great for kids, girls and the occasional guy who's comfortable with his masculinity
of plants from my homeland.
mostly from memory,
but some from a blury picture
I found in a shoebox last week.
There are more, but these are special.
I am letting you look at them because I like you.
Anytime I see coverage of my Friday morning, the headlines read
'NEW YORK CITY CATCHES ROYAL WEDDING FEVER
AND DUMBO IS THE EPICENTER OF THE PLAGUE'
If the hotbed of the scourge included tea and crumpets -
then yes, that's what happened.
Yesterday I jumped from bed prior to the crack of dawn and started my Wedding Day March. Twenty minutes later I arrived down under the Manhattan Bridge to hold vigil with my most favorite friends (I'm qualifying most as people up at 4:30 am for another harebrained adventure). We sported smiles and our best hats to bid a proper goodbye to Prince Wills and the teenage hopes and dreams we've wrapped him up in since he looked like this:
*SIGH*
Let it be known throughout the land, that on the beautiful Friday morning I came to say 'goodbye' my smile was mostly happy and only a sliver of wistful.
I like this photo for the sun that bleaches my face Britt.
There is no room for the remnant of a Bahamian tan upon my countenance this day. I'd be royally ashamed, as Victoria Beckham should be ashamed.
Luckily, yesterday's event was the perfect venue for The Duchess' royal wave. Years of being rolled out at events such as this has allowed her to truly perfect her light bulb twisting technique.
We sit quite silent as the future Duchess of Cornwall cascades down the aisle. She reaches the Abbey's English garden culdesac. Side note: was I the only one running the Kink's Dead End Street over in my mind during this part? We collectively lean forward, sigh and then raise our arms, free to whoop and holler in the perfect acoustic bell of the Manhattan Bridge's underbelly, far away from the solemn air of Westminster Abbey.
This was one of the half-dozen cheering points that we partook of liberally with our crowd of classy new friends. I had a particular enjoyable conversation with a foil crown adorned, fur coat wearing, Great Dane toting blonde over the ratio of Valium to lace one should consume on the morn of your World Wide televised nuptials.
Of course then it was time to wave the Union Jack.
At this point we're thisclose to forming a receiving line with all our new friends.
It's true what they say, nothing brings people together like a wedding!
Now I'm off to The Duchess' Royal Salon to have my locks lopped off. My tresses are tres' excited. The cut is in honor of the weekend's second wedding which I shall attend on the morrow. I feel a tad guilty about not tending to my hair prior to Wills' and Kate's nuptials. At the same time I am also feeling slightly guilty for the blog post that I probably will not blog and the whooping that I will not most likely not whoop over tomorrow's union. Although, I am sure that it will also, in the words of the queen, be "quite lovely, after all".
Once upon a time I was told this story.
The crow looked down and sung out
"Why not? It's of little consequence to me."
So the rabbit sat down and commenced doing nothing
but enjoying himself and feeling the wind in his face.
Along came a fox.
The fox ate the rabbit."
---Fin.
Lesson: To be sitting, doing nothing but enjoying oneself, one must be sitting very high up.
Once upon a time I was told this story.
Along came a rabbit. The rabbit looked up at the crow and asked,
"May I be like you and sit all day doing nothing too?"
The crow looked down and sung out
"Why not? It's of little consequence to me."
So the rabbit sat down and commenced doing nothing
but enjoying himself and feeling the wind in his face.
Along came a fox.
The fox ate the rabbit."
---Fin.
Lesson: To be sitting and doing nothing but enjoying oneself, one must be sitting very high up.
I liked these little sketches enough to color them. That's a very tall compliment, little sketches. Congrats.
It's a rare shop that finds you singing along to Sublime while leafing through vintage musical titles. That place is of course exactly where I want to be. Recently I returned to the scene of my virginal NYC existence. I've found that nothing much has changed, but that I'm a lot more in tune (hehe) to my art and I'm better able to find things that inspire me as an artist visually, instead of using the place for pure musical delight.
I pride myself on being pretty dang knowledgeable of film must-sees, but A GLOVE STORY!??! Staring Barbara Streisand?! Who knew? Netflix is about to get all topsy turvey.
Inappropriate.
I would have loved to be art directed on this baby. Gee, that photo's really intense. Let's add some buoyant font to distract from the situation we're depicting here. There. That's much better. Now try it lower cased. We have a winnnnnnnner!
Add more stars! No more. More. Um. More. OK... almost.
Make it plaid. No. More plaid. More. No more plaid. OK... Almost.
I am obsessed with this era. Most of the art books in my personal collection are nods to this bygone time when girls were best depicted as sex pots with a lot of skirt.
Adorable but smart. I live for vintage logo. 
Keep it bold and do something heavy concept. The weirder the better. We don't need to use all the space. Seriously. This is always my mantra. LEAVE SOME SPACE! Sheesh. I love how free we used to be with it. 
Interestingly or uninterestingly(I've decided that's a word, deal with it.) enough, I feel this way about film too. For the most part I hate television with equal fervor to the passion I have for film. Why? NO SPACE! 
I would never trade my experience as a child of the eighties. My friends joke that I would have been best suited to the 60s, where I could have done drugs, championed my causes with sit-ins and drawn the hell out of a lot of doe-eyed sailor girls, all whilst clad in baby blue tailored skirts. I'm glad for the life I lead now (where I can find contacts that can handle my prescription, etc.) I however am thankful that I have these kind of archives at my fingertips. So that's Thursday at She Sure is Sketchy. Be inspired.
