#Pen Chalet

[inkophile]

Want A Gorgeous Pen?

Want A Gorgeous Pen?

Tada! This is the Magna Carta Sapphire Grand Fountain Pen and it is on sale at Pen Chalet. Isn’t it a beauty?

[psych3png]

glass chalet , who i have exclusively drawn on the dying aggie.io (rest in pieces) . more information about them below the cut , or if you want follow my toyhouse (psych3png <- not visible to guests) which has a more cohesive list of information on them

pov me when i drop art and high tail it the motehrfuck off of this app . clawing at the bars of my enclosure (im ok) (im insane)

- glass chalet was named after a wilbur soot song . yes , that guy . glass chalet pre-dates that dumpster fire.

- they’re based off how I remembered my long hair looking as a kid.

- glass has no physical expression ever, nor do they blink. they will occasionally close their eyes for long periods but -> long closed eye periods ≠ blinking

- they don’t really talk , ever . said “ hey “ once and that was it . good for them i guess

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[ww2yaoi]

[I caved and started writing a webgott fic even though I'm 23 years late. this ground has definitely been traversed before but I'm an advocate for the webgott 2024 renaissance. here's a taste]

The war is over, and still, David and Joe are butting heads, velvet-shed antlers clashing like rival bucks during rutting season.

David’s not sure what he expected. He thought after the exultation of taking Berchtesgaden and raiding it of its liquour and silverware Joe might lighten up. He’d smiled so much that day, drank vintage champagne straight from the bottle, tore down Nazi flags and ripped them to ribbons. Something had broken in him at Landsberg, David knows that much, but he’d been hopeful that as the war tempered so too would Joe’s ire. Now he knows he’d been naive to think so.

Joe parks the Jeep outside the hotel where they’re billeted and wrestles the keys from the ignition. He climbs out and slams the door without another word, jump boots clomping against the cobblestones as he stalks away. David sits silently in the passenger’s side, Skinny’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head. He presses his lips into a thin line, sucks them between his teeth and bites down.

Captain Speirs had no right to give that order, least of all to Joe. They had no reason to keep fighting, no reason to dirty their hands when the old blood stains still linger. Leave that to the MPs and the military tribunals, their war was supposed to be over.

David gets out of the Jeep but decides not to follow after Joe. He knows the more he seeks Joe out, the more Joe will push him away. Instead, he walks, weaving through the streets of Zell am See, past shops and cafes and chalets all untouched by the ravages of war. Hitler’s home country, the birthplace of so much death and destruction, and it has the ersatz gloss of a resort town. The irony is not lost on David. He’ll write about it later if he gets the chance.

Birds chirp in the trees. Locals stroll past him, well-dressed in their spring clothes and chatting away jovially amongst themselves. They regard him without much fanfare, used to the sight of American soldiers by now. The water of Lake Zell is so blue it makes David’s eyes ache. He fishes his cigarettes from the pocket of his paratrooper jacket and slides one into his mouth, fiddling with his Zippo until the flame sparks and lights the tip.

The first inhale brings David back to the mountains, that cabin on the hill, chickens clucking in their pen. The hit of nicotine had done little to calm his nerves as Joe shouted at the kommandant in his Austrian-tinged German. David had just about jumped out of his skin when the shot rang out and the kommandant burst from the cabin, bleeding from his neck. Joe had bled from his neck in Holland. He has the scar to prove it. Sometimes, when they’re sitting side-by-side in the truck and Joe’s not looking, David will stare at it, curling his fist at his side to stop himself from reaching out and smoothing his thumb over the puckered skin.

He keeps walking, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. Eventually, he comes upon a church, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out. The imposing wooden doors are open to let the tepid May air waft inside. David steps across the threshold and the piquant smell of incense hits his nose, olibanum and myrrh.

The church is empty except for a custodian sweeping the floor by the pulpit, but the man eventually disappears into a room at the back. David sits at the pew closest to the door, the knotty wood ungiving against his back. He admires the stained glass windows, cyan and crimson and gold with the pious faces of saints. The apses vault high above him, the air that rains down from the rafters drafty and filled with dust motes. It would be easy to imagine what this place would look like had the fighting swept through here, but David tries not to. It’s too beautiful a church for that kind of exercise.

David let his Catholicism lapse years ago, before the war even started really. His family was never that religious, only attending services on Christmas and Easter, but David prays now. He doesn’t go as far as kneeling on the tuffet or even interlocking his fingers, but pray he does, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment. He asks God, if there even is one, to take Joe’s pain and put it elsewhere, to spare him the anger and the hurt, the need for revenge that undoubtedly itches underneath his skin. He’s sure if Joe knew what he was doing, sitting here asking his Christian god to save a Jew, he would laugh in his face, but David’s not ashamed of it. If anything, he’s desperate. He’s not sure if Joe is ever going to speak to him again, even though he’s well aware that Joe tends to run hot only to cool back down a few days later.

Maybe this time is different though. Maybe this is what finally breaks the unsturdy bridge David has built between them since he missed Bastogne, possibly to the point of irreparability. He sits there, trying to parse what he feels. Perhaps it would be a relief to let their friendship shatter in his unwieldy hands. No more tiptoeing around Joe’s persistent bitterness, his bad moods that seem to bubble up with the slightest prodding. Then again, David doesn’t think it’d be a relief at all. He’s not even angry at Joe. If anything, he’s upset they’re still here after the Germans have surrendered, stuck cleaning up a mess that was never theirs in the first place.

