Yeaaahhh She's Foxy, She's Foxy Browownnn

Remember back in March when I took notes while watching Foxy Brown? I also did this portrait of her, saying what is probably my favorite line in a movie ever (hyperbole is my life's blood). Her face doesn't look as Pam Grierish as I would hope, but hey, it's smaller than my pinky nail in real life, so give me a break.

The title is my attempt to render the tuneless wailing and lyrical repetitiveness of Foxy's theme song.

We Didn't Need Dialogue, We Had FACES!

My love of Norma Desmond is no secret to religious readers of this blog/people who have spoken to me for more than ten minutes. Hence she is the first page of my current notebook.

By the by, if you will consult this clip, which I was kind enough to post for you last October, you will realize that the line is, in fact, "Mister DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up", not freakin' "I'm ready for my close-up, Mister DeMille." But then, being readers of this high-quality blawg, I'm sure you already know that/have heard me rant about it because I care about the important issues in life, like properly quoting Sunset Boulevard. Priorities, dear readers, priorities.

Lionel Roy The Vinyl Boy

When I was in high school, there was a kid who would wear head-to-toe vinyl every single day. Pants, boots, hat, vest, jacket, gloves, sometimes even goggles. I spotted him so frequently that I felt I was doing him a disservice by continually referring to him as "that kid who wears head-to-toe vinyl every day," and so I dubbed him "Lionel Roy" for the simple reason that I could think of no other name that would rhyme with "Vinyl Boy." Eventually he stopped wearing vinyl, and I was, needless to say, very disappointed in him, and I even went so far as to write the lyrics to a tragic ballad on the subject, music provided by the then-boyfriend of one of my close pals. The song has since been lost in the sands of time (which is just as well, because my lyrics were pretty half-assed), and although I have contemplated a rewrite, for now, I think this similarly half-assed portrait will be a sufficient tribute to the boy who knew only of synthetic fabrics.

Let Me Eat Cake

Personally, if I were an 18th century French peasant, I'd find Marie Antoinette's rampant and well-documented (or possibly fictionalized by me) cake-hoarding infinitely more outrage-inducing (any other opportunities for hyphenation that I'm missing?) than an offer to share said cake.

The Alternative Being To Not Grow Up At All

I did a few drawings experimenting with these spindly figures, and they all (predictably) kind of ended up looking like Eastern European runway models. C'est la vie.

Paging Mr. Herman

You remember what to do when anyone says the secret word: scream real loud!

Monster Portrait

Self-explanatory?

Vegetables Are Good For You, And So Are Puns

Lest you think I only draw marine life (fictional and otherwise).