check back later for the final version)

Well, things are improving vastly as we get closer to the big day. A menagerie of dapper gentlemen in their leisure-time finery appeared at the door, and who could send them away? As much as I like the smell of pipes, I didn’t fancy a house full of smoke—and I figured I was due for more heavy negotiation. But I needn’t have worried—turns out they have no interest in tobacco, just the outfits. Puff on, boys.

See the entire countdown…

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So, my true love somehow came up with the notion that he should give me ten lords-a-leaping today. I know, weird or what? Anyway, it’s apparently rather tough rounding up nearly a dozen leaping lords of the wigged-and-triangled-hat variety—he found four and had to supplement. Fine, I suppose—I mean, at this point, what can I do? I suspect some of them will at least pair off with the dancers and calm them down a bit—those chiquitas hold a grudge.

Do geese eat flies, by any chance? If not, I may request one more leaper in the form of a frog. The last thing I need is maggots in the fruitcake.

Shall I have a contest to see who can identify all the lords first? Let’s see, what can I offer… I know, how’s about a lovely assortment of fowl, four buckets of fresh (still warm—yuck) milk and a bushel of pears. You pay for shipping.