Sometimes, David is so angry he forgets to breathe. Was he like this before the war? He can barely remember. Back at Harvard, he used to get heated in his classes, arguing passionately with his peers about Proust or Dostoevsky, but he knew how trivial it was even then. It was just a game he liked to play, something to make the hours he spent stuck in lecture halls go by faster. He doubts there’s anything he can do here to make the time pass quicker. There’s probably nothing Joe can do either.

With that, David gets up from the pew and exits the church. He steps back into the golden blare of the Austrian sunshine, headed towards Easy’s billet.

[danjaley]

The Classic among the Classics: Heidi

I can't really compare editions for this one. Since it's German in the first place, there was never a need to replace the family copy. The outside is just yellow linen (there may have been a dust-jacket once), but it has these lovely illustrated front- and back-papers. My grandmother was always very outspoken about not liking the anime series, while I loved it. These images gave me an idea what she was going on about. It's the difference between stylized and realistic drawing.

The inside illustrations are not supposed to be coloured, but my mother changed that in her childhood. I adored her taste when I was small - the townhouse in the valley looks just like a palace, don't you think?

There's a story behind Alm-Öhi's pink suspenders here: At the time my grandfather was working in technical drawing and one day he took my young mother along to a store for professional drawing equipment. He told her if she was good she might pick something. She picked a pink felt pen, which she used for the Heidi colouring-project. It was excellent quality indeed. The pink hasn't faded one bit in all those years!

While I don't own any other editions, I found the two English sequels in a bookstore in Edinburgh while travelling. I didn't feel any great emotions about the plots. If anything they reminded me of the Chalet School books. It's a Very British Switzerland.

I already mentioned the anime series, which of course I watched as a child. It was the first tv-show I watched at all. Thanks to my grandparents' stubborn refusal to get colour-television, I even watched some episodes in black-and-white!

Very conveniently, my daily episode of Heidi was aired at the time I got home from Kindergarten. But: If I walked briskly, there was a chance the adult in charge would switch on the television early and I could catch the last minutes of Hal Foster's Prince Ironheart. I loved Heidi. But I also knew that when I grew up, I wanted to tell stories like Prince Ironheart. The result was Of Chevalry. But I haven't properly watched the Ironheart-series to the present day. I'm afraid of spoiling my memories of the few snippets I remember.

In 2022 there was an excellent exhibition of the Jewish Museum Munich about Heidi in Israel (image is theirs). I didn't know it's a huge classic there too. This was fascinating and right in line with my own research topic: How books can be interpreted and take on new meanings in times and countries far beyond the author's vision.

[eggbunni]

Recently received my TWSBI Eco Creme with a custom needlepoint grind from Kirk Speer (@penrealm), and I’ve been scouring my collection for the perfect ink to pair it with. It made me realize I’d never actually added swatch cards of these Robert Oster Signature inks from Pen Chalet to mu Col-O-Ring deck, so I took some time yesterday to add them in!

Pictured Fountain Pen Inks:

• ⁠Robert Oster - Brandy - Warm shading amber/orange

• ⁠Robert Oster - Whiskey - Warm shading amber/orange(slightly darker than Brandy)

• ⁠Robert Oster - Green Lady - Vibrant green with fine green shimmer

• ⁠Robert Oster - Blue Martini - Well flowing blue with subtle shading in a dry writing pen

• ⁠Robert Oster - Pink Squirrel - Dusty purple/pink mauve with lovely shading

• ⁠Robert Oster - Detox - Olive warm green

Unfortunately, none of these made it into my new TWSBI. 😅 Still on the hunt for the perfect match!

[oknowkiss]

fic claim: historians

for @shiftylinguini and @hd-erised 2022!

PAIRING: DRARRY RATING: E (masturbation, anal sex, brief autoerotic asphyxiation, degradation kink, Dom/sub dynamics) WORDCOUNT: 30K

Read on AO3 here!

TAGS: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Master of Death Harry Potter, Voice of The Historian Draco Malfoy, Level 9 workplace dynamics, Skiing, Switzerland, A Big Fucking Chalet, Harry Potter Has a Temper, Draco Malfoy Just Wants Coffee, Hairless Cats and the Loving Thereof, Cat Dad Draco Malfoy, Size Queen Harry Potter, It’s Fun to Lie to All of Your Friends Zero Moral Crises Will Ensue

SUMMARY:  It’s the Dumbledore’s Army Reunion Holiday, and Harry’s found himself in hot water with his friends once again, after telling them he has a boyfriend he definitely does not have. In an attempt to fix things, he’s made it his colleague on Level Nine, Draco Malfoy’s problem too. Featuring a ski chalet in Switzerland, a pair of bunk beds, and an agreement that should’ve been simple, were it not for all the bloody feelings getting in the way.

