The Game of Birthdays

On the first of December, my younger brother turned 26. I drew this picture to commemorate the moment in the style of his new favorite book/TV series.

(To continue the Game of Thrones line of conversation: “When you play the Game of Birthdays, you win or you die.” True enough. Usually the end of birthdays indicates that one’s ceased to live.)


My brother’s birthday is the last holdout before the onslaught of Christmas.

Oh, Christmas.

How I hate its music. Particularly “Santa Baby.” Because who wants to get sexy with Santa? Look at the man. I don’t think the temperature at the North Pole is the sole reason Mrs. Claus is frigid.

The only thing I hate more than the music is the weird, wasteful gifts that people buy in order to check “buy presents” off their lists. Like this snowball maker:



This thing is $30. Because, you know, making snowballs by hand is hard.

There are so many idiotic products available that there’s actually a blog called The Worst Things For Sale.

Visiting it will kill a few hours of your life. Just a warning.

Godspeed, Internet. May you find something decent to put on your wish list.

Or you could just ask for cookies. That’s my plan.

My love affair with my shitty car.

At the auto service shop…
Me: “I’m here to pick up my majestic Dodge Neon.”
Man behind counter: (starts laughing hysterically)
Me: (deadpan) “I don’t understand what’s so funny.”

I love my car. Truly, transcendentally love my car. It’s ripped up in the back and covered in liberal bumper stickers.

I like that I don’t have to worry about it, because it’s already trashed by its very nature.

The front bumper is all cracked up. When I asked the car people if it would pass inspection, they said “yes, but it won’t be very pretty.” Ha. I said, “Okay. Leave it as-is.”

I backed into a dumpster once. My friends freaked out; but I laughed it off, because, like, it’s not like the situation could get much worse, right?


I also really dig shitty art supplies. Like, the $5 watercolor cake sets and the 64-packs of Crayola crayons. The acrylics I use are called “Basic Value Color.”

These drawings? All of the above, applied to printer paper.


I hypothesize that, as a teenager, I took Fight Club‘s “the things you own, own you” line a little too seriously.

“Fine,” I said to myself, “I won’t own anything nice, then. No biggie.”


Except my phone. My phone is pretty nice, except for, perhaps, its silicone panda case. YOLO.

Shredder’s hideout has “a skateboard park, cigarettes, junk food, music, pizzas, soft drinks, guitars, comics, TV sets and arcade games.”

Lately I’ve been fixated on samurai helmets.

Please don’t ask me how these things get started, because the inside of my brain is like a carousel starring Cthulus, unicorns, drag queens, fire-breathers, overweight beagles, and reverse mermaids. This carousel never stops because it is jittery from way too much caffeine.

And here we are. At samurai helmets, created with ink, marker, Washi tape, and acrylic paint.

Samurai helmets make me think of Shredder from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles — of course. Wikipedia has some great facts about him that I’m dying to share.


Shredder (the arch nemesis of our dear friends Splinter and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, of course) is really a man named Oroku Saki.

Originally called “The Grater” or “The Grate Man” in early versions of the comic, his costume is inspired by cheese graters.


In the comics:

Shredder’s first death was at the hands of Donatello, who knocked him off a building with his bo staff. (Can you believe Donatello has ever done anything useful?!)

Shredder was brought back to life by clone-worms.

Shredder’s (clone’s) second death was at the hands of Leonardo, who decapitated him.

Then Shredder was, again, brought back to life by a mystic and the clone-worms. But this time he came back as a shark.

And was defeated again, because the shark thing is really, really stupid.


Shredder’s IQ is 300.

In the TV show (but not the movies), it’s alleged that he created the mutagen that altered Splinter and the Turtles. Because his IQ is 300, and that’s what evil geniuses do — they throw mutagen into sewers for… vengeance. Or maybe he just really likes being a litterbug.

Painting, embroidery, and your impending furry, winged death.

Illustrations of Colorful Moths

When I was a kid, I thought the difference between moths and butterflies was color.

Turns out, this isn’t the case. Moths can be extremely colorful.


This is a selection of vibrant moths I’ve assembled in my Pinterest‘s photography folder for inspiration.

My favorites are the blue ones with the red spots, the Six-Spot Burnet (Zygaena filipendulae). They inspired me to make this piece:


It’s acrylic paint applied with a paint roller, plus embroidery thread.

For future reference, if you’re ever asked, the quickest way to distinguish between butterflies and moths is that butterflies have slender antennae with clublike ends. (Here’s a quick guide to the differences, if you’re interested).

You’re welcome, Internet. I’ve bettered you, and you may now go on your merry way.

I worry about the longevity of owls that are morning people.

We open today’s post with a family of penguins because… awwwww.


These were designed for my friend Caroline’s son’s first birthday party. She supplied the verbiage & concept; I went to town from there.

The important parts are bleeped out because she probably doesn’t want all of my friends showing up at her mother-in-law’s house, stealing all of her penguin-themed party favors, and eating her kid’s cake. I am, however, invited; I can devour cakes all on my own, thanks.

Enough penguins! Below are some owls!

I did them at the same time as my undersea mandala illustrations from yesterday.


This is the angry owl from Mrs. Brisby & The Secret of NIMH. Not really. But close enough.


This is a young, inquisitive owl, new to the world of vole-eating and attempted dachshund-stealing.


This bird is afraid of the dark, which is a serious issue if you’re an owl.

Have a nice night, Internet!