Yeah, I still play with dolls.

I was the biggest, fattest kid on the playground. I did whatever the hell I wanted to and nobody gave me shit for it. That's probably why I played with dolls for an absurdly long amount of time for a boy. As a matter of fact, I believe I went right from dolls to girls (hmmmm . . . makes ya think, huh?).

So I'm in the middle of one now. In the shit. This is the point of my existence. By tonight it will be done and it won't matter anymore. On to the next thing. But right now it relies on my concentration, my commitment, my version of a vision.

And now a little taste of the Q & A that runs through my head constantly for hours in a row as I work:

Q:Should he have goat's legs?
A:Why wouldn't he.

Q:Do cloven hooves needs cloven shoes?
A:Why wouldn't they.

Q:Should I assume he's allergic to gold and the fancy shoes gave him a venereal slug infection?
A:Why wouldn't you?

Q:Should we assume these slugs will be trialing slime across his body?
A:Yes.

Q:Will they be heading straight for his mouth?

Q:Is he dripping slime from his festering bathing-suit area?

Q:Is he somebodies abandoned pet?

Q:How'd he loose his arm?

So keep in mind, none of these fotos have the sluggy ooze trials yet, I just really needed some shots of the process:



(Notice my daring use of a complimentary color scheme to bring out the yellow in the creepers.)



Yeah, the slimes gonna rock! swirly maps of clear nail-polish to show the slow path from groin to mouth. Carving the cloven horse-shoe design into the bottom the shoes will be nice. Then drilling them into the hooves with real hardware and painting it all gold.

And now it's off to take electric tools to it and make it be finished and complete.

(Later)

the slugs are getting shiney.


And the golden, cloven, allergin-clad shoes are all carved and nailed in (Of course a cloven shoe takes six nails per hoof, versus the usual eight used on non-enchanted entities).


(Notice the turn-buckle roped to the entertainment center in the background. That's for when the cats can get rowdy . . . we throw them up against the turn-buckle and do wrestling moves on them).

Not too shabby for two days of work . . . and by nightfall, this guy's done.

Here's the synopsis I've concocted:

The Huge golden shoes are a status symbol to us. This dude's either wealthy enough to indulge in expensive shoes or exists outside the realm of our understanding of economic value. Either way, the shoes are an indulgence. They are heavy. They hurt. . . but, damn, do they look good. So the only problem is whether or not the golden-allergy that manifests itself as a swollen groin, riddled with sliming, yellow slugs is worth the emotional reward of finely-cobbled/smithed footwear.

Seemingly so.

His shoes do look good. . .

. . . and the stump-arm? Lawn-mower? House cat? Ritual scarification? Self-inflicted guilt control? Folding-couch accident?

Maybe he was born that way.

(Even later yet . . . )

The shoes are gold now.



I gold-leafed them. They don't look gold or seem gold, they're fucking gold. This is the technique the Old Masters used to illustrate manuscripts and detail scrolls. I'm sure the smoothness of their motions and skill was hypnotizing. I, on the other hand, kinda just stabbed it on and swore a lot.