wow!! WOW. thank you so so much to all of the @hd-erised​ mods for hosting such an enormous (and enormously fun!) fest. this was my maiden erised voyage, after watching and reading all of the incredible fics that have come from this fest for years. i can’t believe i got to throw my hat in the ring! AHH.  and to get to write for @shiftylinguini​, who is an unbelievable powerhouse of a writer???? reader, we were BUZZIN. shifty, i meant it in my A/N when i said it was an honor to write for you. a gift!! you said in your claim form you like “unique jobs” and i really glommed on tight to that, so much so that there may have to be a second appearance of The Historian at some point in 2023. 

and none -- NONE -- of this could have happened without @wolfpants​ who read this fic and smashed it up in the absolute best way. this story would not be half of what it is without you wolfie, so thank you for your eagle eye, and your ruthless pen, and for bearing with me as i wrote and edited and cried at you across multiple timezones and countries and weddings. 

to everyone who has read so far, please know i will be crying at you directly soon. i am overwhelmed by the love this fic has received. as a final behind the scenes note: the title and plot are loosely inspired by the song historians by lucy dacus. thanks lucy! 

[teamdarkweek]

for the ask game: 1, 15 !

Thank you so much for asking!

Full Game is Here

🏠Where do you think they live?

Within my written stuff, I try to vary how they live for funsies. But if I had to pen it out logically:

I think initially (Post Heroes) Rouge intended to take Shadow home and get him some help, and ended up having to take Omega home because he was extremely low power after their adventure. They ended uo staying in her G.U.N. flat, which they were all eventually kicked out of for damage.

However, they don't all live together all the time. Shadow likes to wander, especially around the events of Shadow the Hedgehog he was hard to pin down, he spent a lot of time soul searching. Rouge came into posession of a flat over the club when she got it, and also has a few other properties she calls home like a beachhouse and a ski chalet. Omega most consistently has one home, because his replacement parts and chargers are specific and tricky to replace, and also they mosify them so he can fit. Omega's homes are usually considered Team Dark's HQ, because its where they store all their spare kit and sensitive stuff. Its armed to the teeth.

I do have a story about them building Shadow a home. I think he would like living remotely, in the mountains where the stars are the best. Omega alao struggles to live in normal society, but he quite enjoys the drama of it. Rouge would ideally live on a pile of gold like Gustave in SMTV, but she'll settle for a fancy penthouse somewhere hollywood-esque. So, they don't particularly stay together all the time, but at present they all go back to base quite regularly.

🎶Who has the aux cord most - what do they play?

This is coming up for me in Day 6s story, actually!

Rouge is the owner of the Aux Cord, so she commandeers it. She likes: 80s/90s pop; Jazz; Ballads; and secretly showtunes. She introduced Shadow and Omega to music, and has a fairly nice singing voice but is not very well trained. Once upon a time she played saxophone but is out od practice.

Shadow will only play the music he likes in very close company, and turns it off if anyone spoils or criticises it. He does like rock and emo and the stuff people think are stereotypical of him, and he doesn't like to be teased for it. He also listens to classical and instrumentals and develops a taste for peaceful New Age stuff with time. He has taught himself piano and guitar (got a keyboard fairly cheap, and Sonic left his old guitar lying around once) and does sometimes sing with it. He will immediately stop if anyone is in hearing vicinity, so unconfirmed if he is any good.

Omega does actually have a taste in music: obviously, metal (haha) but also synth, electric pop, and anything quite fast tempo might tempt him, he has yet to like a lovesong. He's also a bit random with what he likes, and never explains what about it or why. He will just sometimes insist on a song being replayed, and occasionally records songs as they're being played to blast at inconvenient moments. They can't find any rhyme or reason as to why he would even have a preference for music, it isn't written in any code, but there is a list he can produce of 'liked songs'. Rouge and Shadow guess it is just another way he is figuring out an identity and what to do with it, so are very happy to encourage him.

Thanks for the ask! 🖤🦇🤖

[magentagalaxies]

ok so originally i was going to post this as a reblog of my "list of kith sketches whose scripts i now own" post but for some reason i cannot find that post at all (???) and also i'm in canada and didn't take my other kith scripts with me on this trip so i cannot write out a complete list bc i'll inevitably forget some. anyway remind me to make full list when i get home in august. that being said:

List of KITH Sketches Whose Scripts I Now Own (as in I got them on 7/11/24)

sketches that aired:

the phone show end tag/"touch bellini" (VERY different draft)

"guys watching girls" (catcalling from the pilot)

sick of the swiss

"show within a show" aka "lorne michaels doesn't present" aka "the scott thompson show featuring scott thompson"

off swingin'

spring (cold open with scott burying a body)

trappers

30 second stories: rolling stones

sizzlers and the bank

a shit ton of the cops sketches

night of the cow

"new mom" (the gavin sketch at the funeral, tho this is also a VERY different draft)

several "it's a fact" bits

"god" (the one with the letter about the dog show and "her god spot")

"fag basher"

academy awards

apartment games

asleep on the job

"clothes make the man" (the sketch with scott in the different outfits getting called a fag--except this draft has it as a buddy sketch with more dialogue)

darcy & francesca

a few of mark's cabbie sketches

"einstein"

girl drink drunk

kidnapped (danny husk)

nervous break(fast) down

multiple emperor poems

"rosa"

"the original bat" (a much longer draft of "potato salad")

"my pen"

"tiggy" (useless dog)

"tucker" (mouse)

