…And a Tappy New Year

My family is Hungarian all living around Budapest, but my parents live in Portland, OR.

J’s parents are Japanese, but his mother got remarried to a German–and they live in Italy now.

Our kid is a Nazgul and he comes from the fires of Mordor.
We’re entrusted with him, but any day, Sauron may call to claim his kin…

‘Your family is so international!’ people gush if we get into the complicated ‘where are you from?’ conversation, and maybe that’s true, but it does make the holiday times a bit of a bitch. Namely, because you can’t do the ‘Eve at my parents’ place, Day at your parents’ place’ thing. We do the ‘this year at your parents, next year at my parents’ thing–and this year was J’s parents’ turn :< which means no Hungarian carp (the Official Fish of the Holiday Seasons) and no family hilarity, as J’s parents are of a fairly sober nature.

Sure, they’ll eat food together, and they’ll decorate their home in a tasteful manner, and maybe get in some undertow-jabs across the dinner table–but would anyone announce, right after the presents had been torn open, and right before the fish had to be served, without a touch of facetiousness, and with more than a touch of bravado, that they were just as good of a dancer as the late Michael Jackson?

My sister did exactly that the Saint Eve of 2010 (or was it 2011)?

Nobody was foolish enough to vocally refute her claims of being on par with a dancer and entertainer proclaimed a genius in his own lifetime– still, my sister was determined to immediately put her feet where her mouth was. Perhaps there was something insincere or not quite credulous in our silence.

In the soft ambient glow of the flickering Christmas tree with the scent of Baby Jesus still clinging to the air, she popped in her MJ CD (always kept on hand for such emergencies). Back when Miley Cyrus’ twirling ass-cheeks weren’t even a twinkle yet in anyone’s eye, my flour-white and doughy-bodied sister started to shimmy, growl ‘shamona’ and occasionally grab her crotch to the fat beat of ‘They Don’t Care About Us’. Before we could entirely process this musical cry for help, the song came to an end, and my sister smoothly segued into the evening’s next entertainment, announcing with gravitas that she was a better drawer than I–not that that is so hard to be, then again, she had (to my knowledge) never attempted to draw anything beyond a stick dog.

‘I’ll prove it to you,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a Michael Jackson drawing contest. Right now.’

Had she been secretly practicing? Would she shame me now by going Michelangelo on my ass? I took up the challenge.

We pushed the festivities on the kitchen table aside and used a photo of MJ from her CD’s album art as a reference. Less than five minutes later, my sister called out that she was done, and she would have my mom come over and adjudicate. I had MJ’s mouth done at that point, and maybe his eyes.

Sister: Isn’t mine great? It looks just like him, right?
Never the type to lie, even to her progeny, my mom:
Uhhhhhh… so what happened to his face?
My sister (the shadow of self-defense creeping into her voice for the first time this holy night): Well, I didn’t get his hair entirely right, that’s all. It’s hard. He has curly hair.
My mom: You call that ‘not quite right’? It looks like a truckin’ WISTERIA TREE fell on his head!

I lost it at ‘Wisteria Tree’. I started to laughing uncontrollably and the laughter may not have stopped until the fish was finally on the table…..

And knowing that it would be exactly this brand of hilarity lacking from J’s parents festivities, I made my polite holiday exit at Christmas Day Three to run away to Hungary, close to the Romanian border, to the sleepy little town from which one of my best friends from here hails. By the fourth day of Christmas all civility was drained from them though and they were as thoroughly sick of each other as any group of people forced to make merry together for the past week.

At the dinner table:

Hungarian friend’s father: Can you pass the bread, honey?
Hungarian friend’s mother: I’m sick of your negative comments, go ski into a cunt!
Me: ~____~

Back home for New Years, which we spent with fireworks (even those big explode-y ones are not illegal here o_o). J and Nazgul and I got out to the street-corner smelling like WWIII. I thought the baby would love the fireworks (aren’t kids all pyromaniacs?) and he did appreciate them in a restrained way, but he seemed to be concerned about me catching on fire….

‘R,’ he kept saying. ‘Fire. Ouch. Come here.’ And he would direct me under a tree.

