forsoothforsooth:

I am emerging after my weeks-long sadness-snit over the changed nature of the tumblr-verse to share a wee bit of happiness with y’all. Etsy took pity on me and my meager sales (it turns out, not a huge market for razor-knife art. WHAT?!?!) and did a bloggingstuff about me. 
Now, you might think this is a horn-tooty post all about me. But yo, check this out: it’s about YOU, my tiny circle of loyal tumblr pals. I breathed in too many enamel paint fumes while getting my shop fixed up for today, and the resulting brain damage has caused me to declare a shopwide 26% off sale. Yes yes y’all. All you have to do is tell me that my lips are more sensual than Ryan Gosling’s. You can do so via this code: RYANSTUPIDLIPS
Oh, my shoppe! It’s https://www.etsy.com/shop/HandwerkBlumen
I’m pretty much a social networking hermit at this point, so if the spirit moves you to share this with your 15,000 Google+ followers, feel free!
P.S. No one tell Ryan Gosling about this; I believe his biceps exceed my own.

I feel exceedingly weird posting to this, my old blogspot, and especially doing a reblog from my new blogspot, but hey. I’m convinced that 98% of you are either ghosts or sexbots, to be still following this moribund blog. But to the other 2%, hello, here is a thing!

forsoothforsooth:

I am emerging after my weeks-long sadness-snit over the changed nature of the tumblr-verse to share a wee bit of happiness with y’all. Etsy took pity on me and my meager sales (it turns out, not a huge market for razor-knife art. WHAT?!?!) and did a bloggingstuff about me. 

Now, you might think this is a horn-tooty post all about me. But yo, check this out: it’s about YOU, my tiny circle of loyal tumblr pals. I breathed in too many enamel paint fumes while getting my shop fixed up for today, and the resulting brain damage has caused me to declare a shopwide 26% off sale. Yes yes y’all. All you have to do is tell me that my lips are more sensual than Ryan Gosling’s. You can do so via this code: RYANSTUPIDLIPS

Oh, my shoppe! It’s https://www.etsy.com/shop/HandwerkBlumen

I’m pretty much a social networking hermit at this point, so if the spirit moves you to share this with your 15,000 Google+ followers, feel free!

P.S. No one tell Ryan Gosling about this; I believe his biceps exceed my own.

I feel exceedingly weird posting to this, my old blogspot, and especially doing a reblog from my new blogspot, but hey. I’m convinced that 98% of you are either ghosts or sexbots, to be still following this moribund blog. But to the other 2%, hello, here is a thing!

Yeah, that’s right: it’s the me of the past, reblogging the me of the present. Few more craven or shameful things have ever been done, but since the new blogspot continues to have a mere fraction of the followers of this one (I suspect at least 300 of you are spooky ghosts), here is the kind of fun you’re missing out on.
forsoothforsooth:

Friends, family, creepy longtime lovers of my aunt who insist on me calling them “Uncle,” even though you’ll never be my uncle, Dave:
Tonight, as MES’s behest in “Hip Priest” would have me do, I drink a long draught (of Mio™ Water Enhancer, Fruit Punch flavor) down, in celebration of that rarest bird Audubon ever shot and then drew a picture of (metaphor): the full and complete realization of my artistic vision for a piece. Here’s how it happened: I had that old red hand drill knocking about. Then, last weekend, J gave me the blue one. I have a small obsession with collecting things in trios, especially if I can get the three primary colors, so as soon as I got home I searched through eBay’s approximately 400 hand drills on offer, and found what I believe to be the only yellow one in existence. 
Having procured the goods, I went to my thinking spot (the tanning bed at the local salon, Electric Flesh) and spent 2 or 3 hours in deep, glowing contemplation. It was fruitless! The best idea I had was a performance art piece where I stared at any comer while wielding my three drills, but I had a weird feeling someone had done something similar recently. But on the way home, walking very slowly so that my crimson and scalded thighs didn’t brush against my M. Girbaud jeans, I let my mind go blank, and invited the universe in. The universe is usually a jerk to me, and makes me think about Tetris when I let it in (never ever giving me a long piece when I need it), but this one time, I was given the most precious gift. Are you ready? Do you want to hear what the universe whispered in my ear?
"The Drillian Centipede."
There it was, fully formed in my mind. And it is with a profound mixture of pride, shame, and whatever the German word is that is kind of like weltschmerz, but with a more specific meaning along the lines of “sadness that you have achieved the pinnacle of life and now begin the long downhill slog,” that I present it to you, a thing in the world. All I ask is that you don’t celebrate me, or shower me with bitcoins; I was a mere vassal of some higher force, briefly allowed to soar the vasty heights.
With that, I think there is a new app that just came out in the app store, so I bid you a fond adieu. 