"prisoner jam"

shirling

"the leash"

the affair

"parenting" (disappointed in their kid)

friendly rivals

drugs are bad

housework hustlers

girls of summer

virtual sex (buddy cole)

gorilla

bartending school

is he?

menstruation monologue

surrogate

buddy cole - love at first sight

buddy cole - canadian

buddy cole - buddy's date

sketches that never aired:

"corruption" (courtroom sketch)

"cold blood"

power of the suburbs

"a simple man"

"dave's dead" (dave dies during a monologue and the troupe has to weekend-at-bernies him through the next scene)

"the waiter in comedy" (the history of the waiter in sketch comedy)

"the drug trade"

"sleep" (dave falls asleep on set and everyone wonders what he's dreaming about)

"sushi"

a shit ton of other cops sketches

rock (bruce hits kevin with a rock)

"off the pill"

"my own flag" (mark monologue)

several more "it's a fact" bits

"mary"

"jewel"

"in love with lori"

"porch picnic" (sequel to "the biggest crouton" monologue)

"first love" (madam alphonsa monologue)

"father farey"

"monthly parking"

"corner"

"watermelon"

"kids' party"

"dad's birthday"

"furniture"

"joke"

"protest"

"sound men"

buddy and bobs

head crusher live show monologue

other goodies:

behind the scenes photo of scott (buddy) and rip taylor on the set of chalet 2000

two tickets to live tapings of the kids in the hall (july 14th and 15th 1988)

a bunch more of the autographed pics i was mailing out before, so once i'm back home i'll make another post for anyone who wants me to send one to them!!

[caltropspress]

RAPS + CRAFTS #21: Andrew Mbaruk

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

I’m Andrew Mbaruk, a Black poet living in Vancouver, Canada. I make "literary lo-fi rock rap," drawing from my diverse reading of poetry and classic literature for the "literary" aspect; – it’s "lo-fi" due to the imperfect sound quality, "rock" as the music predominantly features electric guitars, and "rap" because, if I had to use just one genre to categorize it, it’d be rap–I’m obviously rapping in the songs.

On one of my songs I describe my style as “assistant-professorial and janitorial”--it’s a blend of literary, academic, and philosophical elements with a touch of real-life experiences, viewed through my postmodern/modernist collage aesthetic.

Some of my recent albums are Why I Am Not a Painter (a 2023 song anthology), Black Squirrel: A Memoir (an autobiographical album through Extraordinary Rap), and Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album (centered around birds). Collaborations include Affect Theory and the Text-to-Speech Grandiloquence with Rhys Langston, Papier-Mache Chalet with Th’ Mole, Ultraviolet Flamingo with Vellum Bristol or Jouquin Fox, and Hip-Hop, With a Twist of Lemon with Mantis the Miasma.

Currently, I’m working on a series of lo-fi rock rap albums, each titled Abolish Canada. Abolish Canada [1] and Abolish Canada [2] are already available on my Bandcamp page.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I write whenever I’m awake and in the mood, which is often at home. This could be in the middle of the night or just as frequently in the afternoon. Currently, I find myself in the writing room...surrounded by books... On my desk are three old dictionaries and a book of selected poems by Wallace Stevens, alongside an energy drink can and crumpled papers... Scattered throughout the room are various poetry books, and books on theory and philosophy, from Marx and Hegel to Frank B. Wilderson III and David Marriott... These books are mostly on a couch doubling as a larger desk, and atop an old synthesizer from the 1980s... On the floor stand an electric guitar and amp, alongside pedals and tangled cords at my feet... Two walls are giant windows, one of which is usually open even in winter (I’m often smoking). I’m undisciplined, though I still write almost daily – though there’s the occasional lapse, like these past few days...

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

During 2017-2018, I primarily used pen and paper for my writing. But, since then, I’ve transitioned to typing most of my raps on a computer. Occasionally I’ll compose a verse while walking, relying on my Android. The inconvenience of keeping verses in my head until I can write them down...that’s a problem I face during work shifts – cleaning Vancouver’s streets, e.g....and one song I crafted mentally while washing dishes at a burger bar. Using a recording medium like paper or a word processor is best though – it allows me to carefully consider connections between different parts of a verse, because I have the entire composition visible on a page or on a screen.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

I used to have a more disorganized writing style, especially in the first few years of this rapping project... Initially, I didn't even see my work as a part of rap. It was only when I started collaborating with other rappers and producers that I began to structure my writing in bars.

While there are still moments when I write in a more formless manner, I stick to a more regular form these days, lines that last four beats. Typically, I'll create four lines that rhyme (using slant rhymes) entirely parallel to each other:

(e.g., “abnegating dactylic hexameter his vacation, a trip with dead passengers the Latin pages of literate Sapphic verse as the painting's acrylic red flags ablur”),

followed by another set of four, or maybe a couplet or two

(in this case, “as heroin mixed with the China White terror, his literary dynamite exposing the Pindaric champion; explosions, the thin shards of glass in him”),

and then another quatrain or couplet, or sometimes a set of six or eight rhyming lines, or sometimes more...and so on.

