S.R. Wild: Artist and Graphic Designer

I Am Analog

The other night I had a meeting for one of the projects I’m working on. I was the only one who didn’t have a laptop. I felt very analog with my books, sketchbook, scraps of paper, and pen. I’m glad I left my rotary phone and sundial at home or I would have felt really out of place. Next time, I’m bringing my typewriter. That way at least I won’t be the only one without a keyboard.

My lo-fi ways did come in handy: They couldn’t find an email on their fancy mobile computing devices and I came to the rescue with an analog version replete with doodles and coffee stains.

I’d tell you more, but I have to go. I just received a telegram saying that one of those new talkies is playing tonight. I’m going to ride my horse over to the living room and check it out. Then, I’m going to sit in the parlor and relax while listening to wax cylinders.

TV Stalker

I’ve had my share of stalkers, but I’ve never had a TV stalk me before. I walked by this TV everyday that was around the corner from my abode for about a week. I noticed it because I liked the way it was sitting in the grass. I wanted to take a photo of it, but I was always in a rush. The other night, I found the same TV sitting behind the dumpster outside of my apartment. It’s still there now. I’m debating whether or not I should ask it to come in for a drink.

A Ghost

Walking down North Street this morning, a little boy in a stroller asked his mother if I was a ghost. No, but I used to be.

Cat Found

The other morning I woke up to the sound of snorting and wheezing. I was surprised to find I wasn’t alone. Someone, or something, was in my bed with me. Then, like most mornings, the events of the previous night came flooding back to me. No, I didn’t bring an asthmatic trollop with a deviated septum home for a one night stand.

I received a phone call the previous night from Eva the Deadbeat requesting an odd favor—my favorite kind. The cat-loving folks at SpielPalast Cabaret found a stray cat roaming around where they were rehearsing. They thought he was dying because he was snorting and wheezing. Being so late, the animal shelter wasn’t open and no one else could take him. She asked if I could take the cat until they figured out what to do with him in the morning. I said, “suuuure.”

I drove down, got some supplies, picked up the cat, and brought him home. He wasn’t too happy about being in the cat carrier, so I quickly cleared an area for him in my kitchen and setup the litter box. I let him out and he went straight to the litter box—he was obviously domesticated.

It was suggested that I confine him to a room. I made do by blocking off a good-sized area in my kitchen. I gave him some food, hung out with him a bit, and went back to work. Other than the snorting, he seemed fine to me. I got the feeling it was normal for him.

After a few minutes he started crying. I checked on him, he stopped, and I went back to work. This went on a few more times until he escaped his little room. He quickly made himself at home in my apartment and was very friendly to me. He hung out with me while I worked and even jumped on my lap.

When I finally went to bed, he hopped on my bed and curled up next to me. I didn’t sleep much that night because he was making all these weird noises and, being such a worrier, I kept checking on him to make sure he wasn’t dying.

The next day, the animal shelter said they couldn’t take him until mid-June, so it looked liked I’d have him for awhile. We took him to the vet to have him checked out. Other than being dirty, fleas, and an infection he was fine (we also found out the cat was male, we named him Tom Doe). The snorting, wheezing, and oozing eyes are normal, but the infection was making it worse. She gave us some pills and some eye cream. The eye cream was very difficult to give him.

He inherited all the negative traits of an exotic shorthair—why must people mess with nature. He doesn’t have a muzzle, his eyes stick out further than his nose. He snorts because he’s nostrils are too small so he has to breath through his mouth. He’s lower jaw sticks out further than his upper jaw so his tongue is always sticking out. He has a hard time eating because his face is so flat. He ate by mashing his face into his food. Eventually the food would become too flat for him to get to and I’d have to pile it back up for him.

When Tom and I returned home after the vet he wasn’t in a good mood. He was pacing and making more noise then usually. He was doing his usually snorting along with a squeaking and farting noise all at the same time. He also made that distinct cat-going-to-vomit noise and then vomited on the floor. All the excitement must of made him sick. When I talked to the vet, she said cats have a stressful time at the vet because of all the pheromones left by other cats that tell them “bad things happened to kitties here”—I wonder if that happens with humans too.