(He didn’t seem concerned about J catching on fire–J was welcome to stay in the middle of the street and keep lighting fireworks for us.)

But yeah–that was Christmas–Christmas past, present–and may there be many fun ones in the future, full of Michael Jackson drawing contests– For all of you moofs too, I’d like to wish you a wonderful 2014 ^___^ full of sex and violence friends and food!

Ye Olde Art Swappe

Hey there readers ^___^

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife 2. – long-haired boy and octopus (brown ink).
Okay okay, so you’ve always wanted to eat my sushi and own one of my tentacle pictures… the night of Dec. 12th is your chance! ~___~ This is the piece I am donating. Sorry for the horrible photo.

I’ll try to keep this one short and just say that while we are roasting our nuts over open fires and laughing all the way (hahaha) this Christmas season–across the world… all the way in the Philippines, there are literally millions of people who are in dire need after Typhoon Haiyan, and my good friend Paintblotch is trying to help them by organizing an art-swap on the 12th of December (this next Thursday.)

If you live here in Munich, I highly urge you to check it out. I saw some of the pieces that will be available today and they are seriously impressive. [Mine is the crappiest one, so sorry ;____;.] Paintings, drawings–for pouring Slurpees, there’s a friggin’ alabaster sculpture that’s been donated–a huge painting by my good friend W–all original work issued with certificates of authenticity.

This is your chance to get your hands on some valuable art AND help support the organization called ‘Doctors Without Borders‘ in the Philippines.

Here’s how it works:

1. Purchase a ticket here for either 50 or 100 euros (all proceeds will go to ‘Doctors Without Borders’).
2. Show up at the art swap on Thursday evening starting at 7pm and use your ticket to collect a piece of donated art from a Munich artist. Donated art will be divided into two categories, roughly based on size and medium. If you like what you got, hold on to it tight! If you don’t, try to sucker someone else out of their piece during the swap game.
3. Eat the sushi I will be making and chug the booze we will be providing! Mingle with local artists and shoppers before you mosey back out to Viktualienmarkt in search of more food and mulled wine. (The location is conveniently close to Isartor.)

If you don’t live in Munich, but would still like to donate money for the typhoon survivors, there is a link on the events page. I suspect you’ve probably made some Christmas donations already, but every little bit helps. Five dollars, ten dollars.

If you do live in Munich, seriously, get a ticket! Not only will you be helping some people in serious need, the piece of art you will be getting will be worth  more than the money you paid AND the sushi–and let’s not forget the isle of naked men… mmm, naked men.

Here’s a link again for anyone interested in attending or donating and thanks so much, moofs <3 You’re all great and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season.

A special thanks to W for his generous art donation and to Emmy Horstkamp for letting us use BCA Munich’s gallery for that evening (which is also her gallery’s opening night.)

2nd Time Around – Chapter I.

The writing of a thousand pages starts with a single chicken nugget.
-Abraham Lincoln


‘Do people with blue eyes like…. even have a soul?’ Probably my favorite question ever asked me by a Japanese person. It’s like, heck should I know, I don’t have blue eyes? >___>

Warning: Mucho not orderly post.

Once a long time ago when I was still making sushi, I got really plastered at the restaurant Christmas party, so of course I blacked out and didn’t remember anything of shenanigans that ensued. According to J, on the tram-way home, I announced I was sick and forced him to get off with me and we walked the several remaining kilometers in subzero temperatures rivaling the winds of Satan’s Lair. At some point, I supposedly got so belligerent about the cold, I tried to walk up to any foreign door and open it. J had to dissuade me–don’t open that, he said, that’s not our house. But I’m so cold! I whined. (Supposedly. I’m not much of a whiner, so I question the reliability of the narrator here.) ‘If we can’t open those doors, just open something! I’m so cold, I don’t care what you open, just open it!! Just open anything!’ Poor hapless J, in the middle of the night, freezing his ass off and stuck with a wasted wanker, proceeded to take off my backpack and open it at me. ‘Look,’ he said with the patience of a thousand Ghandis. ‘I opened this. It’s open.’ Supposedly, that calmed me enough that I was able to walk the rest of the way drama free.