I never thought I'd become so formal or strict in my approach. I've always been inclined towards poetry that adheres to (for example) Charles Olson’s "projective verse", but surprisingly, weirdly, this structured approach is working for me now.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

It’s different with every verse and song. Sometimes I’ll finish the entire thing and throw it out/delete it. Usually some part of the aborted material returns in a new form. I work in a "collage" style and see my rhymes as Deleuzian rhizomes, so I can easily connect my rhymes like Lego... It’s totally acceptable within my project to incorporate disparate fragments – unless the lyrics are focused by a constraint, as on my album about birds (Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album) or the one about the Iran-Contra scandal (The Iran-Contra Project).

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

I’ve written poetry, fiction, a screenplay... The rapping basically grew out of my experiments with print poetry – I started making poems called "phonotexts," recorded poems, in 2014... I made a spoken word album called Phono=textual: a novel in mono... It took about three years for these "phonotexts" to become rap songs.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

I try to edit as I write, then I'll record the thing, sometimes using some instrumental that I'm not actually going to use – just to hear it, so I can edit it some more. Then I record the song immediately. It usually takes a few hours or an evening.

Sometimes I work on a song for a few days.

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

I begin with the words and a rhythm usually... I write lyrics, then I make the drums, then I record the verse or verses, then finally I'll add guitars and synthesizer and whatnot.

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

I usually begin with one small idea, just a line or a few words, and I grow a verse or verses from the one idea through free association, playing with meaning and rhyme. I’m often propelled by chance, but just as often propelled by a thematic goal, and this can change midway through writing.

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

I’ve sneaked sonnets into my raps, and I’ve invented something called “rhyme chiasmus” (a rhyme scheme where two rhyming sounds are repeated in a chiastic pattern for many bars) but I’m usually freer.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

The song "Electrons," track 01 of Abolish Canada [1]...though it goes on a bit too long I think, the bit right at the beginning is very good maybe. That song, and in fact the entirety of Abolish Canada [1]... That’s where I’ve most closely achieved much of what I intend with my words.

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

My lines make their meaning through the relation to other lines. So, my favourite passage in my writing – "the human soul stuck in your body / fluent in post-structural ornithology” – is shaped by what surrounds it.

The song is called "Under the Oiseau=text." It’s about reading and about birds. And about reading birds as signs, an ancient practice.

I thought of these words because a bird, a pigeon, rose flapping before me as I walked along Commercial Drive in Vancouver. I decided to make an album about birds in that moment, and began writing "Under the Oiseau=text" as soon as I got home. Here’s the lyric in its context:

sans serif, these words upon my gravestone bearing the withered flower tossed - the Baudelairean inner albatross, the human soul stuck in your body fluent in post-structural ornithology . . .  . . .his words draw you a map of the geographer perched upon a branch in the binoculars, this scholar of math as it pertains to flight, the neurographer mapping the brain with light

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

I shorten lines and always try to do verses in a single take.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

Afropessimism, John Ashbery’s poetry, nature, the congressional report on the Iran-Contra scandal, and the letter N. Also, I collect and read dictionaries.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

Some of my stuff I dig especially, other stuff I’m okay with, most of the stuff I don’t like no one can hear anywhere. Grand Lunatic I’m not crazy about, Andra Mbalimbali I’m not crazy about, Neuro=textual: a novel of ideas is not my favourite of my albums. From late in 2022 and throughout 2023, that stuff I like – though I’m on the fence about some projects like Black Squirrel and The Iran-Contra Project. The earlier stuff evinces potential realized by Oiseau=textual: the flying rap album and Abolish Canada [1]... That’s how I see things.

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

Rappers who depend less on rhyme and just say really interesting shit, like AKAI SOLO or my friend Jouquin Fox, I can’t do that. I tried using a little less rhyme on The Iran-Contra Project, my concept album about Iran-Contra, and I’m sure I can’t do that. The constraint of rhyme is essential to my style.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

Yes, I am trying to communicate many things to the listener. I am saying nothing specifically, and consequently saying many different things. (Any one of these different things I could write about at length, but it has been recommended to me that I just leave it at “I am saying nothing specifically, and consequently saying many different things” – nice and succinct.)

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: unknown (hit me up)

[seattle-to-san-diego]

Sun, June 9

Ann, Aaron and I started our beautiful Berkeley day with a long walk to the farmers market. Picked up some artichokes, apricots, Rainier cherries and ripe yellow peaches, all while listening to a jazz ensemble. Lucky Californians.

Telegraph Avenue is not what it used to be. George and Ann were determined to help me find a pair of earrings by a local artist. We persevered and scored! Saw a lot of stunning art work along the way, including wood layered cutting boards made by none other than David Eichorn, the famed Berkeley High teacher. He was at one of the artists’ galleries and George had a nice chat.

Lunch at Saul’s, another of Bob Kelly’s favorites.

George got us tickets to the California Jazz Conservancy to hear original compositions by Doug Morton, all played by the Electric Squeezebox Orchestra. We were . . . absolutely . . . blown away. So interesting to hear George and Aaron talk music theory and work through their responses to the performance. The group is recording the same set on Tuesday ~ hope to get a CD so we can relive the experience!!!!

Had a couple of drinks and some apps at Lake Chalet on Lake Merritt in Oakland. Then back to George & Ann’s for some fruit and port.

Returning to places of the past can bring up big things. I had a pretty profound experience this time. I was talking about how sorry I was to blow thru Cal in 3 years. I didn’t take advantage of all that it offered. It’s a remorse story I tell a lot. (George played music, including a European tour and leadership of the Jazz Festival and rowed.) Me? I got a diploma.