Yeah, that’s right: it’s the me of the past, reblogging the me of the present. Few more craven or shameful things have ever been done, but since the new blogspot continues to have a mere fraction of the followers of this one (I suspect at least 300 of you are spooky ghosts), here is the kind of fun you’re missing out on.

forsoothforsooth:

Friends, family, creepy longtime lovers of my aunt who insist on me calling them “Uncle,” even though you’ll never be my uncle, Dave:

Tonight, as MES’s behest in “Hip Priest” would have me do, I drink a long draught (of Mio Water Enhancer, Fruit Punch flavor) down, in celebration of that rarest bird Audubon ever shot and then drew a picture of (metaphor): the full and complete realization of my artistic vision for a piece. Here’s how it happened: I had that old red hand drill knocking about. Then, last weekend, J gave me the blue one. I have a small obsession with collecting things in trios, especially if I can get the three primary colors, so as soon as I got home I searched through eBay’s approximately 400 hand drills on offer, and found what I believe to be the only yellow one in existence. 

Having procured the goods, I went to my thinking spot (the tanning bed at the local salon, Electric Flesh) and spent 2 or 3 hours in deep, glowing contemplation. It was fruitless! The best idea I had was a performance art piece where I stared at any comer while wielding my three drills, but I had a weird feeling someone had done something similar recently. But on the way home, walking very slowly so that my crimson and scalded thighs didn’t brush against my M. Girbaud jeans, I let my mind go blank, and invited the universe in. The universe is usually a jerk to me, and makes me think about Tetris when I let it in (never ever giving me a long piece when I need it), but this one time, I was given the most precious gift. Are you ready? Do you want to hear what the universe whispered in my ear?

"The Drillian Centipede."

There it was, fully formed in my mind. And it is with a profound mixture of pride, shame, and whatever the German word is that is kind of like weltschmerz, but with a more specific meaning along the lines of “sadness that you have achieved the pinnacle of life and now begin the long downhill slog,” that I present it to you, a thing in the world. All I ask is that you don’t celebrate me, or shower me with bitcoins; I was a mere vassal of some higher force, briefly allowed to soar the vasty heights.

With that, I think there is a new app that just came out in the app store, so I bid you a fond adieu. 

Exit, pursued by bear (the leather-daddy kind)

(I don’t get why this guy Bruce just won’t get that I’m not into his handlebar mustache vibe.)

Anyway, I posted this once already, but it came at the end of a tl;dr “think piece.” F+L is no more; this will be my last post here. I felt like I needed to turn a page. But! I am going to be very actively blogspotting at http://forsoothforsooth.tumblr.com, and humbly invite you to hang out with me for fun-n-things at my new joint. Real talk? I’ve been sad that some of my favorite tumblr friends of yore haven’t joined me over there, so at the risk of being spammy, I wanted to announce this once more in case it was missed in my previous spew of verbiage.

As long as I’m doing this last post, I should probably ask this question here, considering that F+L still has more followers, by an order of magnitude, than my new blargh. I will be taking a road trip—just me and Gem—down to Nashville, from Monday till the new year. Besides the obvious—finding the very worst, most touristy fake-honky-tonk and writing an essay about the country-Blues-Hammer band I hope to find there, can anyone tell me something I need to do while down there? I’ve never been. I like old stuff, weird history, classic country. And I like food but hate “foodie” culture. ?

For a Long Time I Used to Go to Bed Early
I’ve been away for a while.
For a long time now, I’ve wanted to resume blogging, but not as Falling + Laughing. It was this post you’re reading—the valedictory F+L post—that has held me back. I wanted to write a sweeping yet pithy essay: what’s happened in the past year, what F+L has meant to me, why I feel like it’s a chapter of my life I need to close. It would be a funny/sad post, and it would wrap up everything neatly. A clean break, then a fresh start.
If only. If that essay were possible, and especially if it were possible in anything less than novella length, I don’t have the necessary perspective and distance to write it now, and maybe I never will. So I’m just going to say that some fundamental structures in my person have changed, for better and for worse. I was a little cagey about my age during the period I was extremely active on F+L; tumblr obviously skews young, and I worried I’d lose readers if people knew I was an oldster. I was essentially someone in his early thirties acting out a fantasy-twenties he’d wished he’d had. Hell, during one of my exceptionally manic periods, I was obsessed with the idea of starting a Swedish dancehall night here in Chicago (you may recall a key attraction of which would have been me dancing whilst cradling Gemma; my nom du spin was going to be DJ Who Dances While Cradling a Dog). 
Ridiculous. I mean that in good and bad ways.
The age thing is not something I plan to keep up. I’m 36 now, and feel every year of it acutely. Which is not to say I always act my age: my sense of humor—which has gotten me through some of the most extreme tsuris of the past year—remains pretty much the same, and has remained pretty much the same since I was 8. 
Falling + Laughing brought some insanely good things into my life. The manic posting periods I mentioned—they make me cringe a little, but they were also very happy times for me. And—most important—tumblr made me less lonely. I work at home as a freelance designer, and that can be a lonesome place to inhabit day in and day out. At the height of my F+L blogging, I felt genuine connections with my tumblr friends. I hope some of you are still out there. I’ve missed you and I hope we can reconnect.
So here’s the rip-it-up-and-start-again moment. I humbly and sincerely request you join me at my new joint: forsoothforsooth.tumblr.com. It’s a new start, but I can promise much of the same that you might have enjoyed with F+L. Longtime readers will know my obsession with Mark E. Smith, highly dubious role-model and antihero. He famously said something like: “If it’s me and your granny on the bongos, it’s The Fall.” Well, if it’s me and your half-step-uncle playing the congas, it’s Falling + Laughing. I’ve changed utterly. I haven’t changed a bit.
forsoothforsooth.tumblr.com

For a Long Time I Used to Go to Bed Early

I’ve been away for a while.