The next morning when he relayed all this to me I was like ‘Jesus Christ, sounds like I was drunk as fuck. How did we even make it home?!?’

J: One step at a time…

One step at a time…

You know, I always thought what was hard was simply doing something. You do the thing, the first time it’s hard, but then after that, since you know how to do it,  it’s okay. The realization slowly dawning in me of late though is that actually, what may be the hardest is not just doing something…

…but doing it AGAIN.

The first time, you don’t know any better. You bound into the experience bright eyed and ready for anything, like a Husky puppy plunging into a bank of snow.

Learn a language?
Write a book?
Have a kid?

Fuck it, why not? I’ll try anything once!

The second time, you’re like a cat on ice. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO, I DID this shit once and I waded through to the other side, and yes. Hooray and yippee—but could I do it again? Do I want to?

My mom: When are you going to have another kid?
My mom-in-law: When are you going to have another kid?
Me: When Santy Claus gives me a one hour private lap-dance, that’s when!

Honestly, when I see people on the train with more than one child, I’m like O_O. From what reservoir of Voldemort magic did you dredge the strength to do all that again, like….. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?! (Also what I think about anyone who has done more than one major project…..) But of course, it’s not that we don’t remember…

I have started my second graphic novel and while on the one hand, it is wonderful to have this whole body of past mistakes I do not have to make again…. let’s just say, I’ve been listening to a lot of Eminem to stay pumped.

Let me be clear, I hate misogyny and homophobia, but right now what I need most in the world after an unlimited supply of hugs and hotpockets and black coffiee and blacker ink is for someone to yell ‘get the fuck off your punk ass pussy bitch ass and grab a pencil’–to a catchy beat. Sometimes, I play good cop bad cop with Eminem and 2pac, and when Eminem gets too harsh, I put on something like ‘Changes’ or ‘Keep Ya Head Up’, which always makes me choke up (I swear, over the years, I have heard those two songs hundreds of times and my throat still closes when I hear them…) I think, Fuck… these people (and of course many many others) used their raps to change their own lives–and they made successful albums again and again and again. Not every song of theirs is great, and some albums are better than others, but they had the fortitude to go back at it when they could have rested on their laurels and I find that incredibly inspiring. They had their negative distractions (demons) and positive distractions (family) and they did it again.

Art and writing is my therapy, so what to do when you need therapy about your therapy? I go to J.

‘I don’t think I can do this again,’ I say to him as I lay face up on our bed with my eyeballs sweating.

You know those people who are disgustingly good at everything they do and there are all these careers you could envision them being really successful at (besides the career they already have and are successful at?) Meanwhile, you’re shining bright like a potato? J is one of those people, and not only could he be a smashing masseuse or male prostitute, he’d make a damn good therapist too (and if he combined them, oh my god, what a trifecta, therapy while you get a massage and then a happy ending?! He’d make a motherloving KILLING.)

So anyway, I was staring at the ceiling and he was being my personal pro bono therapist and he gave me some wonderful advice which was: Don’t think of it as a whole project. Treat each chapter as it’s own project. That way, when you are done with one chapter, you can consider yourself ‘done’ for a while and do something else, if you need to….

It’s too overwhelming to walk the whole six kilometers home drunk, so just walk it home one step at a time. One chapter at a time.

I broke it down further, I started to think of it in terms of pages. In terms of panels. In terms of single lines and drops of ink. One after another. After another.

It’s me
My honesty’s brutal
But it’s honestly futile if I don’t utilize
What I do though for good
At least once in a while so I wanna make sure
Somewhere in this chicken scratch I scribble and doodle
Enough rhymes to
Maybe try to help get some people through tough times
But I gotta keep a few punchlines
Just in case cause even you unsigned
Rappers are hungry looking at me like it’s lunchtime
- Rap God Eminem

The entirety of the song ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ by Tupac

Sandwiched between the wisdom of guardian angels J, Eminem and Tupac, how can anyone go wrong??