And then for the first time last night, I allowed myself to really feel for the young woman I was. So much happened in the first quarter alone that really penned me in.

I feel sad for that young woman now. She didn’t stand a chance to be free to really explore. It’s okay tho. She did her best and a lot of wonderful things happened. What really matters is now. And life now is way, way good.

[wellappointeddesk]

It's not easy being green.

Ana and I were chatting last night and we’ve noticed something about a lot of the limited edition, 2023 pens. Let me add a few photos… Pelikan Souverän 800 Green Demonstrator ($774 via Nibsmith) Sailor 1911 Pen of the Year 2023, Golden Olive ($312 via Pen Chalet) Benu Euphoria in New Year 2023 Limited Edition ($165 via Goldspot) Did I miss the green for 2023 memo? There are a few interesting…

[loganinks]

These sketches are referenced from Okina12 on Instagram. Check out his wonderful photography! It makes me crave hot summery days with a nice, cool Aloevine beverage :) Supplies • Kakuno Pilot Pen available at Pen Chalet • Supplies listed below distributed by Luxury Brands of America • Shiny Black Colorverse Ink • Recorder with Tomoe River Paper by Endless Stationery

[tabrownwv]

Carousel Fountain Pen from Ferris Wheel Press

I got a new fountain pen in the mail last night that I ordered from Pen Chalet. It’s a part of the carousel design from Ferris Wheel Press. It came in 6 different colors and I got the one in French Vanilla. It’s such a pretty pen and writes beautifully. I also love that it also has a carousel design on the nib. 🎠😁 Carousel Fountain pen from Ferris Wheel Press The box design is so pretty 😍 If…

[pensnearme647]

Pens Near Me

Finding the Perfect Pen Near You: A Comprehensive Guide

Introduction

In the digital age, where keyboards and touchscreens dominate, the humble pen remains an essential tool for many. Whether you're a student, a professional, or someone who simply appreciates the tactile pleasure of writing, finding the right pen can make all the difference. If you're searching for "pens near me," you're not just looking for a writing instrument; you're seeking quality, variety, and convenience. This guide will explore why it's important to find the right pen, how to locate the best options in your area, and the benefits of shopping locally for your writing needs.

The Importance of Finding the Right Pen

Choosing the right pen goes beyond mere aesthetics. The pen you use can affect your writing style, comfort, and overall experience. Here are a few reasons why finding the right pen is crucial:

Comfort and Ergonomics: A well-designed pen can reduce hand strain and improve writing speed. Pens with ergonomic grips and balanced weights are particularly beneficial for those who write extensively.

Ink Quality and Flow: The type of ink and its flow rate can influence the smoothness of your writing. High-quality pens ensure consistent ink flow, reducing smudging and enhancing readability.

Personal Preference: Pens come in various styles, including ballpoint, gel, fountain, and rollerball. Each type offers different writing experiences, so finding one that suits your preference is essential for a satisfying writing process.

Professional Image: For business professionals, using a high-quality pen can convey a sense of professionalism and attention to detail. A well-chosen pen can make a positive impression during meetings and negotiations.

How to Find Pens Near You

Locating the perfect pen requires knowing where to look and what to consider. Here are some strategies for finding pens near you:

Local Stationery Stores: Stationery stores often have a wide range of pens, from everyday ballpoints to luxury fountain pens. Visiting a local store allows you to test different pens and seek expert advice from store staff.

Office Supply Stores: Stores like Staples or Office Depot typically carry a broad selection of pens suited for both professional and personal use. These stores often feature pens from popular brands and offer bulk purchasing options.

Bookstores: Many bookstores, especially larger chains like Barnes & Noble, have a stationery section that includes pens. This can be a great place to find unique or specialty pens that are not available elsewhere.

Art Supply Stores: If you're looking for pens with unique ink colors or qualities, art supply stores might have what you need. They often carry high-quality pens designed for artists and calligraphers.

Online Retailers: While not local, online retailers like Amazon, JetPens, and Pen Chalet offer extensive selections and detailed reviews. Many of these sites provide fast shipping options and customer feedback to help you choose the right pen.

Local Craft Fairs and Markets: Craft fairs and local markets sometimes feature vendors specializing in unique and handmade pens. These events can be an excellent opportunity to find one-of-a-kind writing instruments.

Benefits of Shopping Locally

Shopping locally for pens has several advantages beyond convenience:

Immediate Availability: Buying from a local store means you can immediately obtain the pen you want without waiting for shipping. This is particularly useful if you need a pen quickly.

Personal Experience: Visiting a local store allows you to physically test the pens and assess their comfort and writing quality. You can also get personalized recommendations from knowledgeable staff.

Supporting Local Businesses: Purchasing from local stores helps support small businesses in your community. This contributes to the local economy and helps maintain a vibrant, diverse marketplace.

Unique Finds: Local stores often carry unique or limited-edition pens that may not be available from larger retailers. This can be a great way to discover new and exclusive writing instruments.

