Boing Boing gets my bump...

I promised myself when I started this that I wouldn't be the kind of blogger to just re-post stuff from Boing Boing, but man is this funny...

I'm glad its provenance could be established. I'm kinda Antiques Roadshow about this stuff. ;)

Audacity indeed...

I'm trying, folks. I'm trying to get on the Hope Train and feel all warm and fuzzy about November. But a primordial streak of pragmatism runs in my family and it just keeps yanking me back to my dear old jaded self.

Of course this election is important and markedly different than any preceding it in the United States. But Obama's still a national politician, with a national politician's ego. I look at his legions of fans (and that's what it feels like--fans, not a populace that must, for it's own preservation, hold its politicians accountable in all things) and they make me nervous. Enjoy the show, folks. But tomorrow makes sure the man does his job.

I support Obama (and would anyway, even if the thought of John McCain in the White House didn't set off my IBS), but my support is tempered with genuine expectation. I seriously doubt he could do any worse than the current administration unless he suddenly shed his human form and started eating babies, but all the same, I want real change. And I want it in relatively short order.

In the beginning...

...there were only raw materials. Ideas gave them shape, and these shapes led to further ideas. The vicious circle was set into motion, and woe unto those that hopped this hellbound freight...

Some of my earliest memories are of making stuff. I blame my mom. When I was little, she was constantly creating--sewing, painting, nailing together bits of wood. In retrospect, it was likely a chemical imbalance that led her to sew all of my Halloween costumes by hand, or create a three-story doll house for my sister and me. I mean, it's not normal, right? Martha Stewart at least has financial incentive (not to mention a massive staff of lackeys to carry out her tyrannical whims). What thanks did my mother get? Two largely ungrateful daughters who would rather wear Garanimals than hand-made. I'm not sure how I side-stepped understanding the thanklessness of it all. I just remember at first emulating her techniques and eventually her passion.

I'd like to think it's genetic, but my sister claims to have almost no creative impulses (beyond a knack for interior design). My son is very creative, but it manifests mostly as a writing bug. So I can't be sure. My only certainty is that's it's communicable and I have it, terminally.

This blog is for others like me: craftaholics. Join me, won't you? An affliction shared is an affliction halved...or is that doubled...?

We'll start with a tour of my latest little problem.

p.s. I also plan to piss people off with various rants. So steel yourselves, gentle readers....