They can’t! And thanks to them, I have finished my first chapter…! ::dances::

You two, dear reader, if you’re out there struggling with something big, I encourage you to chunk it up, destroy the pieces, murder the verses one by one!

[So sorry though, mom, I am still not having another kid.... >___>]

Dear Friend II

So la-da-dee-da-deee, we like to pardeeee…
Dancin’ with Molly, doin’ whatever we wa-a-aaaaaant….
This is our house, these are our rules…
And we can’t stop… and we won’t stop!!
(-Bastille cover of ‘Can’t Stop’)

death and all

Moleskine sketch – Death and all his friends. [I started out drawing a bunch of fucked up heads and then realized they correspond to the things I am scared of, including depression, suicide, self-harm, vomiting, negative body image and weird pieces of meat. Make it big to appreciate all the detail >___>)

Dear Friend,

I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?

A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]

the cutters red st seb new color detailconnie red smallrough night moleskinsafewordjon crophyenatumblr_mtwm896nri1rn4weno1_500

People talk about their exes, the lovers and bfs and efs and gfs and people who have screwed them up–rarely do people mention breaking up with friends. You don’t break up with a friend; you move, or grow apart, or stop having time for each other. It is not an eruption, rather an imperceptible but gradual tectonic shift in life situations that usually erodes friendships. Destroy being too strong of a word. However, you and I broke up. There was shouting, tears, angry words. Cold, long, unbreakable silence. And when I made new friends who seemed like they could be who you had been to me, I annoyed them by mentioning you too much, exactly as someone annoys a current partner by talking too favorably or too often of an old one.

The kicker about losing a friend you’ve had from childhood is that the vernacular of your friendship is so entrenched, it seemed at times I couldn’t go a single day without seeing SOMETHING that reminded me of you. A cup of coffee, a certain star we’d crushed on, a person with curly black hair… You were and continue to be reactivated in my memory through sight, sound, touch, taste and smell–the places we walked, jokes we made, foods we ate, songs we heard, words we used. Like Proust and his fucking madeleine dipped in tea. A tiny trigger could put me in a mood… and now here you were after what… two years? Three now?

On the phone.

“Hello?’ you said and I said ‘hello?’ about two times more than necessary, as if I didn’t recognize your voice, but yeah right. Right? You had me at ‘hel’ ~_~ I knew it had to be you.

It’s funny, I’ve fantasized about this conversation for literally years. I wondered  what it would be like, if you would ever want to talk to me again, if I would be happy the day you finally came around; if I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, or if we truly wouldn’t talk and at some point in the far future one of us would hear from a friend of a friend of a friend, ‘oh yeah, xxx? They died last month…’

That sounds melodramatic, but humans DO actually die.
Right? We are mortal??
Not just like in dem books.

I’ve spent this last month under a lot of anxiety. I’m going through a strange period of my life right now. I can’t say it is necessary bad. Just difficult. Like Akagi said, the sand at the bottom of Hell is magical sand.

A lot of the pics I’ve drawn lately have been violent, disturbing or sad. A lot of them have to do with self-harm and a feeling of doubt, exactly what you have expressed to me on the phone. I wondered while I was drawing if these pics had any value, if they were too emotional or personal to mean anything to someone other than myself. In other words, if I was wasting my time.

It’s extremely serendipitous that just as I was thinking these thoughts you called. And I heard in your voice not the desire even to be loved, though of course, everyone wants to be loved. I heard the desire to have something that demanded that you throw yourself into it, that you live, not just exist.

I won’t talk about the stuff you said, of course, all of that is confidential and no person’s business, but I will say thank you for calling me again and making me feel like I am doing something right.  You managed to remind me of the important thing–that when you create anything, you are living. As you said, tasting life. And so long as you are doing that, it is impossible to be wasting your time.

“I’m sick of this John Greene generation–sadness is not romantic, nobody is going to come kiss your scars or discover you reading Bukowski in a bookshop. You’ve got to be your own hero.” -rough paraphrase of some internet quote

I actually find it pretty easy to find people who will kiss the scars, it’s just that the kisses don’t make them go away. The antidote to sadness is not always love. Often, sadness is the overwhelming ache to be useful, to be productive, or to find satisfying expression, and no, you cannot be your own hero, because you don’t live in a vacuum. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a prince or a princess or a princez on a white horse who drags you out of your rut, but you need a relationship and productive dialogue with something.