Conclusion

Finding the perfect pen near you involves more than just a quick search; it requires considering comfort, ink quality, and personal preferences. By exploring local stationery stores, office supply shops, bookstores, and art supply stores, you can discover a range of options tailored to your needs. The benefits of shopping locally, such as immediate availability, personalized service, and supporting local businesses, make it a worthwhile endeavor.

Next time you find yourself searching for "pens near me," take the time to explore your local options and experience the joy of finding the ideal writing instrument. Whether you’re looking for a reliable ballpoint for everyday use or a luxurious fountain pen for special occasions, a well-chosen pen can enhance your writing experience and reflect your personal style.

[struggles-of-a-whiteboy]

Chapter 1 - Where to put the Piano

‘Two of three’, the name my late mother, god rest her soul, used to give me when she would casually forget my name. A regular event that my therapist has told me, on several occasions, has led to many of my neurodivergent tendencies. An observation re-enforced of course by google.

The eldest, one of three, Elizabeth, the proud owner of ‘fuck you’ money and a pa-foodle (some expensive poodle cross french Labrador whatever), lipstick lesbian and executor of our parents will, has bequeathed our late parents baby grand piano to me. Me, two of three, who currently lives on the 11th floor of an apartment building down town.

“But you’re the one with all the talent” Elizabeth said on the phone.

I could hear the smirk on her face as she squeezed it out to me through the speaker phone of her Mercedes sports utility vehicle as she drove to another terrible snow season. I swear she used to go just for the free champagne in their grande chalet of wherever the fuck.

Talent, ugh. What an incredible hassle talent has been.

It is so laboriously tedious to try and explain to people about the ravages of talent. Being in the top 0.01% sounds like a working class dream, but let me tell you, those endless choices come with…….. well endless choices. Endless choices and now a baby grand piano to fit into a 2 bedroom, minimalist decorated, downtown loft. What will my interior decorators say. It certainly doesn’t say ‘upper middle class closeted genius industrial designer’ does it. More like, nasty generational wealth, preppy, white boy. Ugh, privilege, what does privilege get you except expensive problems.

The plan, as I was told by the barely understandable mover on the phone, was to “bring it in through the window”

Marvellous, I can’t wait to be gawked at by pedestrians as my dead parents baby grand piano is hoisted through the floor to ceiling windows of my apartment on a Tuesday afternoon, despite the thunderstorm predictions. It’s like the movers couldn’t live another day without the thousand bucks, or 1600, it was so hard to read their writing. Poor handwriting is the worst, every time I see it, it just sends me straight back to that stuffy private school and penmanship classes forced upon us as eight year olds. Who gives an 8 year old a fountain pen and doesn’t expect ruined white shirts.

Thankfully my younger brother was coming to lend me a hand. Three of three, Richard, opera singer turned pot dealer. Although he would prefer Tetrahydrocannabanoid distribution and experience expert. “God is dead and pot is on the rise” he would say, eyes red and a dusting of Doritos nacho cheese flavouring misting the corner of his sleeve. Despite it being legal it was always hard for me to get around the idea that he wasn’t just a drug dealer. Smoking quietly after Christmas lunch before sliding into the hot tub. I always preferred a white Christmas, but mother wouldn’t allow that after 2003. A story for another time.

The movers had already blocked traffic and set up the enormous crane by the time I had made it to the ground floor. Richard, three of three, was there staring at the cranes cargo. He turned to look at me, eyes welling with tears.

“I’m so happy it’s going to you” he said, throwing his arms around me.

“You were always the talented one”

I sighed and patted him on the back as he sniffed.

“Thanks man, I appreciate it” I said, obviously not appreciating it at all.

Fucking talent.

I shuffled over to the movers, squinting as the sun touched the tops of the city sky line.

“All good?” I asked the one with the paperwork in his hand.

He looked at me and said something completely incomprehensible, smiling. I just stared, mouth slightly open until he gave me a thumbs up.

The crane whined into action as the piano began to lift off the ground.

“Well, here we go” Richard said, patting me on the back as we both watched part of our parents legacy sway it’s way into the sky.

Richard and I took two of the movers up to the apartment in the elevator. Huge Polynesian men, enormous and silent, stood behind us as we waited, the little lift sign dinging quietly as each floor number was displayed. There was the faintest smell of weed, as quiet and unassuming as the elevator music, hanging in the air.

The image of Richard, blood red eyes, reclining next to my late father, flashed in my mind. I hadn’t cried in 6 years. Not even at the service, nothing. I felt like everyone was staring at me, the stone cold weirdo wedged between the sobbing children. You’d think that people would assume that you’re some kind of psycho, not crying after the demise of your own parents, but they don’t. They think instead that you are so grief stricken that you can’t even cry, that you’re suppressing your emotions to put on a brave face for others. Gallantly, bravely, keeping face. The truth was, I had no idea why I didn’t cry. Google told me it was probably a tumour pressing on part of my brain, my therapist didn’t agree.

‘Ding’, the elevator doors slid open and the four of us walked out into the hallway. I felt like the leader of some drug cartel in a Guy Ritchie movie, about to bust into the hotel room of some unsuspecting rival gang.

“Ooooo lovely” one of the movers said, gesturing at the carpet.

We’d just had the carpet replaced in the apartment building, a soft cream, double weave. The owners corporation had wanted us to feel included in the decision process, sending every resident a carpet pack. More choices……

“Ok, here we go” I said, opening the door to my apartment. You could just see the arm of the crane in the main window, the sling holding the hidden piano becoming visible. The two movers walked in and over to the window, mumbling something into their radio.