For a long time now, I’ve wanted to resume blogging, but not as Falling + Laughing. It was this post you’re reading—the valedictory F+L post—that has held me back. I wanted to write a sweeping yet pithy essay: what’s happened in the past year, what F+L has meant to me, why I feel like it’s a chapter of my life I need to close. It would be a funny/sad post, and it would wrap up everything neatly. A clean break, then a fresh start.

If only. If that essay were possible, and especially if it were possible in anything less than novella length, I don’t have the necessary perspective and distance to write it now, and maybe I never will. So I’m just going to say that some fundamental structures in my person have changed, for better and for worse. I was a little cagey about my age during the period I was extremely active on F+L; tumblr obviously skews young, and I worried I’d lose readers if people knew I was an oldster. I was essentially someone in his early thirties acting out a fantasy-twenties he’d wished he’d had. Hell, during one of my exceptionally manic periods, I was obsessed with the idea of starting a Swedish dancehall night here in Chicago (you may recall a key attraction of which would have been me dancing whilst cradling Gemma; my nom du spin was going to be DJ Who Dances While Cradling a Dog). 

Ridiculous. I mean that in good and bad ways.

The age thing is not something I plan to keep up. I’m 36 now, and feel every year of it acutely. Which is not to say I always act my age: my sense of humor—which has gotten me through some of the most extreme tsuris of the past year—remains pretty much the same, and has remained pretty much the same since I was 8. 

Falling + Laughing brought some insanely good things into my life. The manic posting periods I mentioned—they make me cringe a little, but they were also very happy times for me. And—most important—tumblr made me less lonely. I work at home as a freelance designer, and that can be a lonesome place to inhabit day in and day out. At the height of my F+L blogging, I felt genuine connections with my tumblr friends. I hope some of you are still out there. I’ve missed you and I hope we can reconnect.

So here’s the rip-it-up-and-start-again moment. I humbly and sincerely request you join me at my new joint: forsoothforsooth.tumblr.com. It’s a new start, but I can promise much of the same that you might have enjoyed with F+L. Longtime readers will know my obsession with Mark E. Smith, highly dubious role-model and antihero. He famously said something like: “If it’s me and your granny on the bongos, it’s The Fall.” Well, if it’s me and your half-step-uncle playing the congas, it’s Falling + Laughing. I’ve changed utterly. I haven’t changed a bit.

forsoothforsooth.tumblr.com

I love their signature drink, the Margaritaburg.

I love their signature drink, the Margaritaburg.

The moment of utter horror when you realize you’ve sanded too much faux-asswear into the seat of the old chair you’ve spraypainted and are trying too hastily to rough up a bit and make look old again. When you realize the wear pattern would only be consistent with a previous owner who had restless leg syndrome and the habit of sticking coarse/jagged objects into his back pockets. When you realize you tossed the spray can thinking it was empty and therefore can’t start over.

Don’t play the innocent act and pretend like you didn’t totally misread this at first too.

Don’t play the innocent act and pretend like you didn’t totally misread this at first too.

Who hasn’t yearned for their own personal Sympathy Cage—a place where you can go in, shut the door on the world, and just feel kind of mellow and at peace and sympathized-with?

Who hasn’t yearned for their own personal Sympathy Cage—a place where you can go in, shut the door on the world, and just feel kind of mellow and at peace and sympathized-with?

After years of difficult contemplation, I finally figured out the perfect decor to finish up my man cave (AKA the Growlbrary, because it’s half-library, half-growlery): embossed, gilt, and often floral Victorian poetry (mostly) books! They look great next to my beer can collection and my “Woman are like [this], men are like [that]” comical tin sign.

After years of difficult contemplation, I finally figured out the perfect decor to finish up my man cave (AKA the Growlbrary, because it’s half-library, half-growlery): embossed, gilt, and often floral Victorian poetry (mostly) books! They look great next to my beer can collection and my “Woman are like [this], men are like [that]” comical tin sign.

Oh come on! Clearly, the doctor’s name was Pettit, and this horrifying monster of an eBay seller is just putting out search term bait for subhuman perverts looking for—for—I’m not even going to say it. What is this world coming to?

Oh come on! Clearly, the doctor’s name was Pettit, and this horrifying monster of an eBay seller is just putting out search term bait for subhuman perverts looking for—for—I’m not even going to say it. What is this world coming to?