Art will not kiss your scars, but on the other hand, you can come to it again and again and never impose upon it, never fear that maybe this time your complaining and pus and tears will drive it away.  You made me realize I am very lucky and I hope I can help you too at some point in the near future, dear friend.

It was really good to hear from you. <3


I am drawn to strange phobias, probably because I have a couple of them.

Warning: Holes, needles. Meat. If you’re scared of that type of thing.

Trypophobia! or Meatbook

Trypophobia! or Meatbook

When I was younger, if I was drunk or hung over especially, I noticed things with patterns made me anxious. Like manhole covers (you know the kinds with holes on them) or any kind of cluster-like pattern. In the subway stations, some have hexagonal bee-hive like shapes as decoration (!!) hah, more like patterns to drive the drunk insane, and that would make me sicker than anything. I would squeeze my eyes and try to look away…

Turns out this is actually a thing?! Trypophobia is an unofficial phobia, characterized by a fear of patterns, specifically holes in clusters. The theory behind it is that these holes trigger a primal human fear of diseases characterized by holes/lesions and/or holes that may be openings to dangerous animal hives (such as bees or ants.)

Anyway, there’s a page from my sketchbook in the Halloween spirit–have a nice Halloween, moofs and may it be repetitive-pattern free. <3

Hello Kitty, Goodbye Sanity

If I were king, porn stores would have normal store fronts and toy stores would be hidden via inky tinted windows and their signs would read nothing so brazen like “Toys” or “Toy Store”  but swathed in dark euphemisms such as “Accoutrement for the Still-Developing Human.”

The Corridor of Despair and Public Flagellation (known to normal childless people as the Check Out Lane) would be candy, chocolate and small toy free.

Popularized children’s characters, such as Hello Kitty and Despicable Me Minions would NOT be allowed on the packaging of products having inherently nothing to do with kitties or yellow minions. Especially not kitties and minions.

If lives are movies, in the flick “Raising Nazghul,’ I’m the cop who lightly fingers the tazer because you were doing 38 in a 35 zone. J’s the cop who pulls you over at 50  in a 35, smiles winsomely and says… well. You probably had your reasons. I’ll let you off with a warning. ~_~

At some point though, even the strict parent feels the panic of being in a public place with pants down, tantrum imminent and then supporting Big Useless Plastic Toy and Big Candy Bar become tempting quick solutions to the Big Questions people have been asking since the dawn of Civilization.

What is the good life?
To be or not to be?
Hello Kitty or goodbye dignity? Sanity? Humanity? Manatee? Herbal tea?
That becomes the question.

There’s this mall near our house. I’m not a mall fan, but it rains a lot where I live and my kid has a golden retriever personality. Every day he needs a long walk in which to try to find all the gold he would want to retrieve. If it’s raining, I take him to this mall sometimes. It seems like a good idea–a big, long enclosed space he presumably can’t escape from with plenty of little espresso bars per capita and enough upscale women’s clothing stores to  keep us both out of trouble.

Except. Ground floor. Smack in the right  carotid of the mall, pulsing like a malignant growth. Mother of God. A Teddy Bear Store. Where you make your own teddy bear and they stuff it for you. (!!!!) With an enormous  Teddy Bear Stuffing Machine, big as a cotton gin, purring right in the middle of the establishment. And those scoundrels, do you think they care about public decency and order? Burn me if they do! Far from being wrapped in all black, like an enormous Birthday Present from Satan Himself, warning parents for miles around of the potential for breakdown in public peace and order, this place is blinking flashing lights and GREETERS! standing with sample bears to lure you in. The greeters are generally late teenage girls who look like they Love Children and hate everyone else.

[Far from what many people think, some parents actually STILL hate toddlers screaming and spinning on the ground. Even when it's their own toddler. And they would like nothing more but to give you a quiet shopping experience.... it's just so hard.....