“Oh that’s gonna be great” Richard said, walking into the open corner of the main living room, arms open, pretending to be a piano the way people pretend to be furniture when they look at an empty apartment. He spun to face me still looking down at the ground.

“Christmas at your place” he said, just as the crane wined to a stop.

The piano waved slightly, framed perfectly in the window of the living room, looking out at the sinking sun. A bizarre silhouette on a Tuesday afternoon. Suddenly there was a crack and the fly-screen of the main window fell onto the floor of the living room, both movers looking at me wide eyed.

I waved my hands and said “It’s not a big deal”, looking at the broken frame of the custom fly screen lying on the floor, knowing full well it was a big deal. They were such a pain in the ass to source, fly screens that big. The radio crackled and more garbled none-sense fuzzed as the crane began to whine again and the first part of the piano began to enter the room.

It took about 6 minutes for the two enormous Polynesians to guide the piano into the apartment, and then another 6 for them to adjust it into the right place. They had almost finished detaching the sling when a loud clap of thunder rang bright and ominous around us, followed almost immediately by torrential and horizontal rain streaming through the open floor to ceiling window. The two giants struggled wide eyed and panicked to detach the slings quickly, toss everything out the window, have me sign the sopping paper and re-close the window. All the while thunder grumbling and clapping around us. Richard had disappeared, and my apartment was soaked. The two movers exited the front door just as Richard re-emerged.

“Sorry, I had to use the loo” he said still re-buckling his belt.

Just as he finished speaking and turned to look at the nearly flooded apartment and moistened baby grand piano, filling far too much of the room in my opinion. The brightest light filled the space. Like the hottest and strongest torch you’ve ever seen, shining though your soul, accompanied by a deafening bang.

I would find out later that the crane had been struck by lightening, blowing my floor to ceiling windows in, damaging my soggy baby grand, handed down to me from my dead parents piano and throwing Richard and me back into the hallway. Of course, the reason why the movers were so alarmed when they heard the lighting, and why the city doesn’t permit crane operation during a thunderstorm, aaaaand why I now have a frightfully large and annoying insurance claim to deal with. ‘Do you want the same glazing as you had, Mr Hammersmith, or our new triple tinted?”

Fucking choices. At least they will be the ones sourcing the fly screens.

[zooterchet]

Charlebois Stories Through Time (The Ballad of Dangerous Dan)

Cigarette Pacifier:

A local Russian-Armenian-Jew, out of a wealthy shipping family, gives Dave Charlebois a charcoal dipped cigarette, as his first smoke, hooking him for life. The Jew, is then murdered, almost immediately, from giving Thatherton from King of the Hill charcoal (his family's own pen, through his aunt, with D-Company).

Thatherton, uses charcoal at home, with lighter fluid and a black metal grill, with Kingsford Charcoal and a box of matches, not a book. The level of steak, pork hot dog, and hamburger with cheese, and toasted buns, overwhelms him into insane rage, having to use propane when at gatherings outside the home.

Ray Charlebois's "chalet", the French-Arab term for a ski lodge, has to be sold, without David's college degree in economics to inherit it. Clarke's Trading Post is soon after shut down in shame, after Wolfman Jack blows up the nose on the North Conway Mountain Man, a sacred Native American carving of a man's face into the side of a mountain, dating back tens of thousands of years ago.

Carlin's death insurance, is placed on a mandatory child, to produce artwork, as David has done, to pay back his mother crippling Christopher Reeves, over the offense at Boston Police having a State Police unit that is United Nations Israeli Mossad, without any municipal, city hall, archdiocese, or police authorization; not only to claim the name, but even to be alive on American soil in cop uniforms with guns and working as private detectives.

Christopher Reeves, had been tricked into eating soup, before a date with Margot Kidder, since the rates of salad had been lifted, for "souper salad". He was shat down his throat, engaging in facesitting due to eating before the activity, and clam chowder, is the worst time of butt blow on chest heave into the vagina mountains, with a sphincter directly above your nose.

Alice was an anti-Semite by Mike's investigation, having mixed BBQ with teriyaki marinade, in meat, the day before a steak cook for the family.

Dave was then asked about "the birds and the bees", the Arab signal to go on a killing field rampage or otherwise your father explains sex as being refused to have sex before marriage or see a hooker, a Muslim, not a Catholic; the Muslims likened to Jews, despite the support labor groups beliefs otherwise.

Willow Tree pie, chicken pot pie's brand name out of Iranian-Tehran, was reported to Alice's doctor, at her own hand, and Colonel Marie O'Neill, finished off Alice, after she found out that David did not know how to make Willow Tree pie in the oven, despite knowing blintzes, latkes, sausage of sweet, italian, and red chinese, hot dogs, steaks, chicken noodle soup, clam chowder white, pasta with garlic butter, rice a roni in an electric frying pan, and the easy stuff, microwaved goods or goods made with an electric can opener or foreman grilling machine.

Essentially, it meant that Alice had taught Dave gay culture as a civil rights issue, not a means and method of immediately destroying the homosexual, for being unable to achieve erection and ejaculate white semen, staining yellow.