I hung posters around town the other day—yes, I realize taddy should be tabby. While I was hanging one, some drunk asked what kind of show I was doing. I told him it was an all cat band. He then asked if he could get drunk there. I said he could try. Idiot.

The next day, Eva received a lot of calls from sketchy people offering to take the cat (sorry, I should have given my number). They probably thought they could make some money by selling him. One guy called who had Tom for the past few months. He found him at the bottom of his stairs one day. Tom ran up the stairs and started scratching at this guy’s door. He became sort of a mascot at his and his roommate’s apartment. He’s in a mural some friends painted on the wall. They thought he was a she, yet named him Sir Carl of Windsor. A week or so ago, he somehow escaped from their second floor apartment. A friend of his saw the poster and called him. This morning, Tom… Carl, was picked up and went back home.

Despite being so noisy and high maintenance, I must say, I’m going to miss him. I realize how dumb that sounds because he was only here for a few days, but he sort of grew on me and I easily become attached to things. It was… dare I say it… yes, I will… it was cute that he followed me around, greeted me at the door when I’d come home, and put his paw on my face in the morning. It’s too quite around here tonight. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep alone tonight.

Now that I’ve caught up on my blogging, I’m going to try and catch a few hours of catless sleep. I need to be well rested for tomorrow because I’m going to Body Worlds. Oh yeah.

I Love Photobooths

I take a shortcut through the local mall to save time or to warm up a bit on my frequent wanderings. The downside is it reeks of perfume, annoying Muzak plays, and it’s a mall! I loath malls; I find them depressing. Walking through there awhile ago, I found a photobooth tucked under the escalator. I’ve walked by it numerous times since. Last night, some friends and I passed it and I finally used it.

I wasn’t impressed with the quality of the photos. Sure, they’re printed on photo paper, but the photos were taken with a lo-res digital camera so they have a lot of noise. Like most things around here, you take what you can get. Regardless, it was the most fun I had all day and may possibly be the highlight of my week.

Photobooths, like good conversations, are hard to come by these days. Whenever I see one and I’m with someone I try to use it. I never do it alone because, like sex, it’s more fun with at least one other person. Finding a booth is a challenge; finding someone willing to join me is another challenge. Most people seem to be afraid of going into an intimate little booth with someone else. Of course, it could just be me. Wait, am I still talking about photobooths?

I remember hearing that photobooths were making a comeback. I hope they do. There’s a website (of course) dedicated to them: Photobooth.net. There’s a locator on the site that lists photobooth locations around the world (mostly in the US). They even rent vintage photobooths.

Let’s not forget about Amélie. Every time I see a photobooth I think of Nino on his hands and knees looking for discarded photos—I’ve never found any. I can sort of identify with Nino and his obsessive interests. I also identify with Amélie quite a bit, but that requires its own post. These are just two of the many reasons why I love that movie.

Humerus, Not So Funny

Two years ago today I broke my arm. To be more specific, my right proximal humeral neck.

A week later I had surgery and a surgical plate was installed. Ignoring my doctor’s recommendation to take at least a week off, I went to work two days later. I had deadline and I don’t miss deadlines. Luckily, I was ambidextrous when I was kid, so mousing with my left hand wasn’t too difficult.

A little over a year later I had surgery again because I couldn’t lift my arm above my head and I was in pain. While the doctors were in there they stuck a camera in to see what was going on (unfortunately, I don’t have a copy of the images). My cartilage was badly damaged and my biceps muscle was partially detached. They fixed all of it and removed the surgical plate. Good as new. This time I took a week off from work to recover (sadly, the last vacation I had).

After two years and a lot of agony, medication, physical therapy, frustration, and money; my arm is back to normal. I’m going to hug my arm all night.

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