The childless: Then why did you have kids to begin with?!
The breeders: Mergghghghghghg???? Because my p-nus told me it would be a good idea?  ::makes dying walrus sound:: ]

I reproduced because dying walrus sound, okay?! Don’t judge me ;___;

I think I’ve had nightmares about walking by that store. By now, I have a total alternative route mapped out if we go to the mall, just to avoid that trucking store, except Big Teddy Bear is Cunning. He worms himself into the very heart of the mall right next to the tasty sausage stand and fresh juice stand ;____; The Hn’M is close to there too…. I need vitamins and cheap hats… :<<< I love nitrated meats….

I wouldn’t even MIND buying something for the little minion, but kids  don’t care, it’s just about the chase. As soon as you broke down and bought them something, a toddler will enjoy it for about two minutes, toss it on the writhing pile of Hello Kitty Charred Sacrifice Corpses and set their beady eyes on the next victim. It doesn’t stop.

::whispers brokenly::


::eyes bulge::

I don’t even know how to end this entry.
Do you feel the paranoia?


I call this picture Proud Servants of the Dark Lord



150% Done NSFW (kinda??)

Don’t you sometimes wish you could go back? Rewrite every shitty story you ever wrote to erase the evidence? Redraw every spooge picture that seemed so kickass at the time? But isn’t there a point where you have to stop and say: This is what it is. It COULD be better, but I will let it be a mark of my current imperfection. There *is* something beautiful about this earnest, crappy innocence….

I read this by Zora Neale Hurston and thought, yes. Yes. Bleeding YES.

Bolds are my bolds.

She said:

I wrote “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in Haiti. It was dammed up in me, and I wrote it under internal pressure in seven weeks. I wish that I could write it again. In fact, I regret all of my books. It is one of the tragedies of life that one cannot have all the wisdom one is ever to possess in the beginning. Perhaps, it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would be written at all. It might be better to ask yourself “Why?” afterwards than before. Anyway, the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.

Ok, ok, ok, ok.
Kissy break!

Someone kiss me, I got shit done! Nothing says celebration like tongues...

I’m so gonna regret this picture later, but nothing says celebration like wet tongues <3

You want to congratulate me?
Give me a little celebratory pat on the bum?
Or say, ‘Good job, have some ham’ just to be nice to me?

Why, you ask, why do I have to be nice to YOU, moof?

Because….. the agony is over and the untold story has been told in all its imperfect but earnest glory.
That’s right. ::preens:: ::swishes::
I just finished my book. Like, yesterday.

Yep. I’ve been wrestling with that bugger like Jacob wrestled with the Lord for two years now, but I got Old Testament on its ass and finished my second novel. Do you know how hard it is to finish a book when you have a small child around snapping at your ankles? Imagine trying to juggle a hot pie, a sizable roast and five turned-on chainsaws while ravenous baby alligators try to circumcise you. That’s about how hard it is. But I did it *AND* I didn’t kill my child!

::pumps fist in the air while softly whispers::
I love it when I get shit done and no babies had to die…

I can’t blame the baby completely though.

I was doing the thing. The thing Zora N. H. warns against…

When you write a book, but each time you near finish, you realize you are a better, and more experienced writer than when you started out so you say, well, I’ll just take this extra knowledge I now have and  add this thing, oh and change that thing, and  just rewrite this part and redo that part and this part and that part, and change the transition here and rewrite the POV  to this and dammit, and shuznut and each time you realize that you are growing so you keep fixing and futzing so as to not leave a carbon footprint of your own idiocy upon the world. That thing.

(Presuming that anyone will even read your book, that is.)

And I got to the point finally where I said, well yeah–fuck it. It is what it is. I had to get it out, I’ll probably look back on it and cringe a little, but I tried my best and I have to move on, so ::shakes dewflaps vigorously:: I told the story I had to tell and now I’m ready to do the really fun putting salt in your butthole trying to get published process… ^____^

I think one writer wisely said that the real work  begins not when you start, but when you FINISH writing a book….

Wish me luck